by Andrea Kane
“But you do.” She wound her arms around his neck and kissed him soundly. “And I love you.”
Dane deepened the kiss, wishing they hadn’t made plans to visit Greenhills that day.
“Dane.” Jacqui broke away, her cheeks flushed. “Your mother is expecting us in two hours, and I want to finish preparing these tarts.”
Skeptically, Dane glanced at the lumpy pastries. “They don’t much resemble the ones Greta bakes, do they?”
“Haven’t I yet convinced you that appearances are deceiving?” Jacqui defended her creations.
Dane grinned. “That you have.”
“Good.” Jacqui placed one steaming tart on a plate and headed toward the sitting room. “I baked them for your mother, but this first one is for you … since I know how you adore them. Come and taste it.”
She was halfway to the sitting room when the crash from within brought them both running. At their abrupt entry, Whiskey looked up and blinked, calmly resuming his task: lapping up the contents of a shattered whiskey bottle.
Dane sighed. “I don’t hold out much hope of reforming your cat. So I guess I’d best accept him.”
“I’m glad to hear you say that,” Jacqui said, glancing out the window as she placed the plate on the side table. Rubbing her hands nervously down her apron, she inched toward the hallway. “Because there is something I’ve been meaning to tell you.” She opened the door, leaned forward, and gestured for whoever was outside to enter. “Come in,” she invited.
With all the arrogant grace of a queen, an elegant white cat strolled into the house, her head held high. She paused, glancing haughtily at Jacqui, then looking protectively behind her. Satisfied with what she saw, she made her way toward the sitting room … and a proud-faced Whiskey.
It didn’t take long for Dane to figure out the cause of Whiskey’s pride. Hobbling behind the regal white cat stumbled five tiny kittens, ranging in color from black to white, most of them a combination of both. There was no question of their parentage.
“Surprise! Whiskey is a father,” Jacqui announced proudly.
“So I gathered,” Dane responded, his tone dry. Before he could continue, the ears of the last coal-black cat perked up, and the tiny animal bounded off, tripping over his own small feet, racing to his sire’s side. Then, without pause, he began to furiously lap at the remaining whiskey on the floor.
Dane groaned. “Now I know whose kitten he is.”
Jacqui smiled, a reminiscent look in her eyes. “He reminds me of Whiskey that first night you met.”
Puzzled, Dane asked, “What night?”
“The night in April when I adopted Whiskey … and glimpsed the impenetrable Dane Westbrooke for the first time.” Jacqui gave him a mischievous grin. “You and Thomas were strolling along with your drinks, and I was returning from my Monday night excursion. Whiskey attacked your liquor just as you were announcing your premonition of danger. Thomas had you convinced that your instincts were faltering.” Jacqui dimpled. “They weren’t … I was in the trees, trying to avoid discovery.”
The night in question came back to Dane in a rush. “You were there?”
“I certainly was. I was also terrified that you had spotted me, which, incidentally, is why I was so frightened of you when we met at Secretary Hamilton’s ball.”
“You thought I might recognize you,” Dane concluded aloud. He stared at her in amused realization. “And here I assumed you were merely shocked by my advances.”
“Oh, that too,” Jacqui laughed, recalling Dane’s shameless behavior that night at the City Tavern. “I meant it when I said you surpassed scandalous.”
Picturing Jacqui crouched alone in the dark row of trees, Dane shook his head in amazement. “And I meant it when I said, ‘So do you,’ chaton,” he replied. “More than even I knew at the time.”
He raised her hand to his lips, turning it over to kiss her soft palm. “Well, wife, have you any other secrets to divulge?” he teased. “Other than your dual identity, our first meeting, and an army of kittens sired by your inebriated scoundrel of a cat?”
Jacqui’s smile illuminated her face. “I? How could I possibly possess any other secrets, husband? When you proposed marriage to me, did you not promise to strip them all away?”
“I did.”
She stroked his jaw with tender fingers. “Then the question is a moot one.”
Dane frowned. “I notice you didn’t answer it, however.” His dark brows drew together. “Jacqueline … if there is anything …”
A frightened squeal from one of the kittens interrupted his oncoming chastisement. Perceiving the problem, Dane squatted to rescue the little fellow from beneath the arm chair, scooping him to safety upon the floor. The kitten looked about, bewildered, then caught sight of something that interested him. He scampered to the side table and swatted at it in frustration.
“I believe he wants your strawberry tart, sweet,” Dane chuckled. He broke off a small piece and offered it to the kitten. “That is all you get, small one. The rest belongs to me.”
The kitten appeared overjoyed, his tiny mouth open and ready. Gleefully, he sniffed at the pastry … and abruptly halted. He gagged, staring at the tart in utter distaste. Then, with a tiny shudder of revulsion, he wrinkled up his nose and stumbled off.
Dane threw back his head and roared with laughter. “Perhaps we’d best ask Greta to prepare a substitute for us to bring to Greenhills, chaton. Else we might be banished from Mother’s home forever.”
Jacqui looked crestfallen. “I spent all morning baking. I don’t know what could have gone wrong … I followed Greta’s instructions exactly.”
Dane wrapped his arms around her and drew her close. “Your talents, darling, are far more crucial to my well-being than the baking of a superior strawberry tart.” He nuzzled her hair, whispering wickedly, “The sweetest confection I consume each morning cannot be found in the kitchen.”
“Dane!” Jacqui was trying desperately not to laugh. “If even a cat rejects my cooking, what hope is there for me?”
Without a word, Dane swept her up and headed for the stairs. “Now that we no longer require that extra half hour for cooling tarts, I’ll show you precisely what your true accomplishments are.” He silenced her laughter with his mouth. “I’m sure my mother will understand if we’re late.” He kicked the bedroom door shut behind them.
“Greenhills is so lovely in the autumn,” Jacqui murmured, gazing out the carriage window at the exquisite array of fall colors. “I don’t blame your mother for secluding herself here.”
Dane sighed deeply as the carriage came to a stop in front of the great manor. “Unfortunately, love, I don’t believe Mother’s reluctance to join in social gatherings has much to do with the beauty of Greenhills.”
Jacqui smoothed her gown idly. “You think she still misses your father?”
“I know she does.”
As always, Dane’s jaw set inflexibly when he spoke of Edwin Westbrooke. Jacqui fell silent, merely accepting her husband’s assistance in alighting from the coach, wondering, for the hundredth time these past months, if her seeds would bear fruit.
“It’s so wonderful to see you!” Lenore was rushing down the path toward them before they could take a step. She stood on tiptoe to kiss her son’s cheek, then gave Jacqui a warm hug … a hug Jacqui wholeheartedly returned.
“Fill me in on all the news,” Lenore demanded, leading them along. “It’s such a glorious day, I’ve had a light meal set up for us in the garden.”
“Perfect!” Dane said, straight-faced. “We have some homemade gingerbread from Greta, still warm. She barely had time to remove it from the oven before our carriage departed.”
Jacqui shot him a withering look. “I baked my first strawberry tarts for you this morning,” she explained, at Lenore’s puzzled expression. “They were an abysmal failure.”
“I’ll tell you a secret,” Lenore whispered, leaning forward. “I detest strawberry tarts.”
“But I
wanted to make something special for you,” Jacqui said dejectedly. “And my culinary abilities are severely lacking.”
“There is one gift I desperately long for … more than any other,” Lenore confided. “And I know you would create it splendidly and savor every moment of the labor required to do so.”
Jacqui looked skeptical. “And what is this gift?”
Lenore’s smile was mischievous. “A grandchild.”
Jacqui flushed and Dane laughed aloud. “Mother, we would both be happy to oblige you … as quickly as possible,” he assured her.
“Wonderful!” Lenore clapped her hands. “Then you concentrate on that task and let Greta concentrate on her cooking. Come … our food is getting cold.”
Over salmon, sweet peas, and rice custard, Dane and Jacqui told Lenore of Monique’s deportation, Thomas’s abbreviated prison term, and George’s remarkable recovery.
“Your father is a strong and fine man,” Lenore said. “Someday he shall meet a woman worthy of his love.”
“I know,” Jacqui agreed, smiling softly.
“But in the interim,” Dane added with a wide grin, “George’s pointed comments indicate that he is awaiting the same gift as you, Mother.”
“All the more reason to indulge us,” Lenore replied. She turned to Jacqui. “And what of Jack Laffey?”
Jacqui beamed with pride. “Thanks to Dane, Laffey has resumed his column.”
“Yes,” Dane muttered. “Thanks to Dane, Laffey is back, as opinionated and arrogant as ever.”
Both women laughed.
They were sipping their coffee and munching on some gingerbread when a large carriage pulled into the drive leading to Greenhills.
Lenore squinted. “Who on earth could that be? I’m not expecting anyone today.”
Dane shrugged. “Possibly someone who is lost and needs proper directions.” He rose. “I’ll find out.”
Jacqui said nothing, only sat up straighter … and waited. Her heartbeat accelerated as the carriage drew closer, revealing a sole male occupant of middle to late years. He alighted, tall and distinguished, dark hair heavily laced with gray. Jacqui clasped her hands tightly in her lap, praying more fervently than she had allowed herself in years.
The shocked gasp from Lenore was Jacqui’s first clue that her prayers had been answered. Coming abruptly to her feet, Lenore’s hands flew to her mouth and she stared, white-faced, as the gentleman walked toward the house.
Perhaps he heard Lenore’s sharp cry, or perhaps it was merely intuition. He halted, veering slowly in their direction, staring across the fifty feet that separated them.
Jacqui saw Dane stiffen in shock.
“Yes, sir, may I help you?” Greenhills’s efficient butler, Jarvis, hurried out the front door to the stranger.
With great effort, the gentleman tore his gaze from Lenore and faced the servant. “Pardon me?” he asked hoarsely.
“May I help you?” Jarvis repeated.
“Yes.” He cleared his throat. “I’m here to see the marchioness.”
“Who, sir?” Jarvis looked blank.
“The Marchioness of Forsgate,” the man repeated, then broke off, grappling with some internal demon. All at once, he straightened his shoulders and swallowed decisively, restating his form of address. “I’m here to see Mrs. Westbrooke.”
“Who shall I say is calling, sir?”
He inclined his head, gazing toward where Lenore stood, unmoving. “Her husband.”
Jarvis blinked. “Her … what did you say, sir?”
“It’s all right, Jarvis,” Lenore called out. “The marquis may join us.”
Dane took an involuntary step forward as though to intervene, but Jacqui lay a restraining hand on his arm. “Don’t, Dane,” she said softly. “Please.”
Lenore took in Dane’s reaction, her expression uncertain, apprehensive as a young girl’s. Much as she loved her son, Lenore knew in her heart that Dane could not be the one to advise her in this all-important decision; he could not be impartial, nor could he truly comprehend a woman’s emotions. Lenore’s gaze found Jacqui’s, the bond that had grown between them making it natural for her to turn to the girl she now regarded as her daughter. Silently, she requested Jacqui’s support as she took this pivotal step.
Jacqui smiled, slowly nodding her encouragement. “Yes,” she replied to Lenore’s unspoken question. “Go ahead”— her voice trembled—“Mother.”
A current of communication passed between them, and Lenore’s lips quivered with emotion. “Thank you, Jacqui,” she whispered, turning to meet her fate.
Edwin Westbrooke walked through the garden and stopped before his wife. “Lenore.”
Lenore brought herself under control with a great deal of effort. “Edwin … I never expected …” She stopped, inhaled sharply.
“Nor did I,” He smiled faintly, an action that softened the harsh lines of his features from stony to disciplined. “But I found it harder and harder to stay away.” Stiffly, he took her hand, his words forced out in a way that clearly showed how difficult they were for him to say. “I’ve missed you.”
Her eyes grew damp. “It’s been ten years. Why now?”
“It’s taken me this long to realize what an obstinate fool I’ve been.” His expression was guarded, his question direct. “Is it too late?”
“Too late?” Lenore dabbed at her wet cheeks. “I don’t know, Edwin. I’m no longer the same woman who left Forsgate. I’ve changed.”
“I know. Nor am I the same man. I’m older, more philosophical, perhaps, more certain of my priorities, definitely.”
“And what are those priorities?”
“My family. Sharing their lives.” Edwin spoke loud enough for Dane to hear, although he kept his gaze averted from his son’s, taking one hurdle at a time. “Lenore, I cannot promise to understand all your beliefs, but I can promise to try. Can you do the same?”
Lenore inclined her head. “I could … but it matters not, for we will be an ocean apart.” She shook her head adamantly as Edwin tried to speak. “I will not leave Philadelphia, so do not even suggest it. This is my home and I have a life here, Edwin. I cannot simply abandon it because you will it to be so.” She gave him a sad smile. “A decade changes not only people but circumstances as well.”
Edwin nodded at Lenore’s wisdom. “Recently, I learned a new word,” he told her quietly. “Compromise. It is something totally new to me, explained by a very wise person, and I am more than willing to attempt it. Are you?”
“Compromise? How?”
“Six months in Philadelphia; six months at Forsgate. Does that sound reasonable?”
Lenore gaped. “You would spend one half of each year living in America? For me?”
“For you … yes.” The grin he gave her was almost boyish. “In fact, if the terms are agreeable, I’d like to begin my stay immediately. All I need is your consent, and I’ll have the servants bring in my bags.”
Lenore’s lips twitched. “Even if I agree to your arrangement, my servants will not be bringing in your bags. At Greenhills, Edwin, you are merely Mr. Westbrooke, not the Marquis of Forsgate. My servants and I work side by side … without class distinction. So you’ll be responsible for your own bags.”
He ingested that stipulation with a baffled shake of his head. “Agreed,” he surprised her by saying. “Now … will you consider my offer?”
A smile erupted on Lenore’s face … and was quickly extinguished. “I wasn’t the only person who left Forsgate hurt.”
Edwin allowed his gaze to travel to Dane, who stood rigidly beside Jacqui’s chair. Only the tight clenching of his jaw gave any indication that he was affected by this reunion.
“Hello, son.” Edwin studied the tall, powerful man that was his only child, the tension between them palpable. “You’ve accomplished everything you intended when you went to America: you’ve achieved independence, respect, self-made prosperity. Your mother’s letters glow with praise for Westbrooke Shipping and its great s
uccess. You must be very proud.”
Dane didn’t blink. “I am.” His lips tightened. “How is Forsgate?”
Edwin winced at the bitterness in Dane’s tone. “Forsgate is prospering. … It is also, I’ve discovered, a mere parcel of land that cannot provide solace in one’s old age.” He raised his head, his words straightforward, his steel-gray eyes the image of Dane’s: candid and piercing. “The same wise person who taught me about compromise taught me to know when the time comes to bid the past goodbye. It is time, Dane, time for us to reap the joys of the future without the burden of yesterday’s encumbrances.”
Edwin’s expression softened somewhat. “And that same person taught me one thing more: that it takes a great man to admit he is wrong … and an even greater one to accept, to forgive, and to trust again.” Edwin held out his hand. “I was wrong … and I’m sorry. Our beliefs will often clash, but you’re a principled, intelligent man, as equally entitled to your views as I. You’re also my son, and I care for you.” His voice wavered, and he waited, his hand extended.
Dane stared at his father’s hand, his expression unfathomable. Then he slowly looked up, meeting Edwin’s gaze, reading the vulnerability in his father’s eyes and simultaneously baring his own. Silently, Dane held out his hand, clasping Edwin’s fingers in his. “Welcome to Philadelphia, Father.”
Witnessing the raw emotion on her husband’s face, Jacqui’s heart swelled with joy. Silently, she blessed the fates for realizing her most fervent prayer.
Edwin’s voice was gruff. “Thank you, Dane. Thank you very much.” He coughed, glancing past Dane to Jacqui. With a broad smile, Edwin gestured toward her. “Here is someone I have yet to meet.”
Dane turned abruptly. “Forgive me. Father, this is …”
“Jacqueline.” Edwin drew her to her feet and, to Dane’s stunned surprise, embraced her. “You are every bit as beautiful as I knew you would be.”
“Welcome, my lord,” she returned warmly.
Edwin chuckled. “My lord? I hardly expected so formal a greeting. Especially after the way you lambasted me.”
Dane was totally at sea. “Jacqueline is my wife,” he clarified.