by Cheryl Bolen
Because of that wretched Vow.
With a deep, retching ache, he pulled away from the most perfect female he’d ever known. “Forgive me, Miss Featherstone. I had no right.” Then he got to his feet and strode away.
Somehow during the next few minutes Jane managed to continue sketching his lordship’s home even though tears raced down her cheeks. Why did Lord Slade have to go and spoil everything? She had convinced herself that marrying Mr. Poppinbotham would be very good for her.
Even if the thought of kissing him was not.
Why had Lord Slade felt compelled to kiss her? She had never thought him a man who would casually toy with any maiden’s affections. He was always the very picture of propriety. Everything about the scene between them a few minutes earlier seemed like something she had dreamed, something that had no basis in reality.
And, indeed, she had best relegate the memory of it to the same place where abandoned dreams resided.
Her heartbeat roared. Now that she had been properly kissed by a man with whom she was in love, how could she ever submit to Mr. Poppinbotham’s kisses? The very memory of his lordship’s kiss made her insides feel like quivering jelly. How wondrous the kiss had been! Dare she even think. . . it was passionate?
Especially her wanton response to him. Lord Slade was bound to think her a harlot. How could she ever face him again after that sizzling kiss?
Even worse, how could she ever consider spending her life with a man whom she could never kiss as she had just kissed Lord Slade?
CHAPTER EIGHT
Were it not for the friendly banter between Captain St. John and Lady Sarah, dinner would have been a grievously somber occasion. Their host had glowered from the head of the table. Even after the meal when they gathered in the drawing room, his lordship hardly spoke.
More than once she had caught him staring at her, but Jane was always quick to look away. She, too, had been embarrassed over the unexpected intimacy between them. She prayed he would not think her a loose woman, prayed that his good opinion of her–which she knew with certainty she had possessed before the kiss–would not change.
She was far too intelligent to confuse his good opinion with romantic interest. They were two entirely different matters. For reasons she could not understand, something had compelled the earl to kiss her. Even had he not begged her forgiveness, she knew he immediately regretted the action.
Now they both must forget it. He needed to marry an heiress, and she needed to accept Mr. Poppinbotham because she was quite certain this was her only hope of marrying and becoming a respected matron and mother.
For despite what had occurred between Lord Slade and her, she was going to accept Mr. Poppinbotham. She must.
Before they retired for the night, Mr. Poppinbotham addressed her. “I beg, Miss Featherstone, that you will do me the honor in the morning of walking to the lake with me.”
Her heartbeat drummed. She knew the purpose of their solitary walk. “I should be honored, Mr. Poppinbotham.” Before she turned away and began to climb the stairs, she saw that Lord Slade was watching her.
And listening.
That night she closed the heavy velvet curtains tightly around her bed, then she lay there in the total darkness. Even the thick curtains could not keep out the night’s morose sounds. Winds howled. Rain fell in lusty sheets. And the logs in her fire spit, crackled, and collapsed time after time.
While she wept.
She hadn’t wept since her mother died when she was a little girl. Tonight she felt that same, horrifying sense of loss. It was entirely too cruel that on the verge of committing herself to a man who would wed her, she had a taste of what it was like to be with the man she loved, the man she could never marry. She had always known that Lord Slade was far, far above her touch.
And nothing had changed.
Except the kiss.
Now she would unite herself to a man she did not love. Never again would she experience a shattering kiss like she’d experienced that day.
*
The rains stopped at dawn, and a few hours later, a bright sun appeared. If she wore boots instead of slippers, Jane supposed she could still walk with Mr. Poppinbotham this morning. They must have a care to stay on the lawns and avoid any dirt paths that were sure to be quagmires of mud.
She donned her warmest woolen dress for it had become chilly, and she selected her red cloak to wear when they departed after breakfast. Though she made every effort to contrive to fashion her hair attractively, she knew she failed. She stared into the mirror at her dowdy reflection and lamented that she was no beauty like her cousin. I am very lucky that one man in the kingdom wishes to honor me with a proposal of marriage.
She would never have another chance.
As she descended the stairs, her thoughts raced ahead so fast, she could barely isolate one when another cropped up. The worst part about accepting Mr. Poppinbotham was going to be announcing the decision to Papa. He did not perceive that his cherished only daughter failed to attract men. And, of course, he would have wished for her to marry a man who was more of their world, a man more well read than the prosperous businessman who wished to claim her hand.
But she was of age. She did not need her father’s approval to marry.
Telling Papa was not the worst thing about accepting Mr. Poppinbotham. Resigning herself to a life without romantic love was the worst thing. She wondered what it would feel like to have a man like Lord Slade wish to marry her.
Lamentably, with that thought in mind, she faced Mr. Poppinbotham as she entered the morning room, where they gathered for breakfast.
Once again, Lady Sarah–fetching in pale blue muslin–was talking and laughing with Captain St. John, and once again, Lord Slade brooded. How distressing it must be to him that the lady he wished to marry was more comfortable with his brother than with him.
Throughout breakfast she avoided looking at Mr. Poppinbotham. It was not the poor man’s fault that his appearance did not please her. She kept schooling herself to regard him as the well-intentioned man who wished to honor her with his name and fortune. I must not be disappointed that he is not handsome. Nor should I be disappointed that his intelligence is not great. The man was possessed of many fine qualities. He was a hard worker who had built his own fortune, which was a lot more than she could say about any other man of her acquaintance. He was serious about bettering his station in life. He was neither afraid to admit when his knowledge was lacking, nor was he adverse to asking for advice. A most admirable quality, to be sure. Above all, as she had told his lordship, he was excessively kind to her.
She smiled to herself. Her Papa would at least be gratified over that.
After breakfast, with assistance from Mr. Poppinbotham, she donned her cloak. “I am happy to see you’ve worn boots today, Miss Featherstone. I dare say it’s muddy out there. And cool, too.”
She slipped her arm through his. “Yes, it was a very cold night.”
They left the castle keep, crossed the courtyard, walked over the wooden planks of the former drawbridge, and soon they were strolling along the grass which squished beneath their feet from the relentless rains of the previous night.
“Did the foul weather impede your sleep?” he asked.
“Yes.” That and other things. “I hardly closed my eyes all night.”
He patted her hand. “I am distressed to hear that, but I admit, it was the same with me.”
The touch of his hand was nothing like the touch of Lord Slade’s hand. Oh, the devil take it! She must quit thinking about Lord Slade, must drive thoughts of their kissing and touching from her mind. Forever.
For some unaccountable reason, she did not wish for silence. If they kept up casual conversation, she could postpone the regretted inevitable–that inevitable proposal she must accept.
“How are you liking Dunvale Castle, Mr. Poppinbotham?”
“I keep pinching myself to see that Cecil Poppinbotham is really the guest in a castle owned by an earl! I
f only my dear mother were alive so as I could tell her.”
Jane laughed. Mr. Poppinbotham might be forty, but in some ways he could be refreshingly childlike.
“Tell me, how is your drawing of the castle progressing?”
How could she tell him she had not been able to draw for more than a few minutes because Lord Slade’s kiss had so completely shattered her? “I, um, couldn’t seem to get the right perspective. Perhaps I can try again this afternoon.”
“When we get back to London, you shall have to show me your architectural drawings. I had no notion of how many talents you possess, my dear Miss Featherstone.”
“You are much too kind.”
“I have a great respect for artistic abilities. I have the devil of a time getting qualified artists to illustrate my pamphlets.”
It crossed her mind to lightly ask if he would hire a woman such as she to draw for his business, but she knew if she brought up her lack of financial prospects, he would be quick with an offer of financial security for life–as his wife.
And she wished to prolong facing the disappointing inevitable.
Eventually they found themselves well on the other side of the lake, so far from the castle that it was completely out of view. “Come, Miss Featherstone, and sit on that bench with me. There is something I wish to . . . to discuss with you.”
Her heartbeat roared and clanged within the walls of her chest. Her hands grew moist and trembled.
Pulling her skirts beneath her, she sat on the sturdy wooden bench. He came to sit beside her, and he drew her hand within his. “My dear Miss Featherstone, for some time now I have been…”
A great pounding sound interrupted him, and they both spun around to see what the noise was. Lord Slade, atop a galloping stallion, was racing toward them.
Her eyes widened. Whatever was his lordship doing?
He brought the horse right up to the bench, leapt off, and faced her, his dark eyes blazing with emotion. Was it anger? “I beg you not to accept this man’s proposal.”
What in the blazes? “But, my lord, he has not proposed.”
“Good.” Lord Slade then dropped to his knees, not having the least care that he was muddying his superfine breeches. “Forgive me, Poppinbotham, but I must attempt to claim Miss Featherstone for my own wife.”
Jane’s mouth gaped open. Surely her ears were deceiving her! “But, my lord, you cannot marry me. I have nothing to offer.”
“Oh, but you do,” Lord Slade said. “It is my most ardent desire that you consent to become my wife. No other woman will ever do for me.”
“But, what about your Vow?”
He drew her hand into his and pressed a soft kiss atop it. “I have given the matter considerable thought and have decided it’s far better to break my word to a man who’s dead than to ruin the lives of four, possibly five, who are living.”
“What can you mean?” she asked.
“It would be cruel to marry another woman when I can only ever love you, Jane. It will break my heart irrevocably if you wed Poppinbotham, and it wouldn’t be fair to wed him when you’re in love with me.”
So her response to his kiss the day before had betrayed her.
Mr. Poppinbotham’s mouth gaped open. “Is this true, Miss Featherstone?”
These past two days she was turning into a complete watering pot! Her eyes once again filled with tears, then she began to heave great sobs while nodding in agreement with wonderful Lord Slade.
Mr. Poppinbotham cursed, got to his feet, and began to stalk away. “Then I shall be leaving Dunvale immediately. I trust you’ll be able to manage your return journey to London without my coach and four!”
She felt ashamed of herself for having led him on, but otherwise, her heart was brimming with joy.
His lordship spoke in a husky voice. “You, my dearest love, haven’t given me your answer.”
She continued sobbing. “I know I should refuse because marriage to me cannot answer your needs- - -”
He pressed gentle fingers to her lips. “Never say that. You are the only woman in the kingdom who can answer all my needs.”
Then he pulled her into his arms and thoroughly kissed her.
She wasn’t sure how it happened, but she ended up kneeling beside her dearest Jack, the skirts of her dress becoming soaked with mud. Nothing had ever felt so good as being held in her darling’s arms, nothing could ever make her happier than his declaration of love. “My dearest, dearest Jack, I love you far too much to refuse your most welcome offer.”
Then they kissed again. For one with little experience at kissing, she thought she had taken to it better than any new thing she’d ever learned.
Finally he stood and offered her a hand. “Dearest?” she looked at him with searching eyes.
“Yes, my love?”
“To whom were you referring when you said four, possibly five lives, could be ruined if we married the wrong people?”
“Besides you and me and Poppinbotham?’
“Yes, you goose.”
“Lady Sarah or whichever woman I would have wed for fortune. I assure you, I could never love anyone but you, Jane.”
Her tears stung again. “And the possible fifth?”
“I believe my brother may be falling in love with Lady Sarah.”
She was not altogether sure her cousin wasn’t falling in love with the dashing captain, too. None of Sarah’s many admirers captured her attention as much as Captain St. John. “Perhaps if you gave him the castle, Lady Sarah would be eager to marry him. She is most enamored of medieval fortresses.”
“By Jove! That sounds like a capital plan.”
“You must know my needs are simple. I would be ever so happy in the merest room of a cottage, if I could be with you.”
“Would that we were in such a room right now. Would you object if I procure a special license immediately?”
She giggled. “Nothing could make me happier.”
There was a lightness in his voice and in his step. “I cannot believe how happy you’ve made me.”
“It is the very same for me, my dearest, dearest Jack.”
EPILOGUE
Two weeks later
He was the happiest of men. Lord Slade stood before the altar at St. George’s Hanover Square with his cherished bride beside him, their hands clasped. Making the day equally as special was the couple standing beside him and his dear Jane. He glanced to his right to observe David, handsome in his regimentals, standing happily with his bride, Lady Sarah. Two brothers marrying two cousins.
He keenly felt the presence of all his loved ones. His sisters sat in the front pew, and his father’s presence was almost palpable. He knew his father would be happy to know that David’s wife was going to see that Dunvale Castle was preserved. Indeed, David and Lady Sarah were planning to live there, planning to raise their family there.
Slade and Jane would be happiest in London, where they could be near Parliament – and close to Jane’s aging father. Lord Slade was not a wealthy man, but now that Lady Sarah had offered to present—and to dower—her new sisters, he and Jane would be able to live comfortably.
His Vow to his father was being honored.
Now the priest was asking him to make another Vow. “Wilt thou have this woman to thy wedded wife, to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy estate of Matrimony? Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honor, and keep her in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all other, keep thee only unto her, so long as ye both shall live?”
Lord Slade turned to Jane, and his heart overflowed with his sacred love of her. “I will.”
This was one Vow that would be his pleasure to honor. For as long as he lived.
The End
ABOUT CHERYL BOLEN
Since her first book was published to acclaim by Harlequin Historical in 1998, Cheryl Bolen has written more than 20 books, mostly historical romances. Several of her books have won Best Historical awards, and she's been a New York Times and USA Today bestsel
ler.
TO WAGER THE MARQUIS OF WOLVERSTONE
Marcus Danvers, the Marquis of Wolverstone, is renowned for his cynical demeanor. It's rumored that long ago, a beautiful woman broke his heart. Now he lives life for pleasure. That is, until the beautiful, as she is deceitful, Contessa Orsini re-enters his life with a wager he cannot resist.
Copyright © 2012 Bronwen Evans
PROLOGUE
London, England, April 1811
As the night air stroked her skin with its soft humid fingers, Sabine Fournier embraced its warmth. It reminded her of her lover’s touch. She giggled girlishly at the term lover. They were not lovers in the scandalous sense as they had in reality only kissed.
But what a kiss he had given her and the past weeks had seen his ardor increase exponentially with each passionate embrace. In return, his lips had set her body on fire. He made her pulse race and her skin craved his touch. All reason fled as his mouth took hers. They both knew he could have taken far more than a few scorching kisses.
But he was a young gentleman. A Lord, in fact, and a man like none other she’d ever known before. By her eighteenth year she’d met very few men, especially one as handsome and as debonair as the Marquis of Wolverstone. Marcus Danvers was a man who completely overpowered all her senses.
Everyone told her he was far above her station, but in fact her father had been a French Comte. Granted he was a penniless one, since her family had fled revolutionary France with little more than the clothes on their backs. But her Father had since made a respectable living teaching French to the children of the aristocracy. And her Father was so delighted for her right now, for he was sure the Marquis of Wolverstone was going to propose to his alluring daughter.