by Julia Parks
A deep voice sounded close to her ear, and Jane managed to remain serene as his warm breath stirred the errant tendrils of brown hair resting on her neck.
“An interesting custom, this, and an interesting piece of jewellery, Miss Lindsay.”
Not turning to face him, Jane replied, “Both have been in my family for several hundred years, Lord Devlin. I’m certain you, too, have cherished family traditions.”
“I can see you have heard nothing about my family, Miss Lindsay. The only traditions the Earls of Cheswick have followed have been of greed, misery, and lust. Not precisely laudable traits.”’
She turned then wished she hadn’t. Why did he have to stand so near? She struggled to maintain her facade of casual composure.
Lord Devlin lifted the locket from her hand and studied the ornate etchings in the heavy gold. “They seem to be struggling to control the ruby just here,” he said, rubbing his thumb across the heart-shaped ruby. “Is that, perhaps, a reflection of the struggle its beautiful owner must endure?”
“Rubbish!” said Jane, her voice a trifle high.
He smiled, and she wondered how in the world she had been caught up in the drivel spouted by a man—especially this particular man. Why did he have the power to rouse such uneasiness in her breast?
“Your valentines, Miss Lindsay,” intoned Pipkin.
“Thank you, Pipkin. Is the buffet ready?” She eagerly returned to her well-maintained discipline.
“Certainly, Miss Jane. Shall I tell the musicians to strike up the supper dance?”
“Yes, I suppose everyone has had a chance to read their cards and guess who wrote them.”
The butler retreated, and Jane looked at the delicate lace basket in her hands. Valentine cards, some folded and sealed, lay in neat rows. Suddenly, she wished she were anywhere except beside Lord Devlin. Why should she care what he thought of her? Perhaps his reference to her as an acceptable chaperon still rankled. That was it.
“You must be the most popular lady at the ball, Miss Lindsay.”
She glared into his teasing brown eyes. How dare he make free with her name? “They are merely courtesy greetings to the hostess of the ball, Lord Devlin.”
He raised his brows at this. “Then there is no one who has claimed you for the supper dance?”
“I do not dance this evening, sir.”
“But you must sup,” he persisted.
“I must tend to other matters, Lord Devlin, but I do thank you for thinking of me.”
With this, Jane made her escape, crossing the floor quickly and not slowing her pace until she gained the solitude of her own chamber.
She fumed, she raged, she castigated herself for being such a ninny. He was merely trying to captivate the most difficult female at the ball, which was why he had sought her out. He probably had a bet with someone, perhaps her horrid cousin, Roland. Or, more than likely, he was trying to win her approval so he could gain admittance to Heartland and, hence, to Cherry.
Seated in front of her mirror, her maid taking the pins from her hair, she studied her features, as she hadn’t done in ages. Her eyes were rather pretty, but her mouth would never be described as delicate or a rosebud. Her nose was good—neither too large nor too small. Her hair was her best trait, but it was wasted now that she was past the age for wearing it down.
She grimaced as Tucker worked to confine one strand of the heavy tresses before another pin slipped its moorings. She couldn’t prevent a smile as she remembered the time at the seminary for young ladies when her friend Sally had persuaded her to cut her hair short, convincing her that without the heavy length it would curl. After hours of trying to coax it to curl, they had finally given up, and she had been consigned to months of looking like one of Cromwell’s Puritans. What a scold they had endured from the headmistress!
“Hmph! That’ll do, Miss Jane. You’ll last the rest of th’ ball now. Have ye met any interestin’ people?”
“Men, you mean, Tucker?”
“Aye, well, there’s no harm in that, Miss Jane.”
“No, no harm at all. And as a matter of fact, I have made the acquaintance of one new gentleman—a viscount, if you please.”
“Oh, Miss Jane, I’m so happy for you!”
“Don’t be too happy. I can’t think when I’ve met a more disagreeable man.”
“Now, Miss Jane, ye mustn’t be so hard on the gentlemen. You can’t find all of them disagreeable. There’s someone out there just waitin’ for ye.”
“You’re a dear to think so, Tucker, but he must be waiting somewhere else for he’s not here tonight.”
Jane rose and left the room while her maid tidied up the dressing table.
Still carrying the basket of valentines, Jane paused outside her room and looked down the long corridor that led to the main rooms. She shook her head and headed in the opposite direction, opening a door that led to a narrow staircase. A single sconce of candles on the wall lighted the dark passageway as she hurried up the familiar steps.
She stopped in front of the first door and knocked then entered at the growled command, “Come.”
“Hello, Nana,” she said quietly, leaving the door ajar as the stale air assailed her.
“Ah, child, so ye’ve not fergot yer old Nana on this special night,” said the ancient servant who rocked incessantly in her low chair, her gnarled hands clutching its arms like claws.
“Of course not, Nana.”
Mindful of her skirts, Jane perched on the edge of the narrow bed. Its softness enveloped her, for it was of the finest down, the only privilege her old nurse had ever requested. Jane smoothed the covers, smiling as she recalled those stormy nights when she had fled the nursery and sought refuge in her Nana’s feather bed.
Nana had always pretended to be asleep as she moved her heavy form to one side. It wasn’t till morning that the old nurse would scold her for being such a naughty girl. This was probably because her fears were Nana’s fears, and the comfort of a loved one warded off the evils of the storm for both of them. When Jane had outgrown the nursery, Nana had remained, but she had ordered the windows nailed shut and locks placed on all the doors to ward off the piskies and faeries that haunted her Cornish soul.
And how many times had Jane sat and listened to those old tales of goblins and witches? Even when she was past the age to do so, she had wandered up those stairs to Nana’s room to hear the stories again and again.
Breaking into her reverie, the old nurse said, “So ye’ve brought yer valentines to share with Nana.”
“Of course. You’re better than I at guessing the authors of the anonymous ones.”
Jane proceeded to read each verse aloud, telling the names of the signed verses and allowing her old muse to help her guess the nameless ones. As usual, most of Jane’s were signed.
To the fairest of the fair,
For fairness lies not in the person,
But in the soul.
--An Admirer
“Mr. Primrose, or whatever the new curate’s name is.”
Jane laughed. “Right, of course. And here is one from Cherry with a sweet verse about sisters. Shall I read it?”
Nana shook her head. Cherry hadn’t grown up at Heartland and was not a favourite of Nana’s.
“Let’s see, here’s a different one. The handwriting is atrocious and ’tis merely written on a blank card.
Your beauty at first caught my eye…But every moment that I converse with you steals in some new grace, heightens the picture, and gives its stronger expression…By all that’s good, I can have no happiness but what’s in your power to grant me. Nor shall I ever feel repentance but in not having seen your merits before. I will stay, even contrary to your wishes, and though you should persist to shun me, I will make my respectful assiduities atone for the levity of my past conduct.
An Admirer
Jane stared at the note, her brow puckered in confusion.
“Can’t place it. Doesn’t sound like the usual verse. Don’t think it
can be any o’our local swains.”
“’Tis from She Stoops To Conquer,” murmured Jane. She looked over at the old nurse and added, “A play by Oliver Goldsmith. Odd that anyone should be able to quote it. And it was obviously written in haste, so it can’t have been prepared before the ball. There’s no lace or other decoration.”
“Seems ye’ve a real admirer, dearie.”
Jane shrugged off the suggestion and picked up another card, slipping the carelessly scribbled missive into her reticule. She would investigate further—not that she believed its contents. It was just a little mystery that would be amusing to solve.
Probably one of Cherry’s beaus who felt sorry for the spinster cousin. Perhaps Cherry had even suggested it, hoping to add to Jane’s enjoyment of the evening. Yes, the more she thought about it, that was the most likely solution—and they had seen the play in Bath only last month.
“That’s all, Nana,” said Jane at length.
“’Tis enough, I think, child. And one or two quite promising.”
“Nana!”
“It would be good to see the nurseries at Heartland full with babies.”
“I’m certain Cherry—”
“I didn’t mean her babies, and well you know it! Now you go back to the ball and find the authors of those verses.”
Jane shook her head and smiled.
“Ah, so ye’ve someone in mind,” said the nurse, misinterpreting that smile. Her rocker became motionless as she stared into Jane’s eyes. Shaking off an uncomfortable eeriness, Jane said lightly, “Just an irritating man, Nana, but I assure you, I was not thinking of him. And he certainly never sent me a valentine tonight!”
But the old woman sat forward suddenly and grasped Jane’s hands in hers. “Have a care, missy. He’s a danger to yer heart, he is. I can feel it.”
“What nonsense, Nana. Not to my heart. Perhaps Cherry’s, but I’ll soon put an end to that!”
“Ah, that one. She can look after ’erself, she can. Just like her namesake, she’ll be carried away by a trickster like the King o’ the Piskies, mind you!”
“I would hardly describe Lord Devlin in such a manner, Nana.”
“And just how would you describe him, Miss Lindsay?” said the shadow standing in the doorway. It moved into the room and defined itself as Lord Devlin.
Jane let out an exclamation and turned to her old nurse who had covered her face with her shawl.
“Don’t look at him, Miss Jane!” she whispered breathlessly.
“Now see what you’ve done with your skulking about! It is all right, Nana. It is only the man I had mentioned to you. He’s not a spirit, just a very annoying guest.” She glared up at him, and he grinned in response.
“I beg your pardon, madam, if I frightened you. I have an affinity for old houses, and I was merely exploring. I got a bit turned around and went farther than I had supposed.” As this speech was administered in a calm, repentant voice, the old woman lowered her shawl and regarded him fiercely.
“Where are you from, boy?”
“Yorkshire.”
“You don’t sound it,”’ she commented, a suspicious frown creasing her wrinkled forehead.
“I have spent the past ten years abroad.”
“Aye, that explains it.” Nana cocked her head in Jane’s direction. “What do you want with my Jane?”
The viscount’s eyes twinkled as Jane gasped, “Nana!”
With a serious demeanour, he responded, “I had hoped to persuade Miss Lindsay to return to the ball. I would like to learn more about this fascinating old house.”
“Hmph!” said Jane.
“Then that’s all right. You two run along. I’ve got to get my rest, I do. Goodnight, my lord. Goodnight, missy.”
Jane stood up, looking irresolutely from the viscount’s proffered arm to the old woman who had closed her eyes and resumed rocking. “Goodnight, Nana,” she said, grimacing as she placed her gloved hand on Lord Devlin’s sleeve.
He reached past her, his chest brushing against her breast as he retrieved the lace basket and her reticule from the bed. The white card fell from the reticule and he caught it. He picked it up, quickly scanning its contents.
“Goldsmith, I believe.”
Jane took the card and pushed it more securely into the reticule as he continued, “It seems you have at least one valentine that you deemed worthy of separating from the others. What a fortunate fellow.”
“Poppycock!” snapped Jane.
They had reached the top of the stairs, and Jane paused, waiting for the viscount to go first. He, however, seemed disinclined to release her arm, for he tucked it closer, trapping her hand against his side as they descended the narrow stairs.
“The candles have gone out,” said Jane as she realized they were in total darkness.
“Are you afraid of the dark, Miss Lindsay, or perhaps only of me?”
“I am afraid of neither, sir, but I must admit I find the minor irritations of life vexatious.”
What a rich laugh he had, and she realized she was smiling. Recovering immediately, she reflected how fortunate it was that they were immersed in darkness.
“I believe we are at the bottom, Miss Lindsay.” She stopped in her tracks, and he turned to face her. “What? Unwilling to call our little tête-à-tête at an end?”
Not betrayed into revealing her temper, Jane stared at what she believed to be his face. “You are insufferably arrogant, aren’t you, Lord Devlin?”
Again, that laugh. “Perhaps, Miss Lindsay, I am merely voicing my own hopes.”
“And untruthful, as well.”
“Then perhaps I should prove my words.” With this, he embraced her, pinning her arms to her sides as his lips sought hers.
“I shall scream!”
“And how will you explain our presence here together? Come, kiss me.”
His lips tasted vaguely of liquor, and Jane tried to concentrate on this instead of on the light-headed feeling that was creeping over her. But the fight was impossible, as his kiss became more demanding, his tongue probing, and she swayed against him. He groaned and released her arms, but instead of using them to pummel his chest as any gently reared lady should have, Jane slipped her arms around his neck and wound her fingers into his dark, curly hair.
Some part of her remained aware of her wanton behaviour, but she had no wish to stop. It was her turn to groan as she tried to press closer, an impossible feat under the circumstances.
Then he set her away from him. Jane managed to still a whimper of protest and immediately began straightening her gown.
His breath came in short, rasping waves. “I’ll escort you back to the ballroom, Miss Lindsay.”
“That will not be necessary, Lord Devlin. You go on without me.”
He opened the door behind him and backed out, leaving her weak and bemused.
Recovering her wits, Jane hurried to her chamber, shocking her dresser with the state of her hair. Tucker scolded her charge mildly with the privilege of an old retainer. As Jane remained silent, wrapped in her own thoughts, Tucker ceased her diatribe, studying her mistress with a puzzled frown.
When the maid had finished, Jane thanked her and left the room.
The guests were beginning to return to the ballroom from supper, their voices heightened by drink and the excitement of blooming romance. The musicians began to play a country-dance, sets were made up, bows and curtseys performed, and the ballroom came to life once more.
Jane’s satin-slippered toes silently tapped the marble floor. An unaccustomed restlessness assailed her, and she forced herself to sit calmly and watch the guests who viewed the valentine greetings from years past displayed between each of the French doors that lined one wall of the grand ballroom.
The tradition of displaying valentines from former balls had been introduced by her grandmother. Starting with her own valentine greetings as a debutante, Jane had searched the attic trunks for more. The oldest was from a great-great-great grandfather to one o
f the famed beauties of his day. That faded date read 1691.
And so, their collection had grown, as friends donated their favourite cards, some decorated with lace and velvet, a few decorated with precious gems. The chaperons’ chairs were arranged in little groups far enough away from the French doors to allow people to stroll beside them.
Where was Cherry now?
Jane wished she had found a way to escape this enforced inactivity. Still, she knew she would do that which was proper. Impropriety was as foreign to her as civilization was to an aborigine.
Jane watched the dancers. Dark eyes met hers as Lord Devlin promenaded past with Anne Powell, her nearest neighbour, and for once, Jane found it impossible to hold his gaze. She dropped her eyes self-consciously.
Rising swiftly, she tried to appear calm as she moved among the guests viewing the valentine display.
“Jane, my dear, whose billet was this?” asked a rotund matron in a purple satin turban.
“That was one of my mother’s, I believe, Lady Tarpley.”
“She was such a beauty with that red hair and those great blue eyes.” The dame, who had been a great friend as well as rival of her grandmother, looked Jane up and down. “You always resembled your father’s side of the family, Jane dear.”
“Yes, ma’am. I am definitely a Lindsay,” said Jane. “Did you know we have one of your valentines on display this year?”
“Really? Where? I don’t remember giving one to dear Janine.”
“Actually, Lady Tarpley, I believe Lord Tarpley gave it to her after last year’s ball. He told her it was one he had written before you and he became well acquainted, and he had been too shy to send it to you. He planned to surprise you by having Grandmother put it up with the others this year.”