“Dammit,” he said and placed his snifter back on the table. “I have to go.”
Highcliff smirked. “Of course you do. Go forth and seduce with great success, my friend. I’ll just stay here and finish off this fine brandy so it doesn’t go to waste.”
Chapter Seven
Jane was still hiding in her room. It was tea time and all the others had gathered in the drawing room. She’d have rather starved, contrary to her stepmother’s opinion of her appetite, than walk into that nest of vipers.
As Sarah entered, carrying a tray laden with a pot of tea and cucumber sandwiches, Jane eyed them dubiously. “I take it my stepmother has put cook on alert again about what I am and am not permitted to eat?”
The maid ducked her head. “If I can, I’ll try to sneak something else up later.”
Quietly furious and emboldened by Lord Althorn’s words to her just that morning, Jane decided to take action. “Don’t bother. I can fend for myself. I’m going to the kitchen to get what I want and she—that hateful, vile, witch of a woman—can go to the devil as far as I’m concerned.”
With that, Jane left her chambers, left her maid gaping in her wake, and made for the stairs. She intended to go and fetch herself a decent meal and have a word with the cook. It was, at least as far as anyone else knew, to be her house someday, was it not?
As she strode down the corridor, she was formulating in her mind precisely what she intended to say to the cook. Because she was so intent upon that, she was not paying proper attention to her surroundings. As she rounded the corner, she propelled into a solid form clad in a satin brocade waistcoat and a coat of blue superfine. The light scent of sandalwood teased her senses.
“You appear to be in quite a hurry, Miss Barrett.”
The slightly amused tone made her want to kick him. But as he wore boots and she had only her slippers, she resisted the urge. Besides, it wasn’t him that she was angry at. Not any more, at least. It was herself. The things Sarah had said to her that morning had penetrated the haze of her anger and she’d accepted that there was some truth to what the maid had said. She was looking for reasons to find fault with him and, as was the way of things, would always find it.
“I was just on my way to the kitchen,” she said. “Excuse me, my lord.”
“Miss Barrett—Jane,” he said.
It was the first time he’d ever called her by her given name. She looked up at him then, noting not for the first time how tall he was and how impossibly handsome. “Yes, my lord.”
“Marcus,” he corrected. “My name is Marcus and I would have you use it. Can we speak privately?”
“Is there something wrong?” she asked. He was behaving very strangely. Even as she questioned it, she caught just a hint of brandy from him. “Are you foxed?”
“No. I’d made all the necessary arrangements to get myself well and truly foxed but then thought better of it. I really must speak with you privately,” he insisted.
“Very well,” she agreed, wondering what on earth he was about. Perhaps, he had decided to call off the entire business as well and save them both the inconvenience.
He took her hand, a far more intimate gesture than she was accustomed to from anyone and certainly from him. As he walked her toward the door that led to the narrow portrait gallery, she couldn’t help but wonder at his sense of urgency.
Once they were alone, concealed by the heavy curtains that sectioned off that area of the house from all others, she stopped. “What on earth is this all about?”
“I made a mistake,” he admitted. “I’ve made nothing but mistakes since I’ve returned here.”
Slightly disappointed in his answer, and even more disappointed in herself for feeling anything at all, Jane said, “Then you agree that it’s best we not proceed with this ridiculous betrothal?”
His expression shifted into something altogether unfamiliar to her. “No. That’s not it at all. A very good friend has informed that I am being an absolute fool and I have to admit he’s quite right. I’ve told you all the reasons why it’s wise for us to wed, but I’ve yet to tell you any of the real reasons why I want to marry you.”
“So you can have my father’s fortune,” she snapped. “You don’t have to tell me that, Lord Althorn. I’m well aware.”
Marcus frowned as of weighing his options. Then with a slight shrug, he stated, “That isn’t what I meant at all. But telling you things is not working to my advantage. So perhaps, it’s time I show you.”
Before Jane could react to that at all, he had pulled her close to him, until her breasts were crushed against his chest and she was so near him she could see the faint shadow of his beard beneath his skin. “What on earth are you doing?”
“What I should have done earlier,” he said. And without further warning, his lips descended upon hers.
She didn’t struggle or try to break free of his hold. In truth, she was so completely stunned she didn’t know what to do other than stand there and let him kiss her.
Jane had never been kissed before, but she’d spent an awful lot of time imagining what it might be like when it finally occurred. None of her imaginings had come even remotely close to the real thing. She’d had no notion of just how firm his body would feel pressed against hers, or that the mingled aroma of sandalwood, soap and brandy would be so infinitely appealing and so capable of clouding her judgement. There would have been no way to predict that her own response to his nearness, to the taste of his lips and the rasp of his whiskers over her skin would be so intense.
Tentatively, Jane kissed him back, moving her lips against his in the same manner with which he’d kissed her. She felt him tense, muscles bunching and rippling beneath the fabric of his clothing as his arms encircled her more fully. She didn’t think she’d done anything wrong. Rather than push her away, he pulled her even closer. The pressure of his lips on hers altered slightly. Uncertain of what she was supposed to do, Jane gasped softly as he clasped her more fully to him.
With her lips parted, his tongue swept inside, tangling against hers in a slow and sensual movement. It wasn’t entirely unknown to her, that manner of kissing. She’d heard maids giggling about it and she’d even questioned Sarah about it once. Her answer had been subpar at best, a trite “you’ll like it well enough with the right man”. It appeared that against all reason and better judgement, Marcus Edward Balfour, Marquess of Althorn and heir to the Duke of Elsingham, was, in fact, the right man. Because she liked it very much. A shocking amount, in fact. With every stroke of his tongue against hers, every nip of his teeth and the soft sweep of his lips over hers, she found herself wondering what else she would like and what else he could do to evoke such a strange maelstrom of sensations inside her. Blood rushed, her heart quickened, and heat blossomed inside her along with a strange anticipation that she could not name. Whatever he was doing, she wanted more of it.
*
Perhaps he’d overestimated his own self-control. Or perhaps he’d underestimated how responsive Jane Barrett would be to his kisses. Regardless, Marcus found himself struggling to rein in his growing desire for her. He’d intended only to kiss her, to introduce some physical intimacy into their acquaintance to begin building a romantic connection with her. He hadn’t foreseen that it would escalate so quickly or that her body would fit so perfectly against his own.
The softness of her breasts crushed against his chest and the flare of her hips that fit his hands so perfectly were not conducive to having a chaste kiss as it should have been. She was completely innocent, sheltered, isolated even. And yet, her untutored response to his kiss enflamed him more than the tricks of even the most notorious courtesan could. Forcing himself to break the contact and to draw back from her, he met her heavy-lidded gaze.
“It isn’t simply about your fortune. And if you ever think it is again, you should remember this moment,” he said.
“Is that why you kissed me?” she asked. “Just to prove your point?”
“I kissed you b
ecause I wanted to. If it proves a point, then we shall just consider that a lucky happenstance,” he answered. “I’ve wanted to do that since you fainted in my arms last night.”
“I didn’t faint in your arms!”
“You did,” he insisted. And in spite of the agony of his leg, he hadn’t been able to forget the feeling of her lush curves pressed against him just as they were in that moment.
“It was hunger from being starved by my odious stepmother!”
He didn’t laugh, though the desire to do so was there. Forcing himself to be completely forthright, or as forthright as he could be with her about his unexpected feelings for her, he explained, “I had intended to come home and to marry you as per the agreement. I had not anticipated that I would be eager to do so. Rest assured on that front, I am quite eager for our wedding to take place.”
“Just because you can kiss me senseless doesn’t mean I’m willing to marry you. I haven’t made up my mind,” she insisted.
“If I had the wherewithal to kiss you again… and only kiss you… I would do so until you relented,” he said. “But alas, I cannot trust myself. Make no mistake, Miss Jane Barrett, there are many things in life far more valuable than something as dirty and coarse as money… and this is one of them.”
She said nothing for the longest time. When she turned to walk away, he saw her falter. She paused just before the curtained partition that separated the gallery from the hall and glanced back at him. It was an unconsciously seductive pose, looking over her shoulder, biting her lip, her hair slightly mussed from his hands that had roved of their own accord. He drank in the sight and savored it long after she fled.
He wanted her. Not because she was intended to be his bride. Not because she had a fortune. He wanted her solely for her, for her lush figure and the sweet curve of her face, the softness of her lips and even the barbed wit that sometimes cut him into ribbons. He wanted her because she was her and no other. That was a complication he had not foreseen, but a welcome one and one he meant to explore fully.
*
Jane didn’t go to the kitchens after all. She fled back to her room and tried desperately to make sense of what had just occurred.
Sarah was still there, tidying up her meager wardrobe and undoubtedly hiding from other tasks that might be assigned to her. She took one look at Jane, in her current state, and asked, “Good heavens, what on earth has happened to you?”
Jane shook her head. “I don’t know. But it can’t be good. I need to stop the publisher from putting out that pamphlet, Sarah. What if I’m too late?”
Sarah frowned. “But isn’t that what you want? For the pamphlet to go out and him to be forced to prove that he is, in fact, the marquess? It was all part of your plan.”
Jane stepped deeper into the room and sank heavily onto the small bench before her dressing table. “My plan has to change. He kissed me, Sarah.”
Sarah guffawed. “A kiss? And that was enough to make you want to marry him?”
“No… but it was enough to make me question my adamant refusal. I may still renege, but I need to be certain I haven’t done something so awful that option is taken from me altogether.”
Turning to her dressing table and the writing box she kept hidden beneath it, Jane pulled out some foolscap and her quill. “I hope I’m not too late.”
Scribbling furiously, she dashed off a letter to the publisher stating that her sources had been wrong, that he was the marquess and publication of the pamphlet would make them both laughing stocks. When it was done, she sealed it and then sent Sarah below stairs to bribe one of the kitchen lads to deliver it. If it wasn’t enough, if the publisher chose to go ahead with the printing, she’d be ruined. Althorn would not rest until he discovered who had defamed him so thoroughly, and if he were to discover it was her—
“I just need time to decide,” Jane uttered to the now empty room. “I don’t know what to do.”
Cursing herself, cursing him and that blasted kiss for making her question her own mind, Jane ate her miserable cucumber sandwiches and tried to regain some modicum of resolve. It was as useless an endeavor as trying to fill her belly with the loathsome little sandwiches.
Chapter Eight
Dinner that night was an uncomfortable affair. Neither her father nor stepmother spoke, nor did the Duke of Elsingham. Conversation consisted primarily of whatever the Duchess of Elsingham was spewing about fashion, purchasing new gowns in bright colors, attending balls and all other manner of nonsense. At the far end of the table, Charles Balfour sat in stony silence.
Jane noted the undercurrent of animosity between Charles and Althorn. They did little enough to disguise it, she mused. Of course, it might have been that she was so painfully aware of him after their earlier encounter. She couldn’t stop thinking of it and remembering just how it had felt. While she did not possess the words to describe it, she did know one thing with utter certainty—she wanted it to happen again.
As if he’d read her thoughts, Althorn looked at her over the rim of his glass. His gaze was heated, direct and spoke volumes about his feelings on the matter, as well.
Her face flushed with embarrassment at having been caught staring, but also with something else altogether. Averting her gaze, she willed her pulse to return to its normal rate and tried not to let herself be distracted by him. It might all be for naught, anyway. She had yet to hear back from her publisher and if the pamphlet was printed as per the usual schedule, it would come out two days hence. Her entire world could come crashing down then.
“Perhaps we could manage an outing tomorrow night?”
The suggestion had come from Charles. Jane blinked in surprise as she glanced up at him and then back to Althorn who appeared singularly nonplussed by the suggestion.
“That would be a lovely idea,” the duchess said, clapping her hands in delight like a child. “The theater perhaps? Oh, we haven’t attended the theater in an age! Wouldn’t it be delightful, Miss Barrett?”
Very much on the spot, Jane fumbled for a response. “While the theater would be lovely, I am not quite certain we should be making such public appearances just yet—Lord Althorn has only just returned and it might be… the etiquette of this situation is very much uncharted waters.”
“Pshaw!” the duchess countered with a dismissive wave of her hand. “We ought to be hosting a ball given the joyous occasion of his return! But alas, that might be too much for my dear husband’s health.”
“And for my dear pocketbook!” the duke shouted. “There will be no ball!”
The duchess smiled even brighter, though it prompted a slightly maniacal gleam in her eyes. “Then the theater it is! We’ll go tomorrow night. Do we know what play is being performed? Not that it matters! Not a whit. I’m just so excited to go!”
Jane dared a glance back at Althorn. His expression was grim but he gave a curt nod before turning to Charles. “We shall attend tomorrow evening then. I’m sure no one can fault us for it. After all, my return was a joyous occasion. Wasn’t it, Charles?” His tone was goading.
Charles smiled coldly. “My dear cousin, I must admit to being quite overcome at the sight of you. I’ll make the arrangements,” he offered.
“There’s no need.” Marcus dismissed his offer summarily. “I have the use of a box. I had planned to take Miss Barrett for an evening, but there is no reason that we cannot all enjoy Lord Highcliff’s bounty.”
Charles’ expression was etched with resentment. “Of course. Always the best of everything for you, isn’t it, Marcus? Heaven forbid you have to rub elbows with the rabble… Highcliff’s box will do nicely.”
The undercurrent between them was positively vicious, Jane thought. She half-expected them to come to blows at any minute.
As dessert was served, her place was obviously devoid of any of the delicious fruit trifle that had been prepared.
“Are you not a fan of trifle, Miss Barrett?” Althorn asked.
Jane glanced at Mrs. Barrett who was eyeing her
with diabolical glee. “I quite like trifle, in fact,” she replied. “Mrs. Barrett and I disagree on what my proper diet should be.”
Mrs. Barrett laughed uncomfortable, clearly stunned that Jane would make such an admission. “My dear girl! It’s only so that you will look your best on your wedding day!”
Althorn nodded sagely. “I daresay that Miss Barrett could not look any more perfect on that day than she does right now.” He gestured to one of the footman, “You will serve, Miss Barrett. And from this moment forward, no one, aside from Miss Barrett herself, will have any say in what she does and does not eat.”
The footman nodded, clearly aware that a war had been waged and won in that dining room. He fled back to the kitchens immediately after serving up another helping of the trifle.
With the decadent concoction placed before her, Jane took a small bite and enjoyed not only the flavor but the victory. She would pay for it later. But for the moment, she was thoroughly elated by the discomfiture of her vicious stepmother.
“Well, I daresay, we’ll only have to purchase a bit of extra fabric for your wedding gown. It’s hardly the end of the world,” Mrs. Barrett finally said.
“If we had a ball and Miss Barrett could dance, she could eat all of the sweets she wanted and it wouldn’t make a bit of difference,” the duchess suggested with a slight pout.
The ridiculousness of it all struck Jane then. The entire house was filled with Bedlamites it seemed. Looking up, she met Althorn’s gaze and for that small moment, there was an understanding between them. Everyone in the house was positively mad but the two of them, and that was less an endorsement for them than an indictment for the others. Still, it helped the remainder of the meal to pass in relative peace.
*
In the library after dinner with his father, Mr. Barrett and his scheming cousin, Marcus wished himself anywhere else. He’d faced less animosity on the battlefield than he faced in that one room. Given what he’d seen at dinner, he doubted very seriously that Miss Barrett was faring any better in the company of his vapid stepmother and her beastly one. Mrs. Barrett was attractive enough but he’d encountered warmer corpses.
The Missing Marquess of Althorn (The Lost Lords Book 3) Page 10