by Lisa Berne
Jane paused, and looked down at him with an ache in her heart. Oh, she was going to miss him! “I need to talk with your father alone, dear Wakefield. But I’ll talk with you afterwards. Where will you be?”
“In the billiards room. I made a capital hidey-hole. Wait till you see it—you’ll love it. I say, what’s the matter, Jane? You don’t have a bad tooth, do you? You look just like I felt when I did.”
“Do I?”
“Yes, you looked very millencocky just now.”
“Like your aunt Margaret’s cat.”
“Yes, that’s right.”
Wakefield had used that word on the day she had first gone with him to Hastings, met the Duchess, and been invited over for luncheon. How very long ago that seemed. Jane smiled a little, then sighed a little, too. “No, my teeth are fine. Thank you very much for asking.”
“If your teeth are fine, why do you look so much like Aunt Margaret’s cat?”
She leaned down to kiss the top of his head. “Wakefield, you do ask the best questions.”
“You told me that already. Only last time you said they were delightful. Can you stay for luncheon? If we’re lucky, we won’t have to listen to Aunt Margaret talk about flowers like she did that other time. Wasn’t it awfully dull? Why is it that grownups can be so boring? I don’t mean you, Jane, or Father, but it does seem that a lot of them are. Will I be boring when I’m a grownup, do you suppose?”
Jane had to suppress the urge to kiss his head again. “Somehow, Wakefield, I don’t think so.”
“Well, I hope not. But what if I can’t help it? What if I start talking about flowers, or the weather, or what the roads are like, or other stupid things like that, and I can’t stop myself? Will you give me a secret signal, Jane? You could wink your eye, like this—” Wakefield demonstrated by squeezing one eyelid closed and distorting half his face. “Or you could do this.” He twirled a finger in the air. “And then I’ll know I’m being boring and shut up.”
She would not—could not—bring herself to say, I may be elsewhere when you’re a grownup, dear Wakefield. So she only nodded. And together they went to an open doorway, standing on the threshold of a large, light-filled room which had two entire walls of sturdy mahogany shelving that were packed with books of all sizes, shapes, and colors. There was a pair of comfortable old leather armchairs set before the fireplace, in which a fire leaped and danced and crackled in a very cheerful way, and a large handsome desk of some dark scarred wood, crowded with papers, notes, books, pencils, letter-openers and paper-knives, pens, and a big inkwell. Also upon the surface of the desk were the Duke’s feet in their familiar dark scuffed boots, crossed at the ankles, and the man himself with his chair tipped back and, apparently, deeply absorbed in a book.
“I say, Father, didn’t you hear us coming?” said Wakefield, and the Duke gave quite a start.
“Oh, hullo,” he said, removing his legs from his desk and setting aside his book. “I was just reading up on swine dysentery. Absolutely riveting. Do come in.”
“Jane wants to talk to you alone, Father, and then she’s going to talk with me in the billiards room. By the way, Jane rode here all by herself. If you’d looked out the window you would have seen her. She was riding like anything. Isn’t that ripping?”
“Very,” he said, but without much warmth. “Congratulations.”
“You sound awfully stuffy, Father,” said Wakefield critically. “Aren’t you glad that Jane’s learned how to ride? Now she can come over whenever she likes.”
The Duke only nodded, and Wakefield said, “Now you look stuffy. What’s the matter?”
“Nothing.”
Wakefield stared hard at him, then shrugged. “If you say so. See you later, Jane.”
“See you later,” she said, and Wakefield began hopping away on one foot, and then she took a deep breath, wishing her heart would stop pounding like it would if one were standing on the edge of an extremely high cliff and about to do something bold and extreme and possibly very foolhardy.
Jane stepped inside the library, and, as firmly as possible, she closed the door behind her.
Chapter 17
Anthony was pleased to discover that he was quite unmoved by the fact that not only was Jane here, they were actually alone together. And even though she looked incredibly attractive in her dark-crimson riding dress, which made her gray eyes glow like a wintry moon, and also displayed to fine advantage her neat, elegant figure, he was able to register all this without any involuntary physiological responses (such as his mind dissolving, a wild thump of his heart, hot fire consuming him everywhere, an urge to leap up and rush over and take her in his arms, and so on).
Still, he wasn’t sorry there was the wide expanse of his cluttered desk separating them.
Rather like a moat, really.
Which made him the castle, and Jane the unwelcome intruder to be repelled. He said:
“Won’t you sit down?”
And he gestured at the two mahogany chairs set before his desk.
“Thank you.” Jane sat down in one and took her time settling her skirts.
There was a silence, during which Anthony thought about the best duke in the world, who without doubt would know right away what to say in a situation like this. And in a breezy, careless, self-assured, authoritative manner. So he said, with what was really remarkable aplomb:
“Dreadful thing, swine dysentery.”
“I imagine so,” Jane answered. “I do hope the Duchess isn’t suffering from it.”
“No, she’s fine.”
“Oh, that’s good. Is she fatter?”
“Yes, she is.”
“That’s good, too.”
“Yes, it is,” he replied, and wondered if she was going to mention that she was a little fatter now also, just as she had that time after church and which had had him staring hungrily at her, wishing she wasn’t wearing a pelisse (or anything at all), and breaking out in a sweat all over. But she didn’t, and he was glad to observe that he was as cool as the proverbial cucumber. He felt a faint ripple of pride. How tremendously dukish of him. He went on, with fresh confidence:
“Nice weather we’re having.”
“Yes.”
“Warmer out.”
“Yes.”
“Spring’s on the way.”
“Yes, I suppose it is.”
“How were the roads?”
“Fine.”
“That’s good. Sometimes they’re not.”
“Well, today they are.”
“That’s good,” he said.
“Yes,” she said.
Anthony picked up a stack of papers, rustled them importantly, then put them down again. Thanks to him they were having a perfect conversation. He felt another ripple of pride. “Margaret’s flowers are doing well.”
“That’s nice.”
“Yes, isn’t it?”
Jane nodded. “Yes.”
“I’m sure Margaret would be delighted to show them to you.”
“Another time, perhaps.”
“No time like the present.”
“Speaking of which,” Jane said, “I came over to tell you something.”
“Oh?” he replied, casually.
“Yes. Great-grandmother is taking me to London for the Season.”
“Is she?”
“Yes. She just told me yesterday. We leave in a fortnight.”
“Ah.”
Jane was looking at him steadily, and he looked right back at her. The Duke of Oyster, closed up tight.
“Don’t you want to know when I’m coming back?”
He shrugged. Dukishly. “If you’d care to tell me.”
“Well, the answer is I don’t know.”
“Not much of an answer, really.”
Jane said, “The question was more important than the answer.”
“Was it? How so?”
She smoothed out a wrinkle in the dark-crimson skirt of her riding-gown, her brow furrowed, then looked up at him a
gain. “I asked if you wanted to know when I’m coming back. And if the question wasn’t that important to you, then there’s probably no need to say much else.”
“I suppose you’re right. No point in belaboring things, is there?” By God, more dukishness, Anthony thought jubilantly. He was really getting the hang of it at last. If his father were alive, he might actually be proud of him for once.
Jane stood up.
Without another word she went to the door and put her hand on the doorknob.
She stood there for a few moments, and then abruptly she turned around and came to stand in front of his desk. Her face was resolute, a little stern, and also quite daisy-like and beautiful.
Not that he cared, of course.
Idly he picked up a letter-opener and began to fiddle with it.
Just as would a duke who had better things to do, and was merely waiting for a troublesome visitor to leave but of course was too polite to say so.
His dark-blue eyes were dead.
She had seen it the moment she had first looked at him.
And his manner was aloof, cool, haughty.
Just as if he had never smiled at her, never laughed with her, never put his arms around her, never kissed her with unguarded passion and fervor.
As if they were little more than strangers to each other.
Feelings of both hurt and anger had driven her up from her chair, propelled her to the door, but she had managed, with a great effort of will, to push them aside for the moment.
Because she had something else to say.
Because she had looked at Grandfather Titus’ portrait, fancied him declaring, Love or nothing, and she had made a promise to herself.
Come hell or high water, she was going to keep that promise.
She was going to jump.
Now, standing before the Duke’s desk, Jane watched as he toyed with a shiny silver letter-opener. How crowded and cluttered his desk was, she thought irrelevantly, wondering if he was one of those people who didn’t mind it and in fact worked very efficiently that way, or if he would benefit from a bit of help with his organizational skills.
Well, she would probably never find out.
She said, “I care a great deal for you, you know.”
He was silent, his dead eyes on the letter-opener.
“In fact, I think—I know—I’ve fallen in love with you. That’s why I thought you might like to know when I’m coming back.”
Silence.
“I thought you had come to care for me too,” Jane went on. Quietly. Steadily. “But I see now that I was wrong. That it doesn’t matter to you when—or if—I return. Is it because you’re still in love with your wife? I’ve been wondering about that.”
Abruptly the Duke lifted his eyes—in them a flash of what looked like surprise—then lowered them again, to the letter-opener which he turned over and over with his long fingers, broad at the base and tapering toward the ends and flattened out a little, which she had found so very appealing. “Yes,” he said coolly. “Yes, I am. I do apologize if my behavior has led you to believe that an attachment was being formed, or to expect an offer from me. It was very wrong of me, and I shan’t repeat it in future.”
And there they were. The cold hard facts. All neatly assembled at last, and leading nowhere. Jane looked for a while at the Duke, letting everything sink in. It was all over. She had said her piece, he had said his, and there wasn’t much left to say—just one last thing.
No: two.
“I understand you perfectly,” Jane said to him, doing her best to tamp down all the emotions flooding through her. She wanted to get through this with her pride intact. “Thank you for the clarity. By the way, I was looking through an old chapbook of my great-grandfather’s last night. It’s called Four Hundred Practical Aspects of Vinegar As Used to Reduce Corpulence, Purify the Humours, Improve the Complexion, and Attract a Most Desirable Spouse. And I came across a section which says one can cure apple blight by dousing the trees with a highly diluted solution of vinegar and distilled water. One does it every two weeks until the blight is gone. Well—that’s all, I think.”
“Is it? Thank you so much for stopping by, Miss Kent.”
So it was “Miss Kent” now. Of course it was.
Jane turned to leave a second time, then remembered the other thing she wanted to say. “Is that box for me?”
“What box?”
She pointed to a large rectangular pasteboard box sitting on his desk, which matched exactly the one he had given to her when he was driving her home from Hastings and they had kissed for the first time, except that it was approximately four times as large. Just a few days ago, in the ballroom, where they had kissed some more, he had asked if he could give her another box of chocolate conserves, an even bigger one. She had said yes, and how nice it was to have something to look forward to.
She had been looking forward to receiving some more chocolates from him, and now that she thought about it, standing close to the Duke’s desk, she could actually smell the sweet, delicious, unmistakable fragrance wafting up from the pasteboard box.
He said, “What about it?”
“Is it for me?”
“No,” he answered, and Jane was so angry and hurt that she had to bite back the cruel hasty words:
You are the worst duke in the world!
Instead she pressed her lips together, also resisting the urge to snatch up the box and run, cackling maniacally, out of the library and down the hallway, as satisfying as it would have been. There was, after all, something to be said for a dignified exit.
“Goodbye then,” she said. “Your Grace.”
“Goodbye, Miss Kent.”
And so she turned and went to the door, and this time didn’t hesitate, but twisted the knob and left the room.
She didn’t look back.
By Jove, that went well, thought Anthony to himself with satisfaction.
How convenient that Jane had unwittingly provided him with the perfect means by which to wrap things up, all nice and tidy.
Is it because you’re still in love with your wife?
For a moment he had wanted to burst out laughing.
Because he had never loved Selina, nor she him.
But there was no need to tell Jane that.
So he had lied with an ease that really was impressive.
Yes, I am. I do apologize if my behavior has led you to believe that an attachment was being formed, or to expect an offer from me. It was very wrong of me, and I shan’t repeat it in future.
What dukishness!
Well done, old chap, he said to himself. Well done.
Then he reached out a hand and lifted the lid of the big pasteboard box.
Is that box for me?
No.
Another splendid lie.
He picked up a conserve and ate it.
It was absolutely delicious.
He took two more conserves and stuffed them both into his mouth. While he was chewing, he wondered how long Jane was going to be in the house. She had said she was going to the billiards room to talk to Wakefield.
The billiards room, where the three of them had had such a marvelous time.
It seemed like a faded dream to him now.
Tenuous.
Inconsequential.
At any rate, he wasn’t going anywhere till he knew for sure Jane was gone.
So he ate quite a few more conserves, only stopping when his hands got smeared with chocolate and his lips felt greasy and his stomach began to hurt, just a little.
But it didn’t matter.
Because he was extremely safe and exceedingly fine.
Indeed he was; and these were absolutely, positively, his final words on the subject.
Taking a long, deep breath to steady herself, Jane paused on the threshold to the billiards room. The big table in the center was draped all over with an enormous linen tablecloth that puddled on the floor in dark green folds. She went to the table and knocked on the rail.
“May I come in?”
There was a rustling sound, and then Wakefield lifted one edge of the tablecloth and poked his head out. “You’ll have to crawl, Jane, but you won’t mind that, will you?”
“Not a bit of it.”
“Be careful not to tip over the lantern.”
“I’ll be careful.”
“All right. Come on in.”
“Thank you very much.” Jane dropped down onto her knees, bent low, and made her way underneath the billiards table. Once she was completely inside Wakefield let go of the tablecloth, fully enclosing them. The sudden darkness was tempered by the cozy yellow glow of a small glass-topped lantern. Next to the lantern was an old leather canteen and a chipped plate filled with biscuits.
Jane sat with her legs tucked beneath her and her head a bit ducked to avoid the bottom of the table, and Wakefield sat across from her.
“I say, Jane, isn’t this the best hidey-hole you’ve ever seen?”
“It certainly is. Thank you for letting me inside.”
“You’re welcome. I’ve been pretending I’m a spy who’s been captured by the French navy and thrown into the hold and tortured most awfully. But I haven’t given away any of my secrets, and I’m plotting my escape. Biscuit?” He picked up the plate and held it out to her.
“Yes, please.” Jane took one and bit into it. “Thank you. It’s delicious. Are those currants I’m tasting?”
“Yes, but I’ve been pretending they’re weevils. And that the biscuits are moldy hardtack. Cook wanted me to use a nice plate, but Bunch found this old one instead. Isn’t it jolly?”
“Oh yes, it’s perfect. Just the sort of plate the French navy would give to a prisoner. What’s in your canteen?”
“Just water, but I’m pretending it’s old and stale. So that I can suffer bravely, you see.”
She nodded. “How are your escape plans coming along?”
“Well, I was thinking I could pretend to be dead, and when the sailors take off my chains so that they can carry me up to the deck and throw me overboard, I’ll surprise them and grab one of their swords and have the most ripping fight and beat them all.”