Twice, Utley was to blame.
Devil take it.
Chapter Fifteen
Meg fastened the buttons on Jane’s lilac muslin much more quickly than she ever had before. “A quick brush of your hair, and then you’ll be out the door and back to your ball, miss.”
Sadly, Jane had no desire whatsoever to return to her own come-out ball.
As soon as she did, Peter would likely announce their engagement—an engagement she had never agreed to, and wouldn’t ever agree to even if she felt it was necessary.
But honestly, why on earth should such a thing be required, when all she wanted to do was open her shop and make gowns for the ladies of society? Surely it wouldn’t matter in the grand scheme of life if she’d been compromised. Nothing truly scandalous had happened. Not really.
And even if it had happened, her dressmaking skills should hold far more moment than her reputation, if all she was doing was sewing gowns, for goodness’s sake.
In all honesty, a hint of scandal might draw more curiosity about her and cause some ladies to visit her shop that otherwise might not.
Let the gossips gossip. Jane couldn’t care less.
But obviously, for some ghastly reason she had yet to decipher, Peter did care.
Drat.
Why had he suddenly decided to play the part of the gallant hero? To ride in on a white charger and rescue the poor, unprotected damsel in distress? To turn against everything she had come to know of him and to think of him?
Life would certainly be much less complicated if people would simply behave as they ought, or at least maintain a sense of consistency within their actions. How was she supposed to know how to respond to his ever-changing moods?
Bloody infuriating man.
“All finished now, miss,” Meg said, returning the silver-plated brush to the vanity before Jane. “Hurry along. You mustn’t keep Her Grace waiting.”
This was one moment that Jane wished her assigned lady’s maid were not so efficient. “Thank you, Meg.” She stood and started for the door before coming up with a possible excuse to delay. “I don’t suppose there is anything you need assistance with this evening, is there?”
Meg’s fierce frown served as her answer.
“I suppose not.” Jane sighed and reached for the door knob.
“Miss?”
A reprieve. Thank God. She said a silent prayer that it would keep her for a few hours and that the guests would tire of awaiting her return, even whilst recognizing the foolishness of such a prayer. “Yes, Meg?”
“I hope...I hope you’ll consider keeping me on as your lady’s maid once you are His Grace’s duchess, ma’am.” Meg flushed. “It has been a pleasure to serve you, and I know that it will all be quite an adjustment for you.”
“Oh...” Goodness, she had no earthly idea how to respond.
“I should very much like to assist you in any way you need.”
“I see. Thank you.”
Double drat. Would Meg have to give up a coveted position in the house if Jane left? But she couldn’t worry about that. She had to think of what was best for herself.
“Thank you, miss. Now be on your way, before Her Grace sends a search party up for you.”
Leave it to Cousin Henrietta to do just such a thing. The woman was certainly determined once she decided something needed to happen. All signs pointed to her siding with Peter on this particular matter. Especially since she was so determined to see each of her offspring marry.
Jane opened the door and strode into the hall, almost running headlong into Peter only two steps outside her chamber. She let out a tiny squeak of surprise.
All right, fine. She virtually screamed, if truth be told.
He took hold of her upper arms to steady her, which kept her from toppling into him and kept both of them from falling to the floor in a massive heap of flailing limbs. Even after she regained her equilibrium, he maintained his grip on her.
Someone had come along and relit the various candles in the hall, casting a seductive glow in his eyes. For the first time, she recognized that they were two different colors—one an intense green and the other a deep, passionate blue. They bored through her. She wished she knew what his expression meant—the fierce eyes, clenched jaw, the pulsing vein in his temple.
Peter’s hands were as taut and tense against her arms as he had seemed only moments earlier, when he’d discovered her in Utley’s clutches. He’d looked like a lion, preparing to attack then. Stalking. Prowling. Dangerous.
“Are you all right?” His voice melted into the recesses of the hall, barely more than a whisper. It felt like a trembling caress sliding over her ears.
She nodded, unable to find her voice for once. His question held more moment than simply asking after her stability. That much was clear. But there was no time now—no time to sort it all out. Tomorrow she would have to make him understand she wouldn’t marry him.
His reputation would survive intact if she called off the so-called engagement after it had been announced—she held no compunctions about that. Only she would face the scorn of the ton.
From everything she had seen of the beau monde during her time in London, their derision would be fleeting, at most. In weeks, or even days, they would move on to the next on dit and Jane Matthews would be merely a passing memory.
Gradually, Peter released his hold on her and let his arms drop to his sides. “We should return to the ballroom. Our guests are expecting us.”
“Our guests,” she whispered beneath her breath. Drat, drat, drat. He was already speaking of them as though they were a unit, two halves of a whole. Perhaps she shouldn’t wait until morning to disabuse him of this ill-advised notion.
“Yes. Our guests.”
How could his voice be so calm? How could he not be as mortified about their current situation as she? He’d made it abundantly clear in all of their previous interactions that he found her to be as capable of fulfilling the role of his duchess as she was likely to spend the night rolling around in his stables. Peter could not possibly want this marriage.
And hadn’t he told her only a few nights ago that he’d never wanted to marry his first wife either? That it had been far from a love match, but a marriage forced by Utley?
He would resent her forever if she allowed the farcical marriage to occur.
She had to stop him.
Before she could say another word, he took hold of her hand and placed it in the crook of his arm, holding it there with a touch more force than truly necessary, and pulled until she had no choice but to follow along behind him.
“Smile. Don’t let them see...try not to show them how upset you are, Jane.” His voice cracked slightly as he spoke, but he continued forward, guiding her down the stairs. Voices and laughter intermingled with the clinks of silver on china as they drew nearer to the formal dining room.
He stopped and faced her just as they arrived before the open French doors leading to the supper guests. “I know you don’t want this. But I promise to protect you. I promise I will take care of you.” Peter fixed her with a stare. “You’ll never want for anything, Jane.”
What nerve. Never want for anything, indeed. What of love, she yearned to fire back at him—but was too busy to speak, as she was forcing the tears stinging her eyes to subside.
Being short of words had never been an affliction Jane suffered before. The things this man did to her!
He resumed his position at her side and advanced again. As they entered the great hall, filled with more chandeliers, and wall sconces, and flowers in pots and vases even than it was with people, Jane prayed her face held a smile and not the greenish, sickly pallor her stomach suggested was more likely. All eyes followed them as they approached Cousin Henrietta’s table near the dais. With each step they took, the gentle hush grew more pronounced until the silence was deafening.
They were all watching her—waiting for her to react, to trip and fall, to make some sort of social blunder. Little did th
ey know, she was priming to make the biggest social blunder of all. They would have their laugh at her expense. Perhaps not tonight. But it would come.
When they arrived at Cousin Henrietta’s table, Peter pulled her to a stop and his mother stood. The stillness of the hall threatened to rob Jane of her courage. She looked out upon the sea of faces, and they all blurred together into a riot of color.
Peter spoke. She knew he must have. But she didn’t hear a word. Instead, she focused on keeping her knees from buckling beneath her, on pretending to be happy.
After long moments, the room erupted into applause. The crowd of faces rose, smiling at her. Sophie and Charlotte rushed over to embrace her. It was all she could do to stay on her feet during the ordeal. They must have said something to her—she didn’t know.
She only knew she couldn’t go through with this marriage.
The applause died down and the revelers returned to their supper. Another tug on her arm brought her to a seat at the table next to Peter. She sat with a blank stare at the plate before her. What was she to do now? Sitting was good. She didn’t feel nearly so faint with a chair beneath her, where before, Peter’s arm had been her only support. Perhaps she would not thoroughly embarrass herself tonight.
Perhaps she would survive the remainder of the ball and last until morning.
But then she would have to put an end to his ridiculous notions, once and for all.
Peter leaned toward her and spoke into her ear, softly, so no one else could hear. “Eat. You will be ill if you don’t.”
She might be ill if she did. Jane scowled back at him but took up her fork and made an effort to comply. Collapsing into a faint would certainly not be the best plan. After a few bites of roasted pheasant, however, her stomach responded with a ravenous growl; she ate with more vigor after that.
From across the table, Sophie caught her eye. Oh, how she wanted to sit and talk with her friend. That would not be possible for several more hours, at the least. Sophie already planned to come to her chamber tonight, though, to discuss the afternoon’s visit with Jane’s solicitor. Then they could work out a plan together.
Lord knew Jane’s mind was not functioning properly at the moment. She desperately hoped Sophie’s was. Someone had to be able to think for her.
Well, someone other than Peter, at least.
~ * ~
“Go upstairs. Get some rest,” he said to Jane after the last of their guests had finally left Hardwicke House. “We have a long day ahead of us tomorrow.”
She looked up at him with pinched-together eyebrows and pained eyes. Christ, the night’s events had taken a lot out of her. Granted, she had taken it all relatively well, all things considered. But she was unhappy—probably devastated. Life had never prepared her for any of the things she was about to experience.
A vicar’s daughter! How would she ever cope with becoming a duchess overnight? Simply being out in society was sometimes more than he felt she could handle with a modicum of decorum, given her escapades of late, but to be a duchess?
Not to mention becoming a mother.
And his wife.
He said a silent prayer of thanks that he had his mother and sisters with him, still. They could help her. They could teach her what she needed to learn. At least as far as her new role was concerned.
Mama would guide Jane through this.
And Peter would follow through with the promises he’d made to her earlier.
He may not be a man she loved, or even could love. But he’d damned well be certain she had everything she needed and wanted. She would be happy if it killed him. She would be honored. He would preserve her reputation.
This marriage would not be as cold and lonely as his first, by God.
Jane still hadn’t moved; she stood staring up at him, with much the same expression she had worn since they returned to the ball. The poor thing was surely in shock. Her entire life had changed in a moment.
Mama and Sophie returned to the hall, still aglow from the jubilation of the soiree. He caught Sophie’s gaze and gestured toward his betrothed.
A single nod followed. “Come along, Jane. Up to your chamber we go.” Sophie took Jane’s hand and led her away, leaving him alone with his mother.
They watched in silence as the two climbed the stairs.
After they had gone, Mama leveled her discerning gaze upon him. “You didn’t want this.”
A statement—not a question.
“No.”
She studied him for a moment, then reached up and pulled his hand from where it was absentmindedly stroking his chin. “Was it...?”
The question floated in the air, hovering over the scent of newly extinguished flames and wilting flowers before falling between them.
“Utley, again.” His own voice sounded strange to his ears—strangled, almost.
Her jaw dropped. “Again? Mary?”
Peter nodded gravely. “Mama, if I hadn’t followed her. If I hadn’t caught him when I did—“
“Hush.” She drew him over to a nearby chaise and pulled him down beside her. “You did. You got to her in time. She’s safe, and you’ll marry her.”
“I will.” Whatever it took to keep her safe, he would do.
Mama squeezed his hand. “You’re a good man, Peter. You make me very proud.”
So why did he feel the need to punch his fist through something hard? His hand shook, even as Mama held it.
“Promise me one thing,” she said, looking down at her small hand in his much larger hand.
“If I can.”
“You can. Promise me you’ll try to love her. Promise me you’ll make more of an effort than you did with Mary.”
“Mama...”
“You can. All you have to do is try.”
She made it sound so bloody easy. He had tried before, with Mary, and had failed. But Jane? Lust he could accomplish.
Love was an entirely different beast.
“I know she deserves to be loved—”
“This isn’t about her, Peter. This is about you. Try to love her, because you’ll be a much happier man if you do. I told you that you are a good man, but you are far from happy. I want you to be happy.”
“And you believe Jane can make me happy?”
Several beats passed without response. “No,” she said, her voice weighty. “No one can make you happy but yourself. But if you’re willing to try, she can make you love.” Mama stood and kissed him on the forehead. “Good night. Will you be off to Doctor’s Commons in the morning?”
“Yes. I’ll take Sinclaire with me.” He hoped the Bishop of Canterbury wouldn’t delay with granting the special license. The sooner he could marry Jane, the better chance he had of avoiding scandal. Lady Plumridge could only be held off for so long.
Mama nodded and climbed the stairs, leaving him to his own ruminations.
He doubted he’d sleep that night. There was far too much to be done. First and foremost, he needed to talk to Forrester and arrange for him to travel to Carreg Mawr. It was high time he took matters there in hand.
There was no time to waste. Utley could already be on his way there after his quick eviction from Hardwicke House. No reason to allow him to reach his brother there first.
Peter sighed before turning to his library, calling out for Spenser and Forrester on the way. Haste was in order. And he needed a drink.
~ * ~
“I can’t marry him.”
Jane sat across from Sophie on the foot of her bed, both exhausted. They were clad in their nightrails and wrappers after the ordeal of her come-out ball.
Sophie impaled her with deep blue eyes and frowned. “Why not?”
“You’re supposed to be on my side, Sophie! You’re supposed to help me figure a way out of this mess, not ask me why I can’t marry him. I can’t marry him because...because I can’t.”
“And you should answer my questions and not skirt the subject.”
Jane fiddled with the brush in her hands, looking at i
t to avoid her friend’s imploring gaze.
“Answer me. I won’t sit here waiting all night, you know. I need my rest if you’re getting married tomorrow. Otherwise my skin will look a fright.”
“I’m not getting married tomorrow,” Jane said.
“Well, you oughtn’t to have agreed to it in the first place, then.” Sophie reached across and took the brush from her hands, using it on Jane’s riotous curls. “Now the whole ton is expecting a wedding between you and Peter. You simply can’t break off the engagement.”
“I didn’t agree to it. And I can, too.”
“You also didn’t deny it in front of everyone at your ball when Mama and Peter announced it.” Sophie’s brush strokes were less forgiving than Meg’s. “There were a good two hundred people here tonight. Maybe more.”
“You aren’t helping anything.” Jane winced when her friend pulled through a particularly bad knot in her hair without pausing to ease the discomfort. “What am I going to do now? You know as well as I do that your brother doesn’t want to be married to me any more than I want to be married to him.”
Sophie kept brushing, perhaps even more forcefully than before. “I know no such thing. In fact, I think you’re only trying to convince yourself of that.”
“Now that’s a piece of rubbish, for certain.”
“What’s certain,” said Sophie, “is you’re behaving like an utter dolt. It would be not only lamentable, but also ludicrous, for you to reject Peter now.” She walked to the vanity and lay the brush down, then turned back to Jane with something of a pleading look in her eyes. “He’s a good man, you know. He’ll care for you well.”
“I don’t doubt that, but—“
“But what?” She threw up her hands and spun around to face Jane. “Is this about your shop? Because you can’t possibly attempt to lie to me again and tell me you don’t love my brother. It’s as clear as the dawn to me how you feel. You’re only fooling yourself if you deny it.”
“Of course I love him!” Drat. Jane’s eyes widened to the point she thought they might fall out.
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