His dark brows knitted. “But all my friends are here.”
Jane’s heart ached for him. “Well, perhaps we might come back to visit them.” A rash promise, but she’d do anything to make the change in his circumstances less painful.
She made herself sound cheerful. “In the meantime, there is a very fine horse awaiting your attention. Why don’t you go down to the kitchens for a carrot or an apple to take to him? And if you’re lucky, Cook might spare a jam tart or two for you.”
Luke brightened instantly at the mention of food. “I need my sketchbook, too. I’ll come back later and tell you all about him,” he promised.
“I shall look forward to it.”
Luke shot off in the direction of the kitchens, barely pausing to bow and pant out a greeting to Rosamund, who narrowly missed colliding with him in the doorway.
Rosamund raised her eyebrows at Jane.
“There’s a horse,” said Jane, on a note of explanation.
“Oh!” Rosamund laughed. “How is one poor female to compete with that?”
“I’m so glad to see you.” Jane threw her arms around her cousin and hugged her close. “Thank you for coming. I couldn’t face all this without you.”
She drew back and held Rosamund’s hands in hers. Though the two of them had grown up together, each time they met, Rosamund’s stunning fair beauty struck Jane anew.
“There’s quite a crowd downstairs.” Rosamund’s deep blue eyes held affection and concern. “Cecily and Beckenham are eager to see you, too.”
She lifted a hand and gently tucked one of Jane’s curls behind her ear. “What are you doing up here all alone, Goosey?”
Jane smiled at the childhood nickname. She took a deep breath. “Gathering my courage.”
Her mind flew to that lone horseman. He was downstairs … somewhere, among the throng. The notion made her lungs seize and her pulse quicken. What was the matter with her?
“The duke grows impatient,” said Rosamund. “You’d best come down.”
Jane’s nerves stretched taut as violin strings. Reading the will. Relatives and acquaintances come to gawk and speculate. How she loathed being the center of attention, the focus of every eye.
She needed all her courage today. To face the mourners, yes, but also to deal with the Duke of Montford. His Grace would have plans for her. Plans she’d refuse to countenance this time.
Freedom. The lure of it was like an outstretched hand, beckoning across an abyss. The terror of it was an open-mawed monster, slavering to consume her flesh and spit out her bones.
Rosamund’s voice was firm. “Come on, old thing. I know you hate crushes but you must be there to hear the will read.”
“Yes. I suppose I must.” Besides, she did so want to see her cobbled-together family. The weight of that desire finally tipped the balance.
Jane moved through the connecting doorway of her sitting room to her bedchamber. She picked up her bonnet from the hat stand where it perched and set the horrid black thing on her head. It hunkered over her auburn curls like a malevolent bird of prey.
Over her shoulder, she said, “I know what the will says. And anyway, the estate is entailed. Everything goes to That Lout.”
Rosamund tilted her head. “Do you think he’s as handsome as they say?”
Jane gave an uncaring shrug, but the stranger on the white horse dominated her mind’s eye. “Far more handsome than is good for him, no doubt. I’d be surprised if there’s much substance beneath the surface charm.”
Rosamund slanted a glance at her. “You ought to show some respect, Jane. He’s head of the family now.”
“Not my family.”
Jane checked her reflection in the mirror above her dressing table, tweaked the delicate ruff of her collar into place. Her complexion was still high; no need to pinch her cheeks to warm them.
She drew a deep breath and linked her arm with Rosamund’s. “Very well. Let’s go.”
* * *
“The devil!” Constantine Black stood immobile for the longest time, waiting for that curtain to twitch open. Surely, she’d take pity and reveal herself again.
But women, he’d found, were merciless creatures, so of course she didn’t, and of course he was obliged to stand there, rooted to the spot and getting wetter, waiting just in case.
She was … luminous. Not like the sun. There was nothing brassy or flashy or even particularly warm about her. She made him think of the subtle gleam of silver, of moonlight.
Tall, slender, yet with a generous, pretty bosom. Darkish hair. It was difficult to tell exactly what color at this distance, in this light. And she’d flattened her lips and stared at him as if he were a worm, unfit to kiss the tips of her fingers.
At the thought of kissing any part of that mysterious female’s anatomy, his body heated, in fervent contrast to the cool spring rain.
He was still standing there, poleaxed by the sight of her, when he heard the galloping tattoo of hoofbeats gaining, gaining, finally pulling to a stop with a churn and spray of mud.
He turned his head to see his brother, George. They’d raced here cross-country, but George’s mount had refused at a stone wall, leaving him to find the long way around.
Constantine hailed his sibling. “George, I’m in love.”
“Ha!” His brother leaned forward to pat his horse’s gleaming neck. “You wouldn’t know love if it leaped up and bit you on the arse.”
Constantine tilted his head, considering. “You could be right. Let’s go inside and see if we can find her.”
Laughing, George shook his head. They left their horses to a waiting groom and turned toward the house.
A vast pity they’d missed the funeral. Their attendance at a house party in Northumberland had kept them from hearing news of Frederick’s death in time. Constantine had only received the tidings upon their arrival in Town. He and George had ridden hell-for-leather but the funeral had concluded by the time they’d arrived at the church.
Given the bitterness of his parting from Frederick all those years ago, he would not have come at all today, but for the note. Among the pile of correspondence awaiting him in his London rooms, he’d discovered a summons from Frederick dated a fortnight before. Frederick must have known the end was near and wished to confer with his heir. Had he even, perhaps, sought some kind of reconciliation?
Something twisted in Constantine’s gut. Now, he’d never know.
As they joined the throng that surged through the wide-open front door, Constantine’s face settled into a more serious mien. He reminded himself why he’d come today, when he’d rather be almost anywhere else on the planet.
He’d inherited this dear old pile against all expectations. Frederick, dead far too young, before he’d even set up his nursery.
It had been a shock. Yes, a shock.
Poor Frederick. Whispers had it that he’d died in flagrante, which made Constantine all the more curious to meet his widow.
Shagged to death. Not a bad way to go. If one must.
Standing head and shoulders over most of the crowd, Constantine searched the female faces. Who was the woman he’d seen looking out the window? She must live in the house, but it couldn’t be Lady Roxdale. Surely Frederick’s widow would be down here, greeting the mourners, not staring at them from on high like a princess in a tower.
That’s what had captivated him, he realized. She’d looked so remote up there, so solitary, so deliciously untouchable. It made him want to strip her and cover her bare skin in openmouthed kisses until she trembled with delight.
Ah, but she’d appeared a virtuous lady, now, hadn’t she? The kind who wouldn’t lift her skirts if they were on fire. And virtuous ladies, gently bred ladies with spotless reputations, were strictly off-limits for him these days. Had been since that ill-fated affair with Amanda.
As he handed his hat and gloves to a waiting footman, Constantine grimaced. How many people here today would turn their backs on him, pretend he didn’t exist?
Lord, the man had no sense of self-preservation. Constantine kept moving as if he hadn’t heard.
He recognized the voice. It belonged to that harridan, that harbinger of doom, his aunt Lady Endicott. The displeasure that throbbed in her tone promised him a dressing-down for something or other; he didn’t wait to find out what. He abandoned George to his fate and continued smoothly up the central staircase and out a connecting door.
The door led to a long gallery, where familiar, disapproving faces stared down on him from inside ornate gold frames. Here, the shades of his ancestors roamed.
It was oddly disconcerting to see that nothing had changed. Except for the addition of a new portrait: the late Frederick Black, Lord Roxdale. Looking rather pale and sick, come to think of it, despite the artist’s efforts to romanticize.
Constantine stared down the long, narrow room, and the years slid back. He was here again, playing cricket with Frederick on a day such as this, when the pitch was sodden as a marsh and it seemed the rain would never cease.
Frederick had bowled a sweet one and Constantine forgot where he was, smashing the hard cork ball for six. He still recalled the crack, thump, and roll as it knocked one of the marble busts from its pedestal, chipping their illustrious ancestor’s Roman nose. Constantine smiled faintly, picturing his and Frederick’s desperate attempts to fix the damage so Frederick’s papa wouldn’t see it and thrash them both.
The memory of his final interview with Frederick’s sire was a painful one. Constantine pushed it away, avoided meeting the kind eyes of the tenth baron’s portrait.
He turned back to the likeness of Frederick, his cousin, his friend. Fishing out his brandy flask, he raised it in a toast.
“God bless, old fellow.” He drank, and the brandy warmed his throat as it slipped down. “I’ll prove you wrong about me. Just see if I don’t.”
And yet, even as he made that fine resolution, the lady in the window flashed into his mind. He hissed through his teeth, then took another pull of brandy.
Ah, well. He rarely acted on his good intentions when all was said and done.
CHAPTER TWO
As they entered the old music room, Jane glanced at Rosamund. Contrary to her cousin’s assurances, the chamber’s sole occupant was the Duke of Montford. Where were the others?
The duke rose from the writing desk by the window and crossed the room to greet them.
“Lady Roxdale.” The duke made his bow, while Jane sank into a deep curtsy.
Though he’d stood her guardian from the time she was eight until her marriage, Montford always addressed Jane in this formal manner. Was it to distance himself from her? Or perhaps he wished to savor his victory, roll her title on his tongue like fine wine. After all, the duke’s strategizing had brought the status and power of Roxdale within his domain.
But with Frederick’s sudden death, those riches had slipped through Montford’s fingers. The lands, the pedigree, the political influence—everything would pass to Constantine Black, a male heir who was not his kinswoman’s child.
Did Montford feel this as keenly as she suspected? One could never tell what he thought by looking at him.
The duke could have been aged anywhere between forty and fifty. He dressed as austerely as a cleric, but the patrician cast to his countenance and the authority in his demeanor proclaimed his rank more clearly than any external trappings. His dark, hooded eyes glittered with intelligence.
“Allow me to express my condolences, my dear,” said the duke. “Roxdale’s passing has been a shock to us all. He was a good man.” He paused. “How do you go on?”
“Well enough, I thank you, Your Grace,” returned Jane. He wasn’t the slightest bit concerned with either her health or the upheaval inside her. He no more took heed of her thoughts and emotions than a chess master considered the finer feelings of his pawn.
She couldn’t resist adding, “Frederick’s passing was not such a shock, after all. He had a weak heart. It could have happened at any time.”
Montford tilted his head. “Yes, of course. One still finds oneself unprepared for the end, however. You are bearing up well.”
The duke studied her keenly. When she was a child, she’d believed wholeheartedly in his ability to read her mind. In adulthood, she’d realized his talent was nothing so magical. He excelled at reading people’s faces, their small, telltale gestures, the meaning behind their words, the things they deliberately left unsaid. She took care to keep her own expression neutral and confine her comments to the minimum. Let him deduce from that what he willed.
“What do you plan to do now, Lady Roxdale?” said Montford. Quite as if he’d give her a choice in the matter.
“I shall stay here as long as I’m needed to ensure the household changes hands smoothly. Then I will return to Harcourt. If that is acceptable to you,” she added.
The duke nodded, but he wouldn’t let the matter pass so easily. “We must speak of the future. But let us first be done with the will.”
Montford slid his long fingers into his waistcoat pocket and pulled out a fine gold timepiece. He flicked it open with a frown of annoyance. “Frederick’s man of business should be here by now.”
“No doubt he’s caught in the melee outside,” Rosamund interposed. “Several members of Frederick’s family have yet to arrive.”
“Most notably his heir,” commented Jane dryly.
She blinked. Now, there was a thought. Perhaps the gentleman on the big white horse had not been Constantine Black, after all?
A rush of relief made her almost light-headed. Ah, yes, what a fool she’d been to make such an unwarranted assumption! He could have been anyone, couldn’t he, that bold, flamboyant rider? Sometimes, her imagination was so vivid it grew legs and ran away with her.
Voices, footsteps, echoed in the corridor outside. “Jane! You are here.”
Cecily burst into the room and launched herself at Jane in an exuberant embrace that nearly squeezed the breath out of her. “I told Becks you would come down, but he said no, on account of your probably being distraught and not wanting us, and I said what rot, for you didn’t care the snap of your fingers for Fre— Oh, confound it, there’s Montford and he’ll be monstrous cross with me.”
With the aplomb of the utterly shameless, Cecily disengaged herself from Jane and sank into an accomplished curtsy.
“Your Grace.” She smiled sunnily up at the duke as she rose.
Not for the first time, Jane marveled that Cecily could get away with such outré behavior. The duke stared down his nose at her, but Cecily merely waggled her brows back at him, her dark eyes brimming with wit and fun.
“Cecily.” The warning came from Beckenham, who’d followed her into the room. “I’d be obliged if you would refrain from uttering exactly what is in your head at any given moment.”
“Oh, but I don’t! You’d be thoroughly shocked if I actually spoke my mind, Becks, I assure you.”
Beckenham ground his teeth. To the duke, he said, “That chit will have to learn some conduct if she’s to come out next year.”
Montford smiled thinly. “I’ve no intention of inflicting Lady Cecily on an unsuspecting populace without adequate preparation. Rosamund will see to it, won’t you, my dear?”
“Yes, indeed, Your Grace.” Rosamund’s tone was sober, but her eyes twinkled merrily.
“I admire your fortitude,” said Beckenham. He scrutinized Cecily from the top of her dark curls to the toes of her slippers. “She’ll require intensive training.”
Cecily sniffed. “You make me sound like a horse.”
“Not at all. I have the utmost respect for horses.”
Beckenham turned his head, his stern visage softening. “Jane.”
He moved toward her, holding out his hands to clasp hers. She returned the pressure with a quick, affectionate squeeze. Becks always reminded her of a big black b
ear—so large and warm, but fierce when his fighting instinct was roused.
“Frederick was a good man,” he said, unconsciously echoing Montford’s less genuine sentiments. “He’ll be missed.”
She nodded, disengaging herself from his clasp. “Thank you. Yes. He will be missed.”
Not I’ll miss him. No, she would not admit to that.
“Shall we sit?” Rosamund dispelled the moment of awkward tension. Gracefully, she shepherded Jane to a couch and took her own seat beside her.
Dear Rosamund. She showed her support and affection without prying or exclaiming over Frederick’s youth or the suddenness of his demise. Jane appreciated that as much as she admired the tranquil, unassuming air that lent gravity to Rosamund’s stunning fair beauty. Rosamund made life so much easier for everyone around her. Unlike Jane, who discomfited them with her unexpected directness and her prickles.
Frederick’s solicitor hurried in with profuse apologies and a reference to the crush of carriages outside. The duke moved to greet him and conduct him to the desk, where the two men carried on a murmured conversation. The solicitor fluttered pages, gathered them, set them out on the desk in neat stacks.
Beckenham chose a spindle-legged chair beside Rosamund and Jane. He leaned forward, murmuring, “I take it neither Xavier nor Andrew have deigned to show themselves.”
Cecily snorted, plumping herself down between Jane and Rosamund. “Of course not. We haven’t seen Andrew since he returned from Egypt. Xavier…” She shrugged. “Who knows? I, for one, don’t give a fig.”
“Cecily.” Rosamund said it quietly, but her gentle admonishment succeeded where Beckenham’s growl had not. Cecily subsided, but the mulish set of her pretty lips proclaimed her annoyance with the one member of their family who had always stood apart.
They all fell silent, contemplating the absentees. Jane forgave Andrew; one always did. No matter how much he provoked her, her anger typically crumbled before his charming contrition, his singular ability to find the ironic humor in any situation. Xavier, on the other hand … No, she wouldn’t want him here.
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