He touched her shoulder ever so gently.
“I am the last woman in the world you want to marry,” she whispered. It was not quite a question.
He shut his eyes. “Yes. You’re the last woman in the world I should want to marry. So why are you the only one I’ve been able to think of for months?”
Her eyes flashed.
“Jane.” He reached for her. “I’m sorry. I never wanted to—”
“Stop apologizing for speaking the truth,” she snapped out. “It is what it is, and there’s no use my crying over it.”
“But I—”
“I told you, I’ve had a long time to think it over. And you’re right. Marriage between us would be a disaster. I know what I can do and what I can’t. I can pretend to be a great many things, but even if I could act the proper hostess, the sort you’d need, I wouldn’t want to do it. I’m done taking on the role of pretender.”
It made so much sense when she spoke it aloud. It was only the other half of his own objections. If this was rationality, some part of him recognized it and agreed with it. The other part…
Well, she was near and she was naked. That curtailed most of his thoughts beyond the obvious.
“I have been thinking,” Jane said to him. “In fact, I have been thinking for months now. Of what I would do when this was all over. Once Emily was safe and no longer dependent on my uncle.”
He turned to her.
“It’s unlikely I will ever marry. Not that I couldn’t find a husband, but I don’t need one, and I don’t want the ones I can get.” Her lips pressed together. “Any man who was honorable enough for me to fall in love with… Well, I think my birth and reputation will put him off. Even if he could look past it for himself, I would be nothing but a liability to him.”
There was a hard note to her voice, something barren and desolate.
“Jane. That’s not true.”
“If I could find a man exactly like you, but without ambition…” She laughed. “A sun that was warm but not bright, a fish that lived in air.”
He recognized the sentiment precisely, recognized it like the cruel edge of a knife blade that it was. “You want someone exactly like me, but completely opposite.” How appropriate. How utterly appropriate.
This wasn’t the way he was supposed to fall in love. He was supposed to meet someone, to discover that her wants and wishes coincided with his, that their dreams overlapped. He didn’t want to meet a woman, to discover that the breath he drew seemed to come from her lungs, and then to realize that they couldn’t both breathe at the same time.
“So that is that.” She smiled sadly. “An impossible girl. I decided long ago that you and I should have been lovers, when we had the chance. Last night confirmed my belief.”
He didn’t answer. Oh, his body did; he’d gone from interested to ready at her words.
“We’re here,” she said. “We’re together until we find Emily. Why not make the most of it?”
Because he didn’t want to agree with her. He couldn’t say yes, Jane, you’re right—we should be lovers. It would remove what had happened last night from a land of fairy-tale pretense, one where he could imagine that the obstacles between them could be swept away without so much as a second glance. It would make what happened next real and therefore impermanent. This would be an affair. Nothing but an affair.
Her voice dropped. “I’m glad I started with you.”
She leaned toward him.
He set his hand on her lips, blocking her kiss. “Jane.” Started implied that Oliver was a beginning, that there would be another after him, and another after that. That Jane would be kissed by men who were not Oliver. If he acquiesced in this, he’d be admitting to the end when they had barely even started.
But the alternative… The alternative was just as impossible.
“Jane,” he said helplessly.
“Oliver.”
He surrendered and found her mouth.
If last night was a mistake, this was a deadly error. He could taste the end on her lips—a hint of bitter, and beneath that, the ravenous heat of her mouth, the sweetness of Jane.
“God, Jane,” he whispered. “I almost lost you.”
Her hands came up to touch his wrists, a tentative flutter at first. “I almost lost me, too.”
And she kissed him back.
There were some things a man could not say in response to a confession like the one he’d heard.
I love you, but…
I want you, but…
He had nothing to give her except conditions and disavowals. Even the kiss he gave her was too aware—too much of his lips on hers, caressing her, kissing her, but…
There was always a but.
So Oliver didn’t speak. And when Jane touched him, there was no hesitation in his response. She came on top of him, her breasts brushing his chest, her hair tickling his shoulders. He could do this forever, lose himself in moments like this.
He kissed her mouth and welcomed the weight of her against him.
“Oliver.” Her hips flexed.
He could lose himself in her. More frightening, he could find himself in her. He was doing it right now, discovering how much it meant to hold her and touch her and show her how much he cared.
“Possible girl,” he whispered. “Too possible.”
She smiled at him.
They were entangled. It was already too late to avoid getting hurt. There was nothing to do now but hold out until the end. And so he let it happen. He kissed her neck, her breasts. He held onto his own arousal, letting it peak, stroking her until she was as ready as he was. Until she was wet and desperate, until he could bear it no longer. Then he guided her down onto his shaft. She was good, so good around him.
He’d needed just this all these months. He held her hands as she discovered the pace she needed, the pressure she wanted. And when she was close, he touched her just where it mattered and brought her to pieces. When she was still shuddering, he turned her over and drove into her until all his thoughts shattered and fled. Until there was nothing but the two of them.
Until, at least for that one final moment, there was no but after the silent I love you that he gave her.
Oliver stood behind the house where Jane’s uncle liveed. The morning had been taken up with their journey to Cambridge by rail; it was mid-afternoon by the time they’d arrived. In the early summer heat, the residents had retreated inside to the cool. By his count, Dorling would just be meeting his cart driver. In a few hours, all would be over, but for now…
Oliver had taken off his shoes and his coat. A bit of ivy climbed the walls—a few pale, unhealthy strands, nothing he’d care to trust his weight to.
The past few days were beginning to catch up with him. It felt almost as if he had been woken briefly in the middle of the night and was being sucked back into the dream. Yes, he cared for Jane. More than he wanted to think.
And he’d volunteered to climb into her sister’s room in the middle of broad daylight.
“Why am I the one doing this again?” he asked.
“Because,” Jane whispered next to him, “I’m wearing skirts.”
He was going to get shot. Or captured. Or…
Or maybe he wasn’t. He hadn’t felt like this in…oh, years. His pulse beat with excitement. The house was silent.
“Don’t worry,” Jane said. “The kitchen garden hardly produces because my uncle doesn’t like setting snares for rabbits. If he discovers you, the worst he’d probably do is demand an explanation. A lengthy one.”
“And I’ll say, ‘don’t mind me, I’m just here to steal your niece. There’s nothing to worry about; I’ve made away with one of them already, so two will hardly slow me down.”
“Precisely.” She smiled at him, and suddenly, the climb to her sister’s window didn’t seem quite so long, nor the possibility of discovery so painful. He clambered up onto the window ledge on the ground floor, used it as a stepping stone, and then swung up to the top of
the window frame.
The drainpipe buckled; he readjusted his weight, shifting onto the slick stones. He made his way up the wall carefully, until he could hook his hands over the window ledge that Jane had promised belonged to her sister.
He tapped quietly on the window and waited.
Nothing. He didn’t even hear anyone stirring in the room.
“Emily?” He didn’t dare speak much above a whisper, but his breath scarcely fogged the window. He tapped again, this time more firmly. “Miss Emily.”
“She’s not a heavy sleeper,” Jane whispered loudly, just below him. “And she never sleeps during her afternoon naps.”
“Well, I don’t see anyone inside.” He rapped his knuckles against the windowpane. “Emily,” he tried a little louder.
Nothing.
Nobody. He could see the bed from here, and while the shadows somewhat obscured his view, it didn’t even look as if there were a telltale lump.
“Jane,” he said softly, “when was your uncle going to have your sister taken away?”
He could hear her breath suck in. “Not so soon,” she said slowly as if trying to convince herself. “Surely not so soon. He would want to make certain I was out of the way before he moved. I’m…I’m almost positive of it.” But her voice wavered on the almost, and he suspected she wasn’t as sure as she felt.
He would have guessed it would take longer. But then, he’d been wrong before.
“Might she have gone out for the afternoon?” he asked.
“No, of course not. Titus never lets her, and if she had slipped out herself, she would have left the window ajar.” Oliver tried the edge of the window; it was closed all the way, but it hadn’t been fastened on the inside. It was difficult work, getting the leverage he needed to hoist it up a few inches; the window squeaked in the casement. But he finally managed to raise it.
“She really isn’t in here,” he reported. He’d already completed the breaking portion of breaking and entering. No point stopping now. He climbed through the window.
“Look in the clothespress,” Jane called from the ground. “See if her valise is there.”
He crossed the floor, treading as softly as he could in hopes that the floor would not squeak. It didn’t, but the clothespress door made a soft noise of protest when he opened it.
There were a few items of clothing inside, scattered about in a mess, but no valise. Oliver returned to the window. “Is your sister generally a tidy person?”
“Yes.”
“Because someone has tossed her things around. Much of it, I gather, is gone. There is no valise, and what clothing remains is strewn about. It looks like someone packed in a hurry.”
“Oh, God.” On the ground, he could hear the fear in Jane’s voice. “On the desk—look on her desk. Is there a small green cactus?”
“No.”
“She’s really gone. Oliver. What are we going to do?”
He’d never met her sister, but he’d have panicked if any of his sisters had been in similar straits.
“In an hour or so,” Jane was saying, “Dorling will arrive back in Nottingham. It’s only a matter of time until Titus gets a telegram. He’ll know that I’ve disappeared.”
Oliver shook his head. “I am going to climb down. And then we are going to talk. Rationally. For one, if he’s already removed your sister, it doesn’t matter what he knows of you. The strategy changes.”
“Right.” She nodded. “Right.”
He started making his way down.
He could see her pacing on the ground out of the corner of his vision.
“This morning… What was I thinking?”
“Wouldn’t have made any difference,” he said, shifting so that he could brace himself against the side of the house.
“But if we had—”
“We couldn’t have made the trains run any faster, and we were on the first one out. Don’t blame yourself whatever has happened.” Coming down was trickier; he couldn’t see his footholds, and it made for slower going. But when he was within a few feet of the ground, he pushed off the wall, jumping the last little bit.
He landed and turned to Jane. It was wrong, what was going through his head. He should have been in full sympathy with her, for whatever it was that had happened to her sister.
But he didn’t feel sorry. He was selfish, so damned selfish. He didn’t care about her sister at all.
All he could think was that she’d said this would last until they found Emily. It’s not over. It’s not over yet. He’d have more of Jane.
“But if I—”
He took her hand. It’s not over yet. It’s not over yet. He shouldn’t be smiling. And yet he couldn’t keep a hint of triumph from his voice.
“Maybe the worst has happened,” he said, “and maybe she’s been put away. But what has been done can be undone. All we need to do is find out where he’s sent your sister, and from there…”
“Titus will never tell me,” Jane said. “And even if he did, how would we proceed?”
“There are ways of finding out,” Oliver said. “But in this case, I think the direct route might work best. We’ll just have someone ask him. Someone who could get the whole story on the matter.”
Jane frowned up at him. “But there is no such person.”
It isn’t over. It isn’t over.
Oliver smiled. “Actually, there is.”
“…So you see,” Oliver told Sebastian, “what we really need is to find Titus Fairfield, to trap him into a situation where he feels he cannot just walk away. Ask him where Jane’s sister is being held. And…”
Sebastian was examining his nails as Oliver spoke, but he had a small smile on his face. He didn’t look well. He hadn’t shaved yet, although it was three in the afternoon, and there was a bloodshot quality to his eyes.
But if he had been up late the night before, it didn’t show on anything other than his features.
“And trick him into telling you where she’s being kept?” Sebastian shrugged. “I can do it. I’m giving a lecture this evening. I’ll invite him, and then we’ll see.”
“Thank you,” Jane told him. They were the first words she’d spoken since the initial greeting, but she said them fervently. “Thank you so much, Mr. Malheur.”
But he simply shook his head at her. “No, Miss Fairfield,” he said. “Don’t thank me yet. Hasn’t Oliver told you that my help always comes at a cost?”
She shook her head. “Whatever it is, I’ll pay—”
“Not that kind of cost. When you ask me for help, you get help.” His smile widened. “You get help my way.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
The lecture seemed interminably long. Perhaps it was because Oliver knew what the stakes were. He’d caught a glimpse of Titus Fairfield in the back rows of the hall.
Perhaps it was because at the moment, Oliver could not dredge up the least interest in what Sebastian was saying about peas and snapdragons and the color of cats.
Perhaps it was because Jane wasn’t here, but she was close. In a room nearby. So close that the yards between them seemed to whisper of all the things they hadn’t done, the kisses they hadn’t exchanged, the months they hadn’t spent in bed.
No. Not the time to think of that. He peered at Sebastian and tried to pretend interest. Sebastian had always been in his element talking to a crowd. He gestured as he talked. But today, it seemed different. His gestures were too wide, almost wild. As if he’d lost his balance and was trying to regain it.
Next to Oliver, Violet Waterfield, the Countess of Cambury, leaned forward, and Oliver glanced at her.
He’d never known Violet the way Robert and Sebastian had. She’d been Sebastian’s neighbor, and Oliver had never been invited to Sebastian’s home during the summer. He’d heard of her, but he hadn’t met her until he was almost nineteen. By that time, she’d been a countess already, cool and intimidating.
She didn’t look intimidating tonight. Her usual calm demeanor had evaporated. S
he was watching Sebastian with rapt attention, her eyes opened wide, her lips spread in a welcoming smile. Oliver had never seen her look at anyone that way. Watching her was almost intimate—as if he were discovering a secret she had. As if she were in love, and in the moment, unable to hide it.
That was an unsettling thought. Sebastian had always insisted that he and Violet were friends and only friends—nothing more. Sebastian looked at anyone and everyone in the audience, making eye contact with even the men seated in the back who glowered at him with folded arms. He looked at everyone except Violet, and that was when Oliver began to realize that something was deeply wrong.
That sense lasted through the lecture. During the questions, Violet sat on the edge of her seat, leaning forward, her whole body focused on Sebastian, nodding to herself at his answers, as if he held the key to the universe. It lasted through the moment when Sebastian gave a final bow, and Oliver made his way up to him to put the second part of their plan into action.
“Good sense, Malheur,” a man was saying, clapping Sebastian across the shoulder. “Always learn something new from you.”
“Thank you,” Sebastian said. “That means so much to me.” His voice was warm, and he looked in the right places, but there was something mechanical about his delivery, as if he were scarcely paying attention.
Another audience member grabbed his sleeve. “Malheur, you slime.” This man’s eyes narrowed; he made a fist at his side, as if he were contemplating punching Sebastian in the face. “You are going to hell for all you’ve done, and I hope you’ll burn for eternity.”
“Thank you,” Sebastian said warmly, making eye contact with him. “That means so much to me.” He gave the fellow a pat on the shoulder—a friendly little pat, as if they’d just exchanged pleasantries—and moved on.
“I hope someone slits your puny little throat,” a gruff, whiskered fellow muttered at Sebastian.
“Thank you very much,” Sebastian replied. “That means so much to me.”
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