Lady Goodridge was alone, her mouth a little pinched and her expression more severe than usual.
Where was Fitz?
“Come close,” she said bracingly. “Don’t hover, Miss Higgenbothem, you’ll not get dry that way.”
“I don’t want to drip on your rug,” Jane protested.
She already was. Blackburn had positioned her in the warmest place, with her back to the alcove.
“Nonsense. It’s only broadloom.”
Jane stared at Lady Goodridge as if she were speaking a foreign language. “A guest is a poor guest indeed who ruins her hostess’s home.”
“And a hostess is a poor hostess indeed who allows her guest to freeze.” Lady Goodridge gestured impatiently. “Really, Miss Higgenbothem, if the rug is ruined, then I will buy a new one. The maids have towels and blankets. Dry yourself and wrap up immediately.”
Jane snatched up the largest towel from the pile deposited on the settle and put it under her feet while Blackburn and Susan exchanged exasperated glances. Jane’s brother-in-law had caused this plebeian concern with possessions, Blackburn realized, and taking the next towel, he wrapped it around Jane’s shoulders. Taking another, he placed it on her head and dried vigorously.
Muffled by the absorbent cotton, she said, “My lord—”
“Ransom,” he corrected.
Her face poked out, shining with embarrassment. “My lord, I can’t call you that!”
“No, I suppose not.” He discarded that towel and took another. “Not in front of my sister, anyway.”
She opened her mouth to deny she could ever call him by his first name, and he held the towel in readiness. If she refused, he would use that towel in such a way that Ilford, the maids, and Lady Goodridge would be in no doubt about his familiarity with her body.
And Jane knew it. He almost sympathized with her dilemma, and almost cheered for his victory when she said calmly, “My lord, you should dry yourself.”
“It’s more fun to dry you,” he murmured.
“What?” his sister demanded. “What did you say, Ransom?”
Blackburn plucked up a towel. “I agreed that, as usual, Jane was right.”
Under Ilford’s supervision, one maid placed a tea tray loaded with a steaming pot of tea and three cups on the table at Lady Goodridge’s elbow. Another placed a plate of cakes beside the tea tray. At Ilford’s nod, they curtsied and hurried from the room. When Ilford was satisfied his mistress would want for nothing, he said, “The bedchambers are prepared for your guests, my lady. Is there any other service I can render?”
“None at all,” Lady Goodridge said. “Thank you, Ilford. You may go.”
As Ilford shut the door behind him, Ransom saw that Jane had hurried to get the worst of the deluge wiped away and herself wrapped in a blanket. She probably thought, and rightly, that he would again attack her with a towel if she did not freely indulge herself in the blessed state of warmth. She was improperly independent and had too little concern for her own well-being.
Lady Goodridge handed her a cup of tea and gestured her to a settle facing the fire.
Jane had her back to the alcove.
“Seat yourself, Miss Higgenbothem.”
Jane spread a towel on the seat and did as she was instructed.
Lady Goodridge watched enigmatically. “I find myself curious as to how you got in this state.”
“I drew a picture,” Jane said flatly. “Lord Blackburn objected.”
Lifting an eyebrow, Lady Goodridge handed Blackburn his cup of tea. “A picture of what?” She looked significantly at his groin.
“A ship,” he snapped. “An English ship going out to sea.”
“I never knew you were such a philistine, Ransom.” A smile played around his sister’s mouth. “Will you next break the violins of the court musicians?”
Leaning against the mantel, he sipped the hot liquid and watched Jane. Damn her. She could have drawn any of the ships that had sailed that day. But she had picked the Virginia Belle, the one ship out of the whole flotilla carrying secret dispatches to Wellington. It couldn’t be coincidence, not when she’d had de Sainte-Amand hovering at her shoulder directing her. “Miss Higgenbothem lacks the maturity to know that negotiating the shoals of…art…can be treacherous.”
Jane’s teacup rattled in her saucer, and she set it hastily on the table at her elbow. “I am quite mature, my lord. I doubt you could find among your acquaintances any woman as mature as I am.”
Straightening, he said, “You are still a maiden—”
“Is she?” Lady Goodridge asked.
Blackburn ignored his sister, and locked his gaze with Jane’s. “You are unproven in the experiences which mature a woman. If, for instance, you were married and properly supported by a man, I’m sure you would not be reduced to performing such immature acts as—”
“As drawing?” Jane leaned forward. “Your ignorance is showing, my lord. My drawing is not a ladylike occupation, it is an act of nature.”
“It is an act of desperation. You cannot in all conscience do what you are doing!” He fervently wanted to believe that.
Obviously confused, Susan interposed, “Do you think, Ransom, that you might be overreacting to Miss Higgenbothem’s talent?”
“I wasn’t referring only to her art.” He hesitated to confide in Susan. For some reason, he didn’t want his sister to think less of Jane for succumbing to the Frenchman’s temptation.
“No, Lord Blackburn believes he knows all.” Jane’s sarcastic tone informed him she was not of the same opinion. “To him, I am the same unformed lump of clay I was eleven years ago. He assumes that a woman is nothing without the maturing experience of marriage—”
He put his cup down with a clink. “I did not say that.”
“—while a man matures on his own. If he ever does.” Jane’s eyes glittered when she rounded on him. “I assure you, my lord, I am an adult. It began that moment in the ballroom when Melba collapsed. Do you remember, my lord, or were you too busy running from my art?”
With a start, he realized this was the emotion he’d seen in the depths of Jane’s spirit. Anger. Deep, furious anger, the kind of anger that thrived on loneliness and frustrated longing. And that, perhaps, brought forth treason as its fruit.
“For a year, I watched my sister die, doing little more than hold her hand, for there was nothing else to do. I made a deathbed promise to care for Adorna, and I have lived in the house of a miserly merchant, reviled and unvalued.”
“Oh, my dear.” Lady Goodridge took Jane’s hand and patted it.
“No, don’t pity me, my lady. My travails made me strong.” Jane squeezed his sister’s hand in return, offering more comfort than she received.
In that moment Blackburn realized just how mature Jane truly was. What could he say that would change her from her course? She would not be guided by a man. In her experience, men were spiteful, foolish, and untrustworthy.
As he had been, reacting to a statue she had sculpted in innocence and secrecy.
As if she’d read his mind, she said, “Even you, my lord, contributed to my maturity.”
Hand against the mantel, he braced himself.
“Because of you, I never held on to fatuous hope. I knew no man would come to rescue me from my misery, for what man wants a fallen woman?”
“You are not fallen.”
“Only you and I know that, my lord.” She pressed her hand to her chest. “But I have triumphed. I have survived, I have my dignity, and if my dreams have withered—well, that is a woman’s destiny, isn’t it?”
He wanted to dismiss her as melodramatic. He wanted to tell himself her ranting was nothing but a virgin’s frustration. But not even he, the Marquess of Blackburn, could patronize Jane now. As she looked into his eyes, she allowed him a brief glimpse of her soul, full of anguish and honest pain.
And, by God, he did feel guilty. He was guilty.
Then his sister, prosaic as always, said, “Miss Higgenbothem, whil
e this is all fascinating, none of it explains how you got a rose petal stuck in your hair.”
Running her fingers through her hair, Jane stared, quite dumb, at the sodden petal that fell in her lap.
“And, Miss Higgenbothem, correct me if I’m wrong, but I believe your bodice is buttoned crooked.”
“Should have let me do it,” Blackburn said, sotto voce.
Jane covered herself with her towel, and she looked suddenly tired, as if the day and its events—and him, with his constant demands—had drained her.
Blackburn wanted to go to her, to promise he would never hurt her, or let anyone else hurt her. He wanted to protect her from plunging ever deeper into treason, and at the same time shake her for ever indulging in such criminal behavior.
In short, when he was around Jane, he was torn between his duty and his instincts. Despite knowing what she must see as she left the library, his instincts spoke now. “She needs a tray and her bed. Which chamber is hers, Susan?”
“I don’t need to be put to bed like a child. Or to create a great deal of trouble with my meal.” Straightening her spine, Jane took on the aspect of the proper chaperone and perfect guest. “I am capable of dining with Lady Goodridge.”
He hated it when she looked so much like a spinster aunt. “No, you’re not.”
“Or I can dine with the servants, if you prefer.”
He pointed his finger at her. “Jane, I can be pushed too far.”
She looked mutinous.
Lady Goodridge rescued the situation. In her stuffiest voice—and Blackburn thought she did stuffy better than anyone because it came so naturally to her—she said, “Indeed, Miss Higgenbothem, I am insulted you would think me such a snob I must send a lady of your background to dine in the kitchen.”
“No, oh no!” With very real distress, Jane laid a hand on his sister’s arm. “I never meant to insult you.”
“Of course not, but I find one must think before one speaks.” Lady Goodridge rose, and Jane rose with her. “One of the maids will take you to your room, and Ilford will see to it you get a tray. You see to it you eat what is on it. There will be a nightgown for you, and I’ll personally see to it you’re not disturbed.” Lady Goodridge glared at Blackburn meaningfully.
Eleven years ago, Lady Goodridge had told him he would be sorry for failing to do as he should and marry Miss Jane Higgenbothem. Now it appeared the fruits of his impropriety were frustration, heartbreak, and treason.
How he hated to admit his sister was right.
“In the morning,” Lady Goodridge said, “Ransom will return you to the Tarlins, and I will see you at my tea next week.”
Jane crumpled under the weight of his sister’s self-importance. “Yes, my lady.”
They were walking toward the door to the entry, and Blackburn lagged behind, dreading the moment she would see it.
The statue.
Surrounded by bookshelves, it stood in an arched nook like every other piece of art Lady Goodridge had placed in her library. Jane hadn’t seen the bare, unvarnished embarrassment coming in. She couldn’t avoid it going out, for, like a damned stage light, a branch of candles sat on the pedestal with the wretched source of all his youthful anguish.
She stopped abruptly, one foot in the air and her back stiff. She stared.
Blackburn averted his eyes. He hadn’t looked at the damned thing since that first, humiliating moment eleven years ago.
“I had it bronzed,” Lady Goodridge said in a conversational tone. “Good, isn’t it? Not a master’s work, of course. You needed professional instruction, and you were young, but that statue is a fine likeness of Ransom.”
With a swift glance, Blackburn took in the face. His sister was right. It looked just like him, or rather, like the boy he had been. Unscarred. Arrogant. He glanced again. The chest and arms and stomach were good likenesses, too. Amazingly like, considering that at that time, Jane had viewed only his countenance.
“It is good.” Jane couldn’t keep the note of pride out of her voice.
Taking courage, Blackburn glanced one last time—and covered his eyes with his hand. That was as bad—worse—than he remembered. Good God, the girl had insulted him as no one, man or woman, had dared before or since.
And she still didn’t even know it.
With an attempt at civility and composure, he uncovered his face. “You don’t keep that here because of any familial affection, Susan. Don’t try and gull the lady into thinking such a thing.”
Placing a hand on her bosom, Lady Goodridge backed from his admonition with mocking respect. “I’m not! The truth is, I keep the statue here for the moments—quite frequent, Miss Higgenbothem—when he is insufferably arrogant.”
He’d heard this before, and all he could think was, Don’t say it. Don’t say it!
She said it. “Then I remind Figgy that all of us have our shortcomings.”
Stiff with pride at her accomplishment, Jane looked between the two of them. “I don’t understand, my lady. How could anyone who gazes on this statue, created by a stupid, worshipful girl, think Lord Blackburn has any shortcomings?”
Blackburn adored her. He adored Miss Jane Higgenbothem. She was the only woman he had ever met who left his sister with nothing to say. She was the only woman he knew he wished to spend the rest of his life with.
Moreover, he owed her reparation.
“Jane, there’s no remedy for it.” Stepping to her side, he enveloped her rigid form in a hug. “I shall have to marry you.”
Wrenching herself free, Jane said, “My lord, I don’t find that amusing.”
Taking her cold fingers in his, he said gently, “I wasn’t jesting.”
Obviously, she didn’t know whether to believe him. More obviously, she didn’t care. Her chest rose and fell in deep, baleful breaths. Her eyes glowed green as a spitting cat’s. “In that case, I must respectfully decline. I don’t think I could bear to become any more mature.”
Striding to the door, she opened it so hard it banged against the wall.
Miss Jane Higgenbothem, the woman who’d made him a laughingstock—the woman who could be a French spy—had refused his suit.
Chapter 21
“Stiff upper lip, my dear.” Lady Goodridge pressed her cheek to Jane’s as they stood beside the open carriage door. “You’ve got him trapped now.”
Jane didn’t even pretend not to know who Lady Goodridge referred to. “I don’t want to have him trapped.” The object of their discussion, Lord Blackburn—for Jane would call him Lord Blackburn, regardless of how far their association had gone—stood speaking to the coachman, looking revoltingly calm and not at all discomposed.
Yet last night he had proposed to her. That rude, miserable, rich, handsome, and wholly desirable lord of England had proposed to her.
“I don’t want to have him at all.”
“Don’t be silly, girl.” Lady Goodridge took Jane by the shoulders and shook her. “He’s rich, he’s a Quincy, and he’s in need of a wife. You cannot do better than that.”
Folding her hands at her waist, Jane looked down at the gravel drive beneath her feet. “I can remain a spinster. That would be better.”
“No need to be truculent. He is doing what is proper this time. You will do the same.”
Jane pressed her lips together and fought to maintain her composure. She had lost her temper last night. She would not do it again, she had vowed, regardless of the provocation.
“There, there.” Lady Goodridge adjusted the new bonnet she’d insisted on giving Jane. “I know this isn’t easy—a Quincy has never been born who easily submitted to the yoke of matrimony—but I would be derelict in my duty if I didn’t remind you that your dear sister Melba would have wanted this for you.”
That was true, of course, but Jane couldn’t keep herself from retorting, “My sister wished me to be happy.”
“As you will be. You’re of the same social class, you’re strong enough to stand up to him, and you have repeatedly proved you
r compatibility for the marriage bed.” Lady Goodridge examined her fingernails. “That is very important, Miss Higgenbothem, and I do speak from experience.”
Jane struggled to contain the blush that stained her cheeks in what she knew must be unattractive blotches.
Not even when she and Blackburn had been compromised eleven years before had she felt so awkward.
And of course not. Eleven years ago she hadn’t been forced to face him after being in his arms and kissing him and allowing him—nay, encouraging him—to kiss her mouth and parts of her that were exposed only in her bath. Now she had the memory of not only a vast intimacy between them, but also of her wanton behavior and of that dreadful scene she’d made in the library.
Mature indeed. A mature woman wouldn’t have lost her temper over something so trivial as a man’s pigheaded, incredibly large, thoughtless, and ignorant stupidity. His proposal had been nothing more.
“He’s comely, too, as are most Quincys, and I feel I can safely predict that your children will be well set up, strong, and handsome.” Lady Goodridge beamed benevolently at her brother as he strolled toward them. “It’s a beautiful morning for the drive back to London, Ransom,” she said in her ringing tones. “You’ll be riding inside with Miss Higgenbothem, of course.”
“Of course.” He answered smoothly, hiding his nefarious plans, whatever they were, beneath a veneer of civility.
But Jane could scheme, too. Jane could hide the turmoil of her emotions beneath a simulated courtesy, too. Jane could be better than any toplofty lordship—and was. “It would be better if you rode, I think,” she said. “Such a noted horseman would soon be stifled in the confines of a carriage.”
Arrogant and insolent, with a confidence that made her grind her teeth, he lifted his quizzing glass and looked her over from head to toe.
Jane wore the clothing she’d been almost seduced and severely drenched in the day before. Everything had been dried and pressed by Lady Goodridge’s servants, of course, but the gown was marked with stains and tears.
That Scandalous Evening Page 17