A Secret Passion (27 page)

A pent-up breath of air escaped from his lips. “Dearest Jane,” he whispered into her hair.

Jane shivered again uncontrollably. “I must go.”

He did not respond.

“I believe it is for the best.” Jane shrugged off his coat, dismissing his protests that she keep it. She edged up from her cold seat and began walking toward the mansion, surprised that he did not follow her.

The night proved to be her undoing. Not only had her sensibilities attempted an about-face, but the calendar was forcing her to face the stark reality of her future. One year ago, Jane remembered as she paced the floor of her bedchamber, Cutty had lain dying in her arms. An abundant late-summer’s-night feast with neighbors had brought on the last attack, which had killed him. It seemed so very long ago and yet on the contrary, it also seemed just a few months ago.

As she heard the clock strike four in the morning, Jane cursed herself for being the most perverse female that ever lived. She was devoted to Harry in a much more fulfilling way than she had been to Cutty. And yet Rolfe provoked different feelings altogether. Two such different gentlemen, two such very different feelings—each justified. And yet when she allowed her heart to overtake her mind, she knew what she must do. She had been writing about love, and yet she had refused to look it in the eye and take it. And then it dawned on her. He was just like her. In almost every respect. Was that good or bad? She didn’t know. She only knew what he made her feel.

She flung herself onto the bed and groaned. Tomorrow—or rather, today—would be a difficult day indeed. She feared she had not the courage to accomplish what must be done.

Rolfe awoke refreshed for the first time in a long while. He tugged on the bell pull, signaling his desire for a private breakfast. He moved to the porcelain basin and splashed water onto his face as he whistled a military tune. A quarter hour passed before a valet entered the room carrying a tray and polished boots with the scent of wax emanating from them.

“Good morning, my lord.”

“Yes, it is a good morning, is it not, Jennings?”

The manservant looked up with a surprised expression on his face. “Yes, sir.”

“Are the others up and about?”

“Yes and no, my lord. Your brother is, I believe, still abed. The doctor has returned early to see Mr. Thompson. Mrs. Lovering has already breakfasted.”

“Ah, yes, splendid. Jennings? Please inform my coachman I will be delaying, perhaps even postponing our departure today. I will see him before lunch to give further instructions.”

The valet bowed and smoothed out the clothes he had placed on the bed. An aubergine-colored superfine coat, buff riding breeches, a pressed lawn shirt, and a stock lay above the gleaming Hessians on the floor. “Shall I assist you, my lord?”

“No, Jennings. You know my preferences.”

“Yes, my lord.” The valet departed.

He was hopeful. More hopeful than ever before. She was in a delicate balance. One false move would tip the scales out of his favor. He knew, with a certain clarity, what he would have to do to win her over. He must proceed with caution and care. But for the first time he felt he had a chance. A small chance, to be sure. But it was a chance nonetheless.

Rolfe moved toward the basin to begin his morning ritual. He gulped hot, black coffee between swipes of his face with the razor. He finished the job and combed back his unruly hair, peering at the few gray strands in the small mirror before him. Perhaps he should step aside for that young puppy, Harry. Nah.

A scant twenty minutes later found him searching the house for her. His perusal of the morning dining room and the small sitting room she had occupied the evening prior proved fruitless. The early stages of a crisp, sparkling day peeked through the double doors. A breeze, still stronger than the previous evening’s, flowed through the nearby weeping willow tree, forcing the long tendrils to swirl in a mesmerizing brushstroke pattern. Perhaps she had gone to the rose arbor.

As he approached the archway, he noticed several sheets of paper twirling in the grass, engaged in a tug-of-war with gravity and the wind. He retrieved them and entered through the large arch to find still more pages caught in the wells beneath some of the rosebushes. He collected them all and sat on the stone bench. They must be Jane’s, as he could see his ring was the ineffective paperweight in a box he found next to him. But where was she? And what were all these papers? Rolfe shuffled through the parchment, righting them and noticing a lack of page numbers. He was about to place the sack in the box when a word on the top page caught his glance—”Rolfe.” What the devil? He read on.

The shadows flanking the hallway hid the figure

slumped in a chair. Rolfe raised his head only once

during the endless wails permeating the walls.

“God, save me! Please, someone help me…”

screamed a hidden female, consumed in agony.

A servant crept down the hall, waving a candlestick.

The earl raised a staying hand, and the servant shook his

head and turned on his heel. Pangs of regret filled him.

“What are you doing?” a female voice asked, breaking his concentration.

Rolfe looked up and encountered Jane’s furious visage. He suddenly felt ill at ease, embarrassed and defensive, like a small boy caught with his finger in the pudding.

“How dare you presume the privilege to read my work. You must know it is private, my lord.”

“Jane, I was merely sorting your pages, as the wind had thrown them about the garden. Surely you do not doubt my motive?”

She hesitated. “I do. You were not sorting, you were reading,” she said, reaching for the pages in his hands.

“Have no fear. I do not indulge in novels. They hold no interest for me.” He could tell by the look on her face that his last utterance had perversely weakened his hand.

“And now you insult my manuscript.”

“No. Actually it was quite good,” he lied, “if you go for such flights of fancy.”

A deep flush rose from the modest black lace of her collar. “Flights of fancy, you call it?”

“Yes. Murder, suffering, and the like are all standard novel fare,” he replied.

“Ah, yes. And you know all about that, don’t you? Murder, I mean.” She at least had the decency to look embarrassed.

Rolfe paused, and hardened his heart. “Why, yes, I do. But you know, you have it all wrong. A murderer does not experience ‘pangs of regret,’ as you described it. It is more of a never forgetting…You remember when you awake in the morning, when you dine, bathe, dress. Even sleep does not provide a surcease, for that is when the nightmares take over.”

“So you admit you are a murderer.”

“Yes. But an honest one,” he said. Now he knew his position was hopeless. At the very least he could use a straightforward offensive instead of the finesse he had hoped to try. Besides, a sort of furious calm had invaded his body. “At least I am not the fraud you are, Jane. You are forcing a man to marry you who does not love you. Something, I can assure you, that will lead to regret. Nor do you love him.”

“You seem so sure of my sensibilities. But then again, you have voiced your opinion of my emotions many times.”

“Why do you deny your feelings for me? Was last night, here in this very place, just a moment to act out for a future scene in your novel? If so, you are a very good actor.”

“And you, sir, have spoken volumes about the violence of your affection, have you not? Let us not forget your romantic proposal, your dealmaking with my father, your passionate letter, oh, yes, and your sense of duty,” Jane stood very close to him now. “You do not love me, nor I, you.”

“A thought you have made abundantly clear, my dear, on many occasions. However, you are wrong, you know, about my affections. But then, I think you realize that and have decided to ignore the truth. I had hoped you would accept it, rejoice in it, and also, of course, reciprocate in kind. I see now it is a hopeless case. You are resolved to go against your heart. You were right in one aspect. I have refused to accept your decision in the past. I do so now. I wish you happy, Madam.” He bowed curtly, turned, and walked off.

An angry good-bye was stuck in her throat. Jane looked down at the forgotten container she held. She opened the top, releasing the delicate purplish butterfly she had caught to please Harry.

Chapter Thirteen

JANE let herself back into the house at the same double doors she had used that morning and the evening before. Once inside, she found a second set of doors in the room leading to the rear of the house. A rare chance of escaping notice from the hawk-eyed servants presented itself as she ascended the rear staircase and almost ran to her chamber.

She should never have thought it might work. The first threads of a new plan had weaved through her mind last night. It was all forgotten now. Yet she knew she must act upon part of last night’s resolve. If not for her, then for Harry, the only man who had truly helped her. Well, the one who had gone along with her plans. A puppet, really, she thought with guilt.

With a long glance toward the armoire, Jane moved toward the heavy, dark-paneled furniture. She hadn’t had the heart to put aside her mourning when she had risen. Now she did. She opened the doors and looked at her other dress, a delicate old muslin gown of palest blue. Fine lace edged the collar and low neckline. Her father had relented, upon the false news of her engagement to the earl, and had sent her clothes to Pembroke.

She stared at her old day gown. It had been a shade darker and had featured a higher neckline when first created two years before Cutty died. Her father had had the neckline lowered after refusing her plea to wear mourning longer than three months.

When she had last worn it, Billingsley had made ridiculous comments about the color of her eyes and the state of his heart.

With heavy heart, she knew it was time to make the change. If she didn’t remove her mourning today, she might put it off forever. She struggled with the buttons on the back of her gown. Before hanging her blacks in the armoire, she reached for the object in the pocket, the ring she kept close to her always, even in her bedclothes. She looked at it and hesitated before placing it on the tray near the basin. She again struggled with the hooks on the blue dress and succeeded before overexertion flooded her cheeks with color. With her hand on the intricate brass doorknob, Jane paused before quitting the room. She looked back and hurried to the washstand to retrieve the ring. She placed it in her pocket, for safekeeping, she reasoned.

Her footsteps lagged as she pondered the enormity of the discussion and task ahead. Like a child avoiding the proverbial woodshed, Jane’s breath seemed stuck in her throat as she approached Harry’s chamber and knocked on the door.

Harry’s voice beckoned her inside, and she found him lying down with his leg elevated in a window seat in the sitting room adjacent to the small bedchamber. The remains of his breakfast and a pile of books lay on a side table. His face lit up with a warm smile as he saw her. Jane’s courage nearly failed her.

“Hey ho, now there’s a pretty frock. Leaving off mourning, are you? That’s a good idea, given we will be married soon enough. Sorry for the mess, but the good doctor said I was not to move from this ridiculous position for a least a day or so.”

Jane moved closer and sat on a chaise opposite Harry and reached for his hand. She rested her cheek in the palm of his hand and then moved to kiss it.

“Harry, I am so very sorry.”

“It’s all right, I guess. I mean, it’ll heal soon enough. It’s so silly, really. Stupid me for riding that horse. You warned me against it.”

“Does it hurt?”

“It’s not pounding like the devil as it was yesterday.”

Harry looked out the window and touched the draperies. Jane rushed forward into the silence. “Oh, I’m so sorry I’ve made you go through all of this. It’s been a madcap scheme in every sense.”

Harry turned to look at her. “It’s all right, Duck. You know I would do anything for you. Just give me a day or two and I’m sure the doctor will say we can continue on our way.”