Elizabeth Powell (11 page)

When the viscount brought Pen back to Lady Portia’s side, her sister’s cheeks were flushed as though she had dashed headlong up a flight of stairs. Lady Portia had been too caught up in conversation with Lord Nigel to notice, but Jane had. Pen did not say a word in response to Jane’s questioning look. Strange. Even stranger was the fact that Jason Havelock appeared soon thereafter, his face taut with anger, and drew Lord Langley aside. Although Jane could not hear any of the conversation, she could see from their expressions that the exchange had not been a pleasant one.

Later that evening, Jane observed Pen taking a turn about the room with Mr. Havelock. Her sister regarded the young man with rapt attention, as though fascinated by his every word. Then they had stopped. Mr. Havelock kissed Penelope’s fingers—it seemed to Jane that he held her hand a trifle too long for propriety—and her sister ducked her head, a fiery blush rising in her cheeks. At that moment Lady Portia ordered Jane to fetch her a glass of lemonade; although Lord Nigel volunteered to get it for her, Lady Portia remained
adamant. Jane hastened to comply, but the distraction caused her to lose sight of Pen and Mr. Havelock.

She returned with the lemonade to find Penelope at their mother’s side, her lips slightly swollen, her eyes glazed. Before Jane could ask what had happened, another gentleman claimed her sister for a country dance.

Jane had given the incident little thought at the time, but the more she thought about it, the more questions began to crowd her mind. Had Penelope quarreled with the viscount? What had Lord Langley done to provoke Mr. Havelock’s anger? And what had Mr. Havelock said to Pen to make her blush so? Jane recalled the intent expression with which her sister had regarded the young man. Did Pen nurture a secret affection for him? Surely she knew that such a
tendre
was futile; their mother would never allow her to consider a match with a mere mister, much less a Cit, no matter how handsome, how rich, or how amiable the gentleman. Or was she reading far too much into all of this in the first place?

Jane remained uncertain, for Penelope still refused to acknowledge that anything troubled her. She could not in good conscience plague her sister with questions—Lady Portia did that quite well already. Still, it was unlike Pen to remain so tight-lipped. By the time they needed to dress for their evening at Vauxhall, the tension in the house had flayed Jane’s nerves to shreds.

As had been her habit of late, Jane sat quietly in her sister’s room while McBride laid out Penelope’s clothing and arranged her hair. Then the abigail departed to assist Lady Portia, leaving Jane to help her sister dress. Pen took one look at the gown set out for her, scowled, and with a militant expression began to ransack her wardrobe.

Jane looked up from her book and sighed. “Honestly, Pen, will you stop fussing? It hardly matters what you wear; you would look lovely in a burlap bag.”

Penelope took another frock from the clothespress and stood in front of her pier glass with it, holding it up against her body. She made a face and tossed the frothy tulle creation onto the bed, where it landed in a careless heap atop the others. “I refuse to wear another insipid white ball gown. I am sick to death of white!”

Jane arched an eyebrow at the rapidly growing mound of fabric. “Mama seems to choose little else for you.”

“Of course—she wants me to appear angelic.” Pen eyed a dress of white muslin trimmed with silver spangles, then cast it aside. “I have worn white to nearly every ball and party since we’ve come to London. I am beginning to resemble a ghost, not an angel.”

The uncharacteristic petulance in her sister’s voice set off another warning in Jane’s head. “I wish you would tell me what is bothering you, Pen.”

Penelope paused, then made a great show of rummaging through the remaining gowns. “Nothing is wrong, dearest.”

“So you keep telling me, but I know you too well to believe it. You have been acting strangely ever since the Peterboroughs’ ball.”

Pen turned, her green eyes wary. “Have I? I—I cannot fathom your meaning.”

“Well, you barely eat anything at breakfast, you seem preoccupied, and I have never known you to be this particular about your appearance. Did something happen between you and the viscount? Have you quarreled?”

Penelope caught her lower lip in her teeth. “Oh, Jane—how can I begin to tell you?”

“Something
did
happen.” Jane closed her book with a snap and edged forward in her seat, a frown of concern pulling at her brow. “You can tell me, Pen. Out with it.”

Her sister shot a guarded glance toward her chamber door.

“Mama is still at her toilette, which means McBride is with her,” Jane said. “We should have no fear of interruption for at least another half hour.”

Penelope hesitated.

“Well?”

“He kissed me,” Pen blurted, then ducked her head, abashed.

“Viscount Langley?”

“No, the Prince Regent,” Pen retorted crossly. “Of course Viscount Langley.”

“Oh.” A numb sensation began in Jane’s chest. “What—what was it like?”

“Well, it was not unpleasant.”

“Glowing praise, indeed.”

Pen blushed a very vivid pink. “That is to say, it was rather nice. I think I enjoyed it.”

“You
think
?” Jane echoed, dubious.

“All right. I did enjoy it.”

“Then why are you so ill at ease? You like Lord Langley, do you not?”

“Well—yes.”

“If you do not wish to confide in me, Pen,” Jane said gently, “I shall not insist upon it.”

Guilt shadowed her sister’s eyes. “It is not that, dearest.”

Jane waited as Penelope paced to the window,
twisted her fingers together, then paced back to the clothespress.

“I believe he is going to declare himself tonight at Vauxhall,” Pen declared at length.

The void beneath Jane’s breastbone yawned wider. “That—that is wonderful news.”

“Yes, I suppose it is.”

“You seem uncertain.”

“How can I be certain of anything?” Penelope wailed. “The viscount appears to be all I desire in a husband, but our acquaintance spans but a handful of days.” She nibbled at the tip of one thumb. “I know so little about him, and the gossip …”

Here, then, lay the explanation for her sister’s unease. Jane forced her lips into a semblance of a smile. “You have seen as well as I the lengths to which the London tabbies will go to possess the latest
on dit
. Half of everything we hear is outrageous enough to qualify as pure fiction. If you have any doubts, then ask Lord Langley himself about his past. Do not rely on what anyone else tells you, even me.”

“What if I do not have the chance before he proposes? If I refuse him, Mama will never forgive me. I—I do not know what to do.”

Jane set aside her book, then rose and took her sister’s hands. “Pen, I know you pride yourself on your diligence and practicality, but at some point you must put the List away and follow your own heart.”

“Do you mean that?” Penelope’s question emerged as more of a whisper.

“Of course I do,” Jane replied. “All the lists in the world signify nothing if you disregard your own feelings. If you believe he will make you happy, then you should accept him. And I do so want you to be happy.”

“Oh, Jane.” Pen enveloped her in an impulsive hug. “Thank you. You have ever been the voice of reason.”

“In this family, someone has to be,” Jane replied with an impudent grin. She gently set Penelope away from her. “Now stop worrying; you will give yourself wrinkles. And then, of course, no one will have you.”

“Wretched creature.” Pen wrinkled her little retroussé nose, then reluctantly surveyed the heap of gowns on her bed. “That still leaves me in a quandary about which gown to choose.”

“Oh, so now we are back to discussing serious matters,” Jane teased.

“I am in earnest, dearest. What do I wear? I have never been proposed to before.”

“Neither have I—not really, at any rate, so I fear I shall be of little help.”

“Then what are
you
wearing?”

“I? The pink faille, I suppose.”

“But you wore that to the opera three nights ago.”

Jane shrugged. “I see no reason not to wear it again. The pink faille is my favorite; it will do.”

“Dearest, why are you always content to play the role of the country mouse?”

Jane started. Pen usually did not say such things. “Because I
am
a country mouse, Pen. I have never aspired to be anything else.”

“And that is your problem. Here.” Penelope rummaged around in the pile of clothing on the bed and pulled forth a gown of white gossamer satin trimmed with pale pink rosebuds. “This will become you very well.”

“Pen, I am not going to wear your dress,” Jane objected.

“Why? What are you afraid of—that others might notice you?”

Uncomfortable heat singed Jane’s face. “No, of course not.”

“Then why not? We are almost of a size. You are a bit more slender through the waist, but we can take in the sides with a few quick stitches.”

Eyes wide, Jane stared first at her sister, then at the lovely, ethereal dress. “What has brought this on?”

“I have been such a gudgeon these past few days, and you have been so sweet to me. This is the only way I have to repay you.”

Jane looked at the dress again; she had nothing so fine in her own wardrobe. The viscount might even think her pretty…. No. She shook herself. Ever since their ride in Hyde Park, Lord Langley had treated her with the amused tolerance one reserved for a younger sister. That was just as well; soon he would be her brother-in-law. She needed to banish these silly romantic notions once and for all. She must.

“I will brook no refusal.” A mischievous grin curved Pen’s full lips. “We shall both wear white, and the gentlemen will think we are angels fallen from heaven.”

Jane threw up her hands. “All right. I can see you are determined to have your way in this.”

I am. And Mama cannot do or say anything to dissuade me.”

Not that their mother did not make the attempt. As soon as she and Penelope descended the stairs to the vestibule Jane could see the storm clouds gathering on her mother’s brow. She knew the signs well; to say that Lady Portia was displeased was an understatement. With a frigid gaze her mother surveyed Jane from head to toe, her mouth settled into lines of grim disapproval.
Jane tensed, fully expecting Lady Portia to order her back upstairs to change, but to her shock she did not—no doubt due to the presence of Lord Langley, who at that moment arrived to escort them to Vauxhall.

“You look different tonight, Miss Jane,” he commented as he assisted her into the carriage. Nothing more than that. Then he turned his attention to Penelope, and soon the equipage rumbled off through the darkened streets.

Jane fidgeted against the plush squabs and tried not to stare at the way the viscount held Penelope’s gloved hand in his, the way he caressed her sister’s long, slender fingers. She tried to imagine Augustus performing such an intimate gesture, then banished the image. Augustus had held her hand only once, when he had asked if she would consider marriage to him. His clammy clasp had made her shiver then, and she shivered now at the memory.

This was madness!

Watching Pen and Lord Langley, she realized what she wanted.

Love.

The viscount had been right—she was a hypocrite. She might lecture herself about the impracticality of love, but she realized that in her heart she craved that very thing. To be wanted. Adored. Cherished. To have a man gaze at her the way Viscount Langley gazed at Pen.

Jane recognized the intoxicating flattery inherent in that sort of fairy tale—of being swept off one’s feet by a handsome prince and living happily ever after. But even though her heart was swayed by such arguments, she must not allow her head to follow suit. She had too many obligations; she needed to hold herself aloof.

Yes, she must be reasonable. As much as she might want to be loved by a handsome, passionate man, what happened once the first blush faded from the rose? Love was a fickle emotion, and a frail one. It might conquer all, as Virgil claimed, but she was not so naïve as to think it was all a marriage needed to succeed; love alone could not endure misfortune and hardship and disappointment. She would never forget what had happened to her father. Wellbourne still paid the price.

Had her mother felt even the smallest measure of love for her spouse? Jane had no way of knowing. Clearly her parents’ marriage had suffered from an imbalance of affection. She bit her lip. She could not imagine anything more horrible—to love earnestly and deeply and be treated with indifference in return. Even outright hatred would be preferable to that.

Every shred of sense she possessed told her that love was a luxury she could ill afford. Then why did she still want it so badly?

As with everything one could not have, it grew all the more attractive the more unattainable it became. That had to be it.

Jane rubbed at her temples; all these rational perambulations made her head ache. She fixed her gaze out the carriage window, watching as the street lamps flashed by, pinpoints of light in the darkness. Pen and Lady Portia laughed at one of the viscount’s witticisms; Jane flinched at the sound. This would never do. She must not spoil Pen’s evening with this bout of selfish melancholy. Pasting a smile on her face, she allowed herself to be drawn into the conversation.

In their supper box, Sebastian looked over the rim of his wineglass at Jane. He need not have worried that
she would notice his surreptitious glances; she kept her gaze fixed anywhere but on him—on Penelope, on his friends, on the crowd gathered in the Grove, or on her plate, though she had hardly touched any of the chicken, pigeon pie, muslin-thin slices of ham, or other delicacies set before her. Delicacies that cost him a small fortune, but he would not think about that tonight.

Something troubled her. Her eyes had turned the color of tarnished pewter, and her skin seemed to draw taut around her mouth. He had seen the same signs during their meeting in Hyde Park. Surely she could not be upset with anything he had done; he had been a patterncard of propriety these past few days. When he brought gifts to Penelope, he brought smaller offerings for Jane and Lady Portia. He had escorted them around Town and taken assiduous care that the imp not feel left out. So what was the matter with her?