Elizabeth Powell (14 page)

She shook herself. It did her no good to fret. Pen was gone, and Jane had no choice but to marry the viscount. So many changes to her life, and all in one evening! She would worry about the stables later, once she and Sebastian had time to talk.

For the moment, though, she had business to attend to. Jane donned her dressing gown and, Pen’s letter in hand, headed back downstairs.

A mischievious smile crooked her mouth. Perhaps she
should warn McBride to have her mother’s smelling salts ready; Lady Portia was in for another nasty surprise.

By the next morning the Rutledge sisters were the talk of London. After considering the suit of some of England’s most eligible bachelors, Miss Penelope Rutledge, heiress and reigning Toast of the Season, had run off to Gretna Green with a shipowner, the son of a Devonshire squire. And Miss Jane Rutledge had shared a very passionate, very public embrace near the Dark Walk in Vauxhall Gardens with her sister’s most prominent admirer. That afternoon so many gossipmongers called on Jane’s mother under the pretense of expressing their sympathies that eventually Lady Portia ordered the butler to inform visitors that she was not at home to anyone except Lord Langley, who dutifully presented himself at their front door at half past three and was admitted posthaste.

Jane thought the viscount took the news of Pen’s elopement surprisingly well; only the twitch of a muscle at his temple and the tight set of his jaw betrayed any anger. Caught between his intent, unsmiling demeanor and Lady Portia’s glacial glare, Jane was quite willing to make herself scarce when the viscount asked to speak with her mother in private.

When Lady Portia emerged at last from the drawing room, she ignored Jane completely, sweeping past her and up the stairs. Lord Langley—Sebastian—appeared in the doorway and motioned for her to join him.

“What did you say to her?” Jane asked, after he closed the door behind them.

“Nothing that did not need to be said,” he replied, and shrugged. “I fear your mother holds neither of us in very great esteem.”

She smiled faintly. “You have a talent for understatement, my lord.”

“From what I understand, she wanted your sister to marry a peer but was content to see you wedded to a country squire. And now the opposite has happened. We have managed to turn the entire world upside down.”

Jane crossed the carpet to stand before the fireplace, rubbing her hands over her arms to dispel a sudden chill. The viscount regarded her with none of the warmth or kindness he had shown last night. What had her mother told him? But wait—he had cultivated this aloof manner from the moment he entered the house. A knot of dread coiled in her stomach. Was he having second thoughts?

No, she was being ridiculous. He was an honorable man; there had to be another explanation. Perhaps weariness rode him as hard as it did her. He looked as though he had not slept at all. Dark circles smudged the skin under his flinty eyes, and lines of weariness pulled at his mouth.

He ambled toward the bow window, his hands clasped behind his back. “I will have the special license by tomorrow morning, and we can be wed any time after that,” he announced, “although, given the gossip being bruited about, I would counsel more than a modicum of haste.”

Another shiver shot down Jane’s spine. “As you wish, my lord.”

He turned. “Good. Then let’s get this over with. Miss Jane, would you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”

Jane stood as though rooted to the floor. Her gaze searched his face, but his fierce expression did not alter. This was a formality, true, but she could detect little affection in his manner, and none of his incorrigible charm. He seemed almost… resentful.

“Well?” he asked, impatient.

“Yes, my lord. I will marry you,” she answered in a strangled voice.

He sighed, and the hard lines of his face seemed to soften. He rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I’m sorry, imp,” he said. “Neither of us imagined things would turn out this way. Will a day be enough for you to get ready?”

She wrapped her arms around her body. “It should.”

He nodded. “Then I will make the arrangements with your mother. But I regret I cannot stay. If you will excuse me, I will leave you to your preparations.”

“Of course,” she replied woodenly.

He made her a brief bow, then departed.

Jane stared after him, stunned. In no way did the man who had just asked her to marry him resemble the man who had kissed her so passionately last night. Which was the real Sebastian, and which one had she just agreed to wed?

The question plagued her well into the evening. Lady Portia took dinner in her rooms, which suited Jane very well. She had never gotten along with her mother, but now the relationship between them had degenerated to outright hostility. Lady Portia had spent most of the day draped over a chaise in the drawing room, moaning about how she was ruined and how her life would never be the same. Jane uttered a distinctly unladylike snort. Never mind showing any concern for either of her daughters; Lady Portia’s first thoughts were always for herself.

The evening was warm, so Jane sat at her open bedroom window, enjoying the breeze and the silence of the house. She could still hear noises from the direction of the street, but here above the garden they were faint enough for her to ignore.

Such a strange day. She retrieved her hairbrush and began brushing out her hair in long, even strokes. The
simple act soothed her, calming nerves worn ragged from distress. She leaned back in her chair, her eyes half closed.

The sound of raised voices roused her. She sat up and looked out the window.

“Dammit, Nigel, it wasn’t supposed to happen this way!”

Her throat closed in a convulsive swallow. That was Sebastian’s voice. The scent of cheroot smoke drifted past her nose. He must be in his garden. She set down her brush and began to close the window—she did not wish to eavesdrop again. Lord Nigel’s reply, however, froze her where she stood.

“Yet it did, old fellow, and you’re stuck. Does the chit have any money at all?”

“Not
per se
—she has a large property in south Leicestershire. A stud farm. Can you image me as a stable boy, Nigel?” Disgust tainted the viscount’s words. “Damn Jace! He knew I needed Miss Rutledge’s fortune, yet made off with her anyway. Friend or no, I should like nothing better than to thrash him.”

Jane removed her shaking hands from the window sash.

“I fear the signs were right under our very noses,” Nigel said mournfully. “The way he looked at her, the way he always managed to insert himself next to her in any crowd. He cast sheep’s eyes at her for days.”

“He confronted me after I kissed Miss Rutledge at the Peterboroughs’ ball,” the viscount added with a growl. “Dammit, I knew he’d formed a
tendre
for her, but I never thought he would act on it.”

“Perhaps we both underestimated him.” Lord Nigel paused. “You know he would not have done something like this on a whim.”

“Are you defending him?”

Another pause. “I am merely saying that he would never have deliberately hurt you. Did his note give any explanation at all?”

“He said he loved Penelope too much to see me ruin her.” Sebastian snorted. “I had no intention of doing anything to her.”

“Except helping yourself to her lovely fortune,” Nigel drawled. “And it did not hurt that she was one of the most beautiful creatures in London.”

“Of course.”

“Then what do you plan to do with the mousy little antidote?” Nigel asked.

Antidote? Jane’s fingers curled inward so tightly that her fingernails bit into her palms.

“I am not certain,” the viscount confessed. “But I do know I have to marry her. If I cry off now, I will not only earn my father’s wrath, but that of every other female in Town. No heiress would have me then, and I would be even worse off.”

“You could still accept the quarterly allowance from your father.”

“Like hell I could. I need to have an independent source of funds, Nigel. I refuse to let that old bastard use his money to manipulate me.”

“Here is an idea. If the chit’s stables produce halfway decent bits of blood, you should be able to fetch a good price for them at Tatt’s. Or what about selling off some of the land? Either way, you could pay off your debts and be able to return to your life as a knight of the green baize with plenty of the ready.”

“I had not thought of that.”

A buzzing began in Jane’s ears. She sank back down into her seat, her vision beginning to blur at the edges.
The rumors about Sebas—Viscount Langley—were true. He was a gangster. A wastrel.

A liar.

She gripped the arms of her chair. His every action had been steeped in deception. His courtship of Penelope. Their friendship.

Their kiss.

Only now did she realize that he felt nothing for her, with the possible exception of contempt. And it sounded like he fully intended to plunder her stables to fund his profligate lifestyle. Nausea swelled within her.

She could not marry him. No—she must. Though she had visions of jilting him at the altar, such notions were pure fancy. After what had happened last night, she could not go back to Leicestershire unwed. She could not besmirch her father’s memory or his name.

Besides, no one would buy prime cattle from a woman of notorious reputation. Well… some gentlemen might, and try to bargain for other services in the process. She shuddered at the thought. Augustus would not marry her; she had already sent the letter to him. Even if she had not, Augustus Wingate was enough of a high stickler that, after hearing the gossip from London, he would not want anything further to do with her. She had to marry Lord Langley.

No—wait! There was one more thing she could do. Her mouth tightened.

She crossed the room to her escritoire, took out a blank piece of parchment, and began to write another letter.

Sebastian and Lady Portia had arranged a quiet marriage ceremony. The clergyman would perform the service in the drawing room of the Rutledge’s town house, with Lady Portia and Lord Nigel serving as witnesses. No
pomp, no celebration—none of the traditional trappings associated with a Society wedding. All parties involved wanted this done as quickly and quietly as possible, Sebastian most of all.

Blast. In a few moments he would be a married man, but with little to show for it save a wife and some ramshackle collection of fields and barns in Leicestershire. He should never have allowed the situation at Vauxhall to get out of hand, But he had, and now he would pay the price for it. The hunter found himself caged.

Everything about the situation rankled him; it did not help that the imp had gazed at him with her heart in her eyes. He did not want her love. Love was poor currency; it could not purchase what he truly wanted.

A foul temper gripped him when he and Nigel arrived at the Rutledge residence a few minutes before the appointed hour. The dour-faced butler took their hats and gloves and motioned them into the drawing room.

“Lord Langley, may I speak with you a moment?”

Sebastian raised his head toward the source of the voice; Jane stood at the top of the stairs, dressed in the rose pink gown she had worn to the Symingtons’ ball. She wore her dark hair up, with a few wispy strands left loose to frame her impossibly high cheekbones. On the whole, she appeared very soft and vulnerable—until he looked into her eyes.

Her gray gaze held all the warmth of polished steel.

“Will you excuse us, Lord Nigel?” Steel laced her voice as well.

Nigel arched a blond brow at him. He nodded. His friend sketched a brief bow to Jane, then disappeared into the drawing room.

“What is this about, Jane?” he asked, tamping down
his irritation. “Can this not wait until after the ceremony?”

“We have time; the minister has yet to arrive. Let us go into the garden, my lord.”

She started toward the back of the house. He followed her, noting the rigid set of her shoulders. She wasn’t going to cry off, was she? Damnation. If she did, they would both be in the suds. Now was not the time for a fit of maidenly vapors.

When they reached the garden, Jane gestured toward a stone bench beneath the familiar knobby elm. “Do sit down.”

“I prefer to stand, thank you,” he replied brusquely.

She shrugged. “As you wish. I have no desire to delay the ceremony, my lord, so I will come right to the point. I overheard your discussion with Lord Nigel yesterday evening. My window, you see, overlooks the garden. It’s the one up there, on the left. You really must learn to temper your vehemence, my lord; this is not the first time I have heard something I should not have.”

Sebastian’s head jerked toward the garden wall. Damn! He had forgotten how well sound carried over the brick partition. His anger and frustration had made him careless. Well, he was trapped with the plaguey imp now, and there was no going back.

“I see. Then to which point of the conversation did you object?” he asked mockingly.

A hollow, ringing laugh burst from her throat. “To which point did I
not
?”

His jaw flexed. “And now you think you know everything.”

She spared him a look of pure, unadulterated loathing. “I learned more about you last night than I ever did in the past two weeks. You are in debt from gambling, yet your
pride will not allow you to accept money from your father. So you set your sights on an heiress—namely, my sister, as she was the most attractive one to be found. Why wed an antidote when you could have a beauty
and
her twenty-five thousand pounds? Once you were safely married, you would use her dowry as you pleased, then go back to your life of dissipation. You would not care one whit if you broke my sister’s heart.”

“Well, that point is rather moot, since your sister ran off with one of my best friends. A former best friend, I should say.”

“Do you deny that was your plan?” she demanded, pinning him with a furious stare.

“No. And something tells me you would not believe me if I tried.”

“I have every reason to mistrust you. You used me to get into my sister’s good graces. You used your charm and the pretense of friendship to further your own ambition. And now that she has slipped through your fingers, you have set your sights on me.