Elizabeth Powell (19 page)

“Do you hate her so much?”

“My mother cannot change what she is, my lord,” she replied in strangled tones. “Do you hate the wasp because it stings?”

“But you blame her for his death.”

“Yes. Yes, I suppose I do. But my father shares an equal portion of the blame for choosing to hide from his problems at the bottom of a bottle.”

Sophisticated charmer though he was, Sebastian could find no glib words to smooth over the raw emotion that hung heavy in the air. He swallowed around the ache at the back of his throat. “I’m sorry.”

She stroked the gray’s muscular shoulder. “You need not be. We are managing, though we have not had an easy time of it. Tamerlane here is Pharaoh’s half brother, and he seemed promising as a stud, but his temperament proved too hot and we had to geld him. I can only hope this year’s crop of colts will compensate for the loss.”

In spite of himself, Sebastian winced and skewed a sideways glance at the horse. “Bad luck, old chap,” he muttered, then turned his attention back to Jane. “Why did you not tell me any of this?”

“I—I did not think you cared to know.”

He placed his hands on her shoulders and gave them a
gentle squeeze. “That is why I am here, in case you had not noticed. I came to further our acquaintance.”

“Perhaps …” She hesitated, then started to pull away.

He kept his grip gentle, but firm; he was not about to let her run away now, not when she had just started to open up to him. “Perhaps what?”

“Perhaps that is not such a good idea.”

He frowned. “What are you saying?”

She seized her lower lip between her teeth and looked up at him, her eyes anguished. “My father loved my mother, but received nothing but her indifference in return. Some might say that hate is the opposite of love, but I cannot agree with that. Hate is a powerful emotion, and thus something one can understand or at least accept for what it is. To my way of thinking, indifference is a complete lack of love—a complete lack of any feeling at all. My father could not understand my mother’s apathy, and eventually it destroyed him. I will not allow history to repeat itself.”

His frown deepened. “What do you mean?”

“Do you love me, my lord?”

Her question nearly stopped his heart. “Jane, I do not think—”

“Do you?”

He met her searching gaze. “How can I, when you have never given me the chance?”

She blinked several times in rapid succession, and a faint hint of color stole into her cheeks. “I am not one of those young ladies who spends the entire day reading Minerva Press romances,” she said hurriedly. “I am not so foolish as to think love is all-encompassing, nor that it is a magic spell that can make all our difficulties disappear. But without it, and without trust, I fear our marriage
has no hope of success, and we may as well continue to lead separate lives.”

“I have no hope of developing any feelings for you when you insist on keeping me at a distance,” he replied. “All I ask is that you give me the opportunity to undo the cruel things I have done to you.”

She continued to try to pull away from him, lines of uncertainty creasing her brow. “I want to trust you, my lord, but—”

“I seem to recall a night in London when I asked you to say my name,” he said, his voice a throaty murmur. “I enjoyed hearing you say it then, and I would enjoy it all the more now.”

Her blush burst into full bloom across her high, angled cheekbones. “Sebastian.”

A little thrill coursed down his spine. “There. Was that so bad?”

“No.”

“Then I encourage you to use it as often as you’d like.”

“Why did you kiss me that night at Vauxhall?” she blurted out.

Sebastian hesitated. Why had he, indeed? He exhaled in a slow sigh. “Because I wanted to,” he replied. And he realized that was the perfect truth.

“Not to punish me or teach me a lesson?” she whispered.

“No. Just to kiss you.” He took a step closer to her. “As a matter of fact, I would very much like to do it again, if you will allow me.”

“I—I don’t…”

But she did not move, so he placed a hand beneath her chin and leaned down. “Give me a chance,” he breathed.

She closed her eyes.

He kissed each corner of her mouth, then brushed his
lips over hers like butterfly wings. Nothing more than that, for now. He had no wish to frighten her and undo everything he’d accomplished this afternoon. He suspected that the time for passionate, devouring, all-consuming kisses would come soon enough.

He raised his head. “Give me the chance to love you, Jane.”

She opened her eyes and stared up at him. She gave a convulsive swallow. “Very well, Sebastian. I will try.”

What had she done?

Jane’s head spun with the ramifications of what had happened yesterday afternoon. Instead of giving up and going back to London, as she had foolishly hoped, the viscount had asked for permission to court her. And she was going to let him.

Part of her wanted to climb up into the haymow and hide. That may have worked when she was eight and sought to avoid her mother’s wrath, but she was eighteen, almost nineteen, and married. As much as she disliked the thought, she had a duty to her husband, and she could not hide from him forever.

He was sincere about his offer to make amends; she was sure of that now. Why else had he endured over a fortnight of menial, backbreaking labor in her stables? Guilt pricked her for treating him so abominably, especially since he had done the work without complaint. She had behaved like a petulant child, and she was more than a little ashamed of herself.

Dared she hope that something good would come of the viscount’s stay at Wellbourne? He had a way with horses; she could see it in the way he treated the animals
and the way they responded to his light touch. Her father had never believed in training horses with brute force but preferred gentler methods. Her husband appeared to share those sentiments.

Her husband.

Jane shivered as she donned the jacket of her riding habit. The word still sounded so strange, even after all these weeks. Her husband. Sebastian.

What was he up to? He had asked her to dress for riding and meet him in the stables this afternoon but, with a wicked twinkle in his slate blue eyes, refused to tell her why. Incorrigible man. The very prospect of meeting him in the stables again made her fingers tremble so that she could barely button up her jacket.

Gracious, she was behaving like a complete scatter-brain, rather like Penelope did before her come-out ball. Jane’s fingers stilled over the last set of buttons. Dear Pen. She felt her sister’s absence more keenly now that Lord Langley—Sebastian—had come to stay at Wellbourne. She longed to be able to go to the room across the hall, sit on her sister’s bed, and ask Pen for advice. Knowing Pen, she might not have gotten much in the way of guidance, but her sister had always been willing to listen while Jane poured out her heart. Fledgling tears swelled at the back of her throat. Dearest Pen—how much she missed her!

Jane closed the last button and tugged at her jacket. A small sad smile tipped her lips. Even though her sister was miles away, Jane knew exactly what Pen would tell her: make a list.

She glanced at the escritoire in the corner of her bedchamber. Why not? She had a few minutes before she had to meet Sebastian.

She sat down at the little writing desk and took out a sheet of parchment, then dipped her pen in the inkwell.

Merits
, she wrote in a bold hand.

Beneath it, she wrote the following items, each with its own comment:

Jane paused, her pen poised above the paper. Though the kiss he had given her yesterday was sweet and chaste, she knew from that night at Vauxhall that his kisses could be very, very passionate indeed. The tips of her ears grew warm.

She shook herself and took out a second sheet of parchment. At the top of this page she wrote
Shortcomings
.

Then, at the bottom of both lists, she added one more entry:
I love him
.

She stared at those three words. It was true; she did still love him. Over the past month she had tried to forget him, tried to forget her feelings for him, and cursed herself for her inability to do either. He had hurt her cruelly and still she loved him. She was either the world’s greatest fool or its greatest idealist. Thus, the entry on both lists.

Six merits, six drawbacks. Although it came down to one issue and one alone: Did she trust him? She put the pen back in its holder, capped the inkwell, and sighed. Lists may have made Pen feel better, but they did little for her.

A light rap on the door startled her; she jumped. “Sebastian?”

The door opened. Meg stood in the doorway, her face pale beneath her flaming red hair.

“What is it, Meggie?” Jane asked, frowning.

“Mr. Augustus Wingate is downstairs for you, Miss Jane, an’ he don’t look too happy. Says he has an urgent matter to discuss.”

Jane cringed. She had not seen her neighbor since her return to Wellbourne. To tell the truth, she had dreaded ever encountering her former fiancé again. Now it seemed that Augustus had taken the decision out of her hands.

“Thank you, Meg,” she said with a nod.

The maid curtsied and vanished.

Jane saw no reason to delay the inevitable. She rose from her escritoire, rubbed her palms against her skirts, and headed for the stairs. She had no idea what sort of “urgent matter” brought Augustus to Wellbourne, but she
hoped the visit would not take long; she had promised to meet Sebastian in a matter of minutes.

When she entered the drawing room, she saw Augustus standing before the window, much as Sebastian had upon his arrival. She could not help but compare the two. Before their trip to London, Jane had thought their neighbor fairly young; now, in the bright afternoon light, she could detect the tracery of lines around Augustus’s eyes and mouth—he appeared well over forty. An unhealthy flush mottled his cheeks. Though he had always had a tendency to be stout, he had gained weight in the past few months; his belly strained the buttons of his brown and tan striped waistcoat, and his russet coat fit rather badly about the shoulders. In a nod to current fashion, he had combed his thick brown hair into the fashionable Brutus style. High, sharp collar points and an intricately tied cravat framed his receding double chin. From a ribbon around his neck dangled a quizzing glass on a ribbon, which he twirled in his fingers.

She cleared her throat. “Good afternoon, Mr. Wingate.”

He swiveled around to face her, quizzing glass raised. Jane found herself being scrutinized from head to toe like a horse at auction. What, did he expect her to open her mouth so he might inspect her teeth? She raised her chin and stared reprovingly back at him.

“You are looking as well as ever, Miss Jane,” he commented at length, lowering his glass. “But I suppose I should address you as Lady Langley. I have not yet had the opportunity to offer you my felicitations on your marriage.”

“Thank you, Mr. Wingate,” she replied. She forced herself to relax, then gestured to one of the more sturdy chairs by the hearth. “Do sit down.”

“Ever the generous hostess.” The hint of a sneer curled the man’s lips. “Unfortunately, I cannot stay long, so I shall come directly to the purpose of my visit.”

“And what would that be, Mr. Wingate?”

He let fall the quizzing glass, then clasped his hands behind his back, which made his newly acquired paunch protrude all the more. “There was a time, dearest Jane, when you called me by my Christian name.”

“I… regret the way matters ended between us.”

Beneath his dark brows, Mr. Wingate’s pale gray eyes glittered with something Jane could not identify. It made her shiver.

“Do you, my dear?” he asked in a mocking tone. “You are now a viscountess, the wife of the heir to the Earl of Stanhope. I cannot imagine why you would think that preferable to a marriage with me.”

“I did not go to London with the intention of jilting you,” Jane replied hotly.

“No, of course not.” His tone made the words an insult.

She stiffened. “If you have come for no reason but to slight me, sirrah, then I must bid you good day.”

“Slight you? Jane, how could you think such a thing? I have given you no greater offense than your husband has. He
is
still in London, I assume? Does he even remember that you exist?”

“I suggest you come to the point, Mr. Wingate,” she snapped.

“My point is, sweet Jane, that you should have married me.”

“And as I told you in my letter, sir, circumstances made marriage between us impossible.”

He waggled a finger at her. “Be that as it may, we had a prior agreement that you were obliged to honor.”

“I had no choice but to wed Lord Langley.”

A look of smug satisfaction illumined the man’s round face. “I disagree, my dear. You agreed to marry me, but then you threw me over for another more likely prospect. And so you give me no other recourse but to sue you for breach of promise.”

Jane’s eyes saucered. “
What?
”

“You heard correctly, sweeting.” He gestured to the room. “All of this should have been mine—it would have been, had you not fallen under Viscount Langley’s spell.”

“But we were never formally engaged,” she protested.