Her One True Love (21 page)

Spent, he opened his eyes and stared at her.

She smiled.

He smiled and gently laid his head on her breast, his fingers drawing circles over her abdomen.

No further words were needed, and Jane had never felt so thoroughly loved or happy in her entire life.

M
atthew waited for the usual pride that grew within him whenever he rode through the quintessential English beauty of Biddestone. Instead, the dusk-lit vista through his carriage window brought forth a myriad of dilemmas, questions, and problems. The late November day showed winter's first arrival through a severe dip in temperature and the threat of the first snowfall.

Children played by the village's central pond, their mothers watching them. Every person was wrapped in coats, knitted mittens, and scarves, whereas Matthew barely felt the chill through the emptiness that had plagued him since leaving Jane behind in Bath two days before.

He turned from the happy band of children, their faces little more than a painful reminder of Jane and her work at the house. Who knew when or how he would join her there again? The pressing and most important issue was tracking down, and speaking with, Elizabeth. Equal amounts of dread and euphoria racked him. One way or another, he would find his estranged wife sooner rather than later.

Raucous laughter and a streak of muted light filtered through the closed carriage window and Matthew turned. The White Horse Pub lay just ahead. A pint of ale seemed an appropriate balm to his unsettled state.

He banged on the roof. “Simmons, stop the carriage.”

The carriage drew to a stop, and Matthew alighted. He raised his hand for Simmons to remain seated in his box at the front. “Take the horses and carriage back to the house. I want to see if I can catch some of the farmers enjoying a pint. I doubt the letters I sent telling them my good news have reached the chosen few yet. Buying them a drink and relaying what I have to say face-to-face will cheer me. I'll make my way home once I'm done.”

Simmons touched his finger to the brim of his hat, a satisfied smile at his lips. “Right you are, sir. Shall I ask Mrs. Hershaw to prepare anything specific for your dinner, sir?”

Matthew donned his hat. “Anything she wants to prepare is fine. A man dining alone has no right to demand anything from his cook.”

“Very good, sir.” The footman touched his hat once more before shuffling back on the box and raising the reins to slap down on the horses' rumps.

Matthew stared after the carriage until it disappeared along one of the many turns in the village's network of lanes and cobbled streets. Needing to rid himself of his frustrated mood of wanting to be with Jane, rather than in the village he had once believed he loved more than any other place in the world, Matthew walked toward the pub's front door.

Lighted candles and a crackling fire bathed the interior of the small tavern in an amber glow. He took off his hat and pretended the sudden lull in conversation wasn't because of his unannounced presence. Satisfaction ran through him. What he had to say could very well lessen some of the hostility his previous lack of concentration on village matters had provoked.

He approached the bar.

Maggie glanced over her shoulder and finished her conversation with one of the village's farmers before she strolled toward Matthew, her gaze steady. “Back from your trip, then?”

“Indeed, I am.” He tilted his head toward the pump in front of him. “A pint of your finest, if you don't mind.”

She ran her gaze over his face, eyes narrowed as if trying to access his thoughts through telepathy. “Was it successful?” She pulled a tankard from the rack above her. “This gallivanting into the city? I heard you left with Miss Danes.”

“It was very successful. Once I have that pint in my hand, I will share my news with everyone here.”

She lifted her eyebrow and held his gaze as she put the filled tankard on the bar. “Mighty intriguing, I must say. Does this news have anything to do with Miss Danes?”

He took a long drink, his eyes locked on Maggie's expectant gaze. He put down the tankard and licked the froth from his upper lip. “Nothing at all.”

Maggie's eyes flashed with annoyance, and he bit back a smile. He knew her well enough to know why he'd left Biddestone with Jane far outweighed news of the village's future in importance as far as Maggie was concerned in that moment. He took another drink.

“Fine.” She whipped the towel from her shoulder and slapped it back and forth along the bar. “You've had your fun, so why don't you stop with the suspense and let us all in on your supposed news.”

Matthew turned and raised his hands. “Might I have a moment of you gentlemen's time?”

The resumed talk and laughter of the village's men quieted until the only sounds were the crack and spit of the fire and the gathering wind whistling outside the misted windows. Matthew scanned the crowd and spotted each of the half-dozen faces he'd hoped to see. For these particular men, his news would surely change their expressions from forlorn, almost hopeless, to happy and optimistic.

“I have some good news.” Matthew smiled as pride spread through him that at last he had some cheer to bring these fine, hardworking men. “Unfortunately, not for all of you just yet, but I am positive things will continue to get better throughout the New Year.”

There was a scuffle of shoes and chair legs on the stone floor as the men drew closer or stretched their necks to see him over the heads of the people in front of them.

“I have just returned from the city, where I met with several associates in the tool, furniture, and ale trades. I managed to secure a two-year contract with each of these associates, and I am pleased to say that John, Harold”—he looked at each face in turn—“Benjamin, Claude, Charley, and Gus, you will oversee and profit from these business deals. Undoubtedly, there will be months of hard work ahead of you, but I hope the money and prospects for a brighter future will be worth it.”

The tavern erupted into a barrage of male shouts, laughter, and back slapping as every man stepped forward to congratulate their six fellow villagers whose days of hunger and worry had been alleviated for a time, at least.

Matthew savored the joy that swept over him. The benefit of these men's good fortune would spread to every corner of every house within Biddestone. The people here were special. They were generous, close-knit, supportive, and kind. When one family could afford more daily bread than the other, the surplus was shared and enjoyed by others less fortunate. The noise grew in volume, and smiling, Matthew raised his hands again. “Pint of ale for everyone!”

A huge roar of approval bounced from the stone walls, and Matthew stood away from the bar as the men surged forward, their tankards held out for Maggie to fill. She laughed. “Bloody hell, Squire, you could've given me some warning.”

Matthew winked and raised his tankard before taking another hefty gulp.

Adrenaline pumped through him.

Biddestone had been his life since he was in short trousers. Generation after generation of Cleaves had run the finances and prospects of this fine English village for decades. For the first time in months, the possibility of a solid and profitable livelihood for some of the best people a man could know seemed tangible.

One by one, the villagers shook his hand as they filed back to their chairs, a fresh pint in hand. Once the crowd around the bar had eased, Matthew approached Maggie, unable to wipe away his grin. “That felt good. Really good.”

“I expect it did.” She leaned her elbows on the bar, her eyes dark. “You're needed here, Squire. There ain't nowhere else you should be but here, looking after these good men and their families.”

Matthew's smile faltered. Were his aspirations to be with Jane written on his brow like a chalked message? “Why do you say that like I've plans to be somewhere else?”

She lifted her shoulders, her gaze intent. “You might have been here in person these past few months, but your mind and heart have been elsewhere. You've done good by bringing some work back from the city, but it's going to take more than that to reassure folk you ain't going to up and leave one day.”

Foreboding stole over Matthew's shoulders, heavy and unwanted. “Meaning?”

“Meaning you need an heir, Squire. You need a boy to grow big and strong and love the village as you do. None of those men are going to feel secure in their beds until they know there is another Cleaves waiting to take the helm.”

Matthew opened his mouth to respond, but Maggie heaved her bosom from the bar and walked away to talk to someone at the far end. Matthew stared after her, unease knotting his stomach where euphoria had burned moments before.

Jane's face appeared in his mind's eye.

For all his enthusiasm to be with her, to romance and make love to her, the reality was clear that Jane wished, more than anything, to forge a different life in Bath. Was it true what she'd inferred—and what he'd tried so hard to deny? Would Biddestone always be the center of his existence? With the villagers' ecstasy ringing in his ears, he couldn't imagine being anywhere else. So, what did that mean for him and Jane?

Matthew snatched his hat from the bar and strode outside into the bitterly cold wind, a horrible sense of responsibility lying heavy on his shoulders.

 

The wind howled outside the windows of Matthew's study as though the devil's breath itself wreaked its warning. As he'd predicted, the dip in temperature had brought forth an unseasonably heavy snowfall when he'd taken leave of the White Horse and made his way back home. Now fed, he was finally alone to brood and think of his future. . . a future that, deep in his heart, he knew would always be tied to Biddestone. He took a mouthful of claret and reached for the decanter on a small table beside him. He refilled his glass and took another mouthful.

As he stared toward the latticed window, his vision blurred with drink and his face pinched hot from the heat of the crackling fire. His brooding frustration was dangerous.

Flanders had the sense to at least wait until Matthew had eaten his dinner before telling him, “The squiress has been located, sir. She will be writing shortly with a response to the request that you meet with her.”

Matthew lifted his glass to his lips once more and the liquid trembled. What was he to say to Elizabeth when he laid eyes upon her again? It had been almost seven months since she walked out, telling him she would never return and wished to make her life with Charles Jefferson. A man he didn't know . . . or care to know.

He lifted his glass to his lips again and swirled the rich, fruity liquid around in his mouth, before swallowing it, his teeth clenched. His thoughts were jumbled, marred by indecision—and by images of Jane and her beautiful, kind, and lovely face.

A low growl rumbled through his chest, and he put his glass on the table. Rising shakily to his feet, Matthew stumbled toward the window and gripped the walls on either side. Across the thin layer of snow covering his back garden, the pond shone through the falling flakes, its fountain flicking beads of water across its surface.

An ethereal image of Jane rose from the pond's depths, naked and glistening with droplets. She stared straight at him, her mouth wide with a smile so breathtaking, his heartbeat faltered before he released his held breath. His eyes burned with shaming tears. Her hair was wet, gloriously free, and lying over each shoulder, tantalizingly hiding her nipples from view.

His cock hardened and he squeezed his eyes shut, whipping away from the window and pushing his hands into his hair. He was drunk. Drunk with love? With stupidity? How dare he fall in love with Jane so quickly, so succinctly, when she had always been there if he had only bothered to pay attention.

The choices he had made were his own doing. Had he not frequented Bath in the Season purposely looking for a woman of high breeding whom he could marry? Had he not carried the promise to marry well for his father like a vow? Hadn't he sought to have a family so a Cleaves would always be squire? He stormed across the room and snatched up the decanter, refilling his glass. He drank deep, his hand shaking.

He was a man of his own making. He had no one to blame but himself.

“Damn it to hell.” He squeezed his eyes shut and gripped the wing-backed chair beside him, his heart thundering.

It was what happened next that mattered. The choices he had to make were clear. His marriage was over, of that much he was certain. He and Elizabeth would divorce, but how was he to leave the village? Did he really want to leave Biddestone and be the Cleaves, the heir, who walked away and left the squiredom to his younger brother?

He swayed on his feet and dropped into the chair, claret leaping from his glass onto the rug. Reaching to the side table, Matthew put down his glass and dropped his head back, closing his eyes.

He should at least ask David, should he not? His brother could give the care and love to a village that had been in their family for generations. Yet, Matthew had promised David his freedom from their father's long-reaching, often soul-destroying, familial obligation.

David had worked hard for his position as a rector in the neighboring village, had fought against their father to ensure a lifelong dream of becoming a member of the clergy. Matthew could no more put the responsibility of the village and its tenants on his brother than he would anyone else. Being a squire was hard. The responsibility was sometimes debilitating. Yet, it was a position he had taken gladly, puffed up with pride and self-worth.

He opened his eyes and laughed at his naïveté. He had assumed a wife would come along and they would live happily ever after. An insane notion, considering his mother and father had barely spoken to one another come the end. Two parents. Both dead.

Matthew could never leave.

Men from new money, who had an innate hunger to prove themselves worthy by settling down in one of England's finest houses, would be two a penny in this fast-growing, newly industrial world. Yet Matthew's pride in his home and lineage was too strong to consider such a person obtaining his rightful legacy.