In the Arms of an Earl (13 page)

Jane’s fingers skidded across the keys. “Shropshire?” Her heartbeat drummed in her ears.

Jeremy was almost certainly on his way to Hartleigh, to propose the marriage neither of them wanted. If he spoke to her father, all would be lost. She looked up at him, an unspoken plea at the back of her throat. Her very life hung on his next words.

“He’s a friend of Colonel Parker’s,” he said, his eyes flitting from the letter in his hand and back to her face, as if he were waiting for her reaction. “Colonel Frederick Blakeney.”

Fiery warmth spread from her center and out to each limb, so even her fingertips tingled. Of all the people to find her little corner of the world! Surely, Colonel Blakeney wasn’t an emissary for Jeremy’s proposal. Colonel Parker would have come himself or written her father sooner. But if her marriage to Jeremy wasn’t the colonel’s purpose in coming to Hartleigh, what other reason could he possibly have?

She closed the lid with a bang. Her mother looked up sharply.

“Who is Colonel Blakeney?” Mrs. Brooke asked.

“As Papa said—a friend of Colonel Parker’s. He visited when I was there.”

“Well, an old man can make do with fish pie, I daresay. You never mentioned any guests at the Parkers’. Still, if he’s not a wealthy bachelor, I suppose he’s of no interest to us.”

Frederick’s face filled her thoughts until she could no longer sit still. He would not come all this way to Weston to act on Jeremy’s behalf. He barely tolerated him as it was.

Her father seemed to be watching her with thinly veiled amusement. Was it possible the colonel had an altogether different motive? One of a personal nature? Her fears dissipated, replaced with the beginning seeds of hope she’d hardly dared consider.

“Papa, I’ll go into Weston and bring back a nice joint. Fish pie is a little…plain.”

“He must have made a good impression on you,” her mother observed suspiciously. “I’ve never heard
you
volunteer to go to the butcher’s. You can send the cook’s boy.”

Jane shifted on the bench. Her middle jumped and twitched as if she’d swallowed a handful of tadpoles. She imagined her father hid a smirk behind his hand, but he quickly gave her a natural smile.

“When is he coming, Papa?”

“He should be here by six. You’ll have enough time to change your frock and pin up your hair.”

“My old poplin will have to do,” said her mother. “All the funds I laid aside for a new wardrobe have gone toward repairing the drains.” She arched an eyebrow at Jane. “You can do with a little scrub. You’ve ink all over your hands, my girl.” She flicked her gaze toward her husband and returned to her sewing. “What can this friend of Colonel Parker’s want with us?”

“His letter was most respectable, my dear. He’s passing through Weston and wished to stop by and make our acquaintance.”

“Well,” she sniffed, glancing at Jane, “perhaps he’s brought some of the things you left behind at Everhill. I noticed you returned without the silk shawl Lady Simpson gave you at Christmas. And the laundress told me you’ve lost one of your good wool stockings. You should be more mindful. Fine wool doesn’t grow on trees, you know.”

“No, Mamma, it grows on sheep.” Jane turned to her father. “Did his letter say anything else?”

“He said he would be here in time for dinner. You must have made quite an impression for him to travel so far out of his way just to return an inestimable shawl and priceless stockings.”

His gaze searched her face. She maintained an innocent demeanor, though her heart continued to pound. She wanted to leap from her seat and dance around the room but folded her hands on her lap, twisting them into her apron so her father wouldn’t notice their trembling.

“He was a kind gentleman, Papa. We discussed music.”

“As if it matters to anyone that Jane made an impression on an old soldier.” Her mother snipped the end of her thread. “Now, if you’d stolen the heart of some wealthy young man, well”—she arched her eyebrows—“that would be news, indeed. Was not Colonel Parker’s son charming enough for you? He’s to inherit a tidy sum when his father dies.”

Jane sprang up from the bench with a muffled gasp of dismay. Mr. Brooke gave her a quizzical look.

“My dear friend’s son has always struck me as being totally unsuitable for any of our girls. However, it is very kind of Colonel Blakeney to come all the way to Hampshire to return a shawl.”

Jane met his gaze. “There is no other reason, Papa.”

“If you ask me,” her mother announced, “Jane should be looking for a husband, not worrying about lieutenants bearing shawls.” She shot Jane a glance. “Your poor father sent you all the way to Shropshire in the hopes you’d make a suitable match. The best you could do was an old man with a stiff back and gout in both knees!”

“Colonel Blakeney was not gouty in the least, Mamma,” Jane protested, but her mother waved her hand at both of them.

“My dear, I hardly inferred any infirmity from this man’s letter,” her father said. “And it was not my idea for Jane to go all the way to Shropshire to catch a husband. The trip was born of our meeting the Parkers at Bath last season. Jane is quite friendly with his daughter, Lucinda, as you recall.”

“Yes, friendly with that chattering girl, another spinster in the making! I knew we should have sent you to Lyonsgate, Jane. You’d have met one of Mr. Copeland’s clever friends. This Lucinda Parker only knows painting. What possible entertainments did you have there you could not have had here?” Before Jane could reply, she continued. “Such a waste of a trip, since you only returned with a few drawings of yourself as a fairy, and not one proposal! When I was a girl, I’d had four proposals by the time I met your father. Now, what was the name of Mr. Shelbourne’s friend, the one from Oxford? He’d do for you, Jane, if you can overlook the mole on the side of his face. He’s not too fastidious in his dress, but his nose is always stuck in a book. You two should get along splendidly.”

“Winthrop Smathers is a bore and smells rather badly,” Jane protested. An image of the colonel’s bronzed torso when she’d help him dress suddenly occupied her thoughts. In a few hours, he’d be at her house. She tidied her music into neat stacks. If only she had some clever box to stow her papers, or her old pianoforte was newer, like Lucinda’s. She frowned as she took in the furnishings. The sofa was new, but the carpet was older and frayed at the corners. Everhill had the feeling of a country manor, whereas Hartleigh was an elaborate farmhouse.

“You can wear a clothespin on your nose if need be! Winthrop Smathers has a thousand a year. You must consider these things, Jane. Your father isn’t going to live forever.”

“Oh, that my prayers will be answered,” her father muttered, and Jane laughed weakly. Her mother brightened.

“You could go to town for the season. I’m sure Rosalind won’t mind if you tag along. She can introduce you to someone suitable. If you learned how to dance properly, some rich man would be sure to take you.” Her dubious gaze scanned Jane.

“Come, my dear,” her father said, winking at Jane, “she’s still a child. What are you, Jane…sixteen come summer?”

“I am one-and-twenty, Papa, as you well know.”

“Hardly a spinster, for all the books you’ve buried your nose in these past few years.” Her father smoothed back a lock of her hair. “Besides, I’m sure one of your sisters can help you find a husband when the time comes.”

Her mother perked up. “Oh yes! A handsome officer in regimentals. Amelia can ask Mr. Copeland. Perhaps he has a friend.”

Jane pictured Frederick in his regimentals. He would have cut a striking figure, indeed. She looked down at her hands. Ink-stained fingertips and her palms were calloused from helping in the garden the day before.
Hardly the hands of a lady
. She frowned. The colonel’s purpose was probably in the guise of a friend. What other reason could he have in coming to Weston?

Mr. Brooke tucked the letter into his pocket. “Tell Cook to order whatever you think will please Colonel Blakeney, Jane. Then, hurry upstairs and ready yourself to greet this
old
friend of Colonel Parker. If I’m not mistaken, you have about four hours before I meet him and bring him here.”

“You are fetching him from Weston, Mr. Brooke?” her mother asked.

“I thought it only proper. He is, after all, a good friend of my own good friend. What better way to greet someone who has troubled himself in coming all the way to Hampshire to return your daughter’s shawl?”

Something akin to a look of conspiracy crossed her father’s face, but Jane could not decide what it was. She gave him a quick kiss on the cheek and nearly skipped from the drawing room in her haste to reach her own chamber.

As she reached the hall, her mother exclaimed, “And why should Jane dress up to greet some old general?”

****

Jane studied her garments in the clothes press and sighed aloud. One gown was too gay. Another, far too drab. The clock in the hall chimed the half hour. It was past five o’clock. Her father was probably waiting in Weston for the post chaise. In a few minutes, he and Colonel Blakeney would be driving down Thistle Street, heading for her house.

She swiped her damp palms on her skirt. Jeremy couldn’t be the reason he was coming. But why else would an important man like the colonel travel so far out of his way to deliver a shawl and stocking, worth no more than a few shillings?

She rifled through the dresses with rising exasperation. Lucinda’s wardrobe had overflowed with gowns for all occasions in every color and fabric imaginable. She wished now she had paid more attention to her own costuming needs.

Uttering a groan, she seized the first thing she touched. It was one of Amelia’s old dresses, and one of Jane’s favorites. She quickly tugged off her plain housedress and pulled Amelia’s dress over her head. Her wealthy, married sisters had supplied her with some new things, but Jane preferred the familiar. Wearing Amelia’s cream-colored muslin or Rosalind’s blue pelisse brought the absent sisters closer.

She pinched the sides of her loose bodice. Not all the tugging and exhaling in the world could shrink the material. She snatched a piece of lace from a drawer and stuffed it in the top of her corset, then checked the mirror. It still needed something else.

The empty box of chocolates the colonel had given her was on the floor of her wardrobe, tucked behind a hatbox. Every time she raised the lid and caught the faint aroma, her memory flooded with the image of a sun-dappled path, where she’d strolled alongside the man she could not forget.

She untied the pink velvet bow on the box. It was long enough to fit her narrow waist, and she fastened it securely under her breasts. The effect was perfection itself, and she mentally applauded her stroke of genius. Lucinda would have been proud.

She sat at her dressing table and studied her face in the mirror. Wide-set, hazel-brown eyes stared back. She was grateful for her complexion, which was clear and pale, with rosy cheeks when she was excited or overheated. Why should she be so now? Colonel Blakeney had merely shown her some new practices on the pianoforte and helped her with her composition. He’d shared poetry and discussed with her the Romantic way of thinking. He was experienced and clever, handsome and wealthy. He could have any woman in England. Surely, his sole purpose in coming to Hartleigh was to return her shawl. Perhaps he thought her poor enough she’d miss it.

Her face burned with the remembered shame of her sudden departure. He probably thought her foolish to decline a marriage proposal, regardless of the source. After all, it was not as if eligible bachelors were wearing a path between London and Weston for her sake.

Perhaps he’d even desired a marriage between her and Jeremy. She had misread his kindness through her lack of experience in such matters. She was thirteen years his junior, and from a family of little social consequence, for all that her sisters had married so well.

Hardly a suitable wife for a man of the world

a man who’d known adventure and romance. Who read shocking, modern poets who wrote of love and desires she couldn’t fathom. It was useless dreaming about marriage to the colonel anyway. Lucinda had said he would never marry.

His face filled her mind. The way he’d looked at her, after coming upon her and Jeremy.

She dropped her head in her hands. How could she have made such a mistake? Her friendship with the colonel was blossoming, but one frivolous moment destroyed it all. Perhaps he was on his way to persuade her parents to force her to marry Jeremy. He might believe it the only way she’d catch a husband.

If his mission was to plead Jeremy’s suit, she needn’t worry. She was of age and could do as she pleased. A new strength stirred within her. Regardless of his purpose, she would meet him head on. She’d changed a lot in the last few weeks. No longer was she the innocent girl who’d left home, but had returned a little wiser. She had been kissed.

Pushing away from the table, she stood and gave her reflection a last fleeting look before heading downstairs. It mattered little if her hair didn’t curl just so, or her cheeks were too pink and flushed. He was only coming as a friend.

It was too much to hope his purpose was anything more.

Chapter Thirteen

The servants scurried between the dining and drawing rooms, setting the table with Mrs. Brooke’s finest crystal and china.

“Bring more wood, Harold,” her mother exclaimed, tugging on the arm of the gardener’s son. She looked up and saw Jane. “Goodness, child! You should have told us Colonel Blakeney was the Earl of Falconbury’s brother! I would have had six courses, or at least five, but now only have the three, with a day old pudding, besides!” She whirled away to plump a fat pillow on the silver damask sofa.