More than a Mistress/No Man's Mistress (44 page)

“A fig?” he said. “I do not even like figs, Jane. I like you.”

“Go away,” she told him. “You toy with me. I suppose I have much for which to thank you. Without you I
would be in Cornwall now battling it out with Sidney and the Earl of Durbury. But I am not convinced you did not help merely for your pride's sake. You were not there for me when I really needed you to confide in. You—”

He reached out and set one finger across her lips. She stopped abruptly.

“Let me tell it,” he said. “We grew close during that week, Jane. Closer than I have ever been to anyone else. We shared interests and conversation. We shared comfort and emotions. We became friends as well as lovers. More than friends. More than lovers. You convinced me without ever preaching at me that to be a whole person I had to forgive myself and my father too for what happened in the past. You convinced me that being a man does not consist of cutting off all one's finer feelings and more tender emotions. You taught me to feel again, to face the past again, to remember that there was joy as well as pain in my boyhood. And all this you did by just being there. By just being Jane.”

She drew her head free of his finger, but he would not allow her to speak. Not yet. He cupped her chin in his hand.

“You told me,” he said, “that you would have confided in me as I had in you if I had not discovered the truth about you just when I did. I should have believed you, Jane. And even when I first learned the truth, I should have reacted far differently than I did. I should have come to you. I should have taken you in my arms, as you had taken me the night before, told you what I had discovered, and invited you to tell me all, to trust me, to lean on me. I knew how difficult it was to relive some memories. I had got past that difficulty just the night before
and should have been far more sensitive. I failed myself, Jane. And dammit, I failed you.”

“Don't,” she said. “You are despicable. I cannot fight you when you talk like this.”

“Don't fight me,” he told her. “Forgive me, Jane? Please?”

She searched his eyes as if to judge his sincerity. He had never seen her so defenseless. She was not even trying to hide her yearning to believe him.

“Jane,” he said softly, “you have taught me that there really is love.”

Two tears spilled over and ran down her cheeks. He blotted them with his thumbs, cupping her face with both hands, and then he leaned forward to kiss the dried spot on each cheek.

“I thought you were going to d-die!” she blurted suddenly. “I thought we would be too late. I thought I would hear a shot and find you dead. I had a feeling about it here.” She patted her heart. “A premonition. I was desperate to reach you, to say all the things I had never said, to—to … oh,
why
can I never find a handkerchief when I most need one?” She was fumbling around at the pocketless seams of her dress, sniffing inelegantly.

He handed her a large white one.

“But you did reach me in time,” he said, “and you did say all those things. Let me see if I can remember accurately. Horrid man? Arrogant? Bull-headed—that was a nasty one, Jane. You loathed me? I was never ever to come near you again? Have I missed anything?”

She blew her nose and then appeared not to know what to do with the handkerchief. He took it from her and put it away in his pocket.

“I would have died if you had died,” she said, and he
had the satisfaction of seeing that she was growing cross again. “Horrid, loathsome man. If you ever again get yourself into a situation that invites a challenge from another man, I will kill you myself.”

“Will you, my love?” he asked her.

She compressed her lips. “You are determined to have me, are you not?” she asked him. “Is this all a ruse?”

“If you knew what I am suffering, Jane,” he said. “I am terrified that you are going to say no. And I know that if you do, there will be no shifting you. Have pity on me. I have never been in this position before. I have always been able to have my own way with ease.”

But she would only look back at him with the same expression on her face.

“What is it?” he asked her, but she shook her head slightly. “Jane, I long to go home. To go back to Acton—with you. To start creating our own memories and our own traditions there. You thought you knew my dreams. But this is my dream. Will you not share it with me?”

She pressed her lips even harder together.

“Why have you stopped talking to me?” He clasped his hands at his back and leaned his head slightly closer to her. “Jane?”

“This is all about
you
, is it not?” she blurted. “About what you want? About your dreams? What about me? Do you even care about me?”

“Tell me,” he said. “What about you, Jane? What do you want? Do you want me to go away? Seriously? Tell me if you do—but quietly and seriously, not in a passion, so that I will know that you mean what you say. Tell me to go and I will.”

Even facing Forbes's pistol a few days before had not filled him with such terror.

“I am with
child,
” she cried. “I have no choices left.”

He recoiled rather as if she had punched him on the chin with the full force of her fist. Good God! How long had she known? Would she have told him if he had not come today? Would she
ever
have told him? Ever have confided in him, trusted him, forgiven him?

She glared at him in the silence that followed her words. He clasped his hands so tightly behind his back that he felt pain.

“Ah, so,” he said softly at last. “Well, this changes everything, Jane.”

ADY WEBB OPENED JANE'S DRESSING ROOM DOOR
and stepped inside. Dressed in midnight blue with matching plumed turban, she formed a marked contrast to Jane, who looked almost ethereal in a fashionable low-cut gown of white lace over white satin, silver thread gleaming on the scalloped hem, the sash beneath her bosom, and the short scalloped sleeves. She wore long white gloves and silver slippers and had a narrow white, silver-shot ribbon threaded through her golden hair.

“Oh, Sara, my dear,” Lady Webb said, “you are indeed the daughter I never had. How fortunate I am. But how I wish your poor mother could be here to see you on surely the most important day of your life. You look positively beautiful.”

Jane had been critically examining her appearance in the long pier glass in her dressing room. She turned to her godmother.

“You said exactly the same thing yesterday when I was forced to wear those horrid, heavy, old-fashioned clothes that the queen insists upon when one is being presented at one of her Drawing Rooms,” she said. “I certainly feel better tonight.”

“Your presentation at court was obligatory,” Lady Webb said. “Your come-out ball is your personal, triumphant entry into society.”

“Will it be a triumph, do you suppose?”

Jane picked up her fan from the dressing table. She was feeling a fluttering of anxiety about the evening ahead. All day there had been a great hustle and bustle in preparation for the ball. Since returning from a morning outing with her maid, she had watched in wonder as the ballroom was transformed before her eyes. It was decked out all in white and silver ribbons and bows and flowers, the only color provided by the lush green of leaves and ferns. The great chandeliers had been lowered and cleaned and filled with hundreds of new candles. The orchestra had arrived late in the afternoon and set up their instruments on the dais. The dining room had been set with all the best porcelain and crystal and silverware for a sumptuous supper banquet at midnight.

“Of
course
it will be a triumph,” Lady Webb said, approaching Jane and hugging her, though not closely enough to rumple either of them. “How could it not? You are Lady Sara Illingsworth, daughter of the late Earl of Durbury and a great heiress. You are as lovely as the princesses of fairy tales. And you already have a considerable court of admirers.”

Jane smiled ruefully.

“You could make any of a number of brilliant matches,” her godmother told her. “Viscount Kimble, for example, has been markedly attentive and could be brought up to scratch, I believe. You need not feel obliged to allow Tresham to continue paying court to you—if he intends to do so, that is. He came and made you a decent offer—at least, I trust it was decent. But the choice is yours, Sara.”

“Aunt Harriet,” Jane said half reproachfully.

“But I will say no more on that subject,” Lady Webb said briskly. “I have already said enough—perhaps too
much. Come, we must go down to the ballroom. Our guests will be arriving soon. Cyril and Dorothy will be waiting for us.”

Lord Lansdowne was Lady Webb's brother. She had invited him and his wife to help her host the ball. Lord Lansdowne was to lead Jane into the opening set of dances.

The ballroom had looked magnificent in the light of late afternoon. Now it looked nothing short of breathtaking. The candles had all been lit. They sparkled gold above all the white and silver, their light multiplied by the long mirrors along the walls.

It all looked, Jane thought, almost like a room prepared for a bridal ball. But it was her come-out they were celebrating tonight. And all must go well. Nothing must be allowed to spoil it. Aunt Harriet had given so much time and energy—as well as a great deal of money—to make sure that yesterday and today would be perfect for her goddaughter.

“Are you nervous, Sara?” Lady Lansdowne asked.

Jane turned to her with eyes that were tear-filled, despite herself. “Only insofar as I want everything to go well for Aunt Harriet's sake,” she said.

“You look as fine as fivepence, I must say, my dear,” Lord Lansdowne told her. “Now, if only I can disguise the fact that I have two left feet …” He laughed heartily.

Jane turned to Lady Webb, who was regarding her with a maternal eye. “Thank you so very much for all this, Aunt Harriet,” she said. “My own mama could not have done better for me.”

“Well, my dear. What can I say?” Lady Webb looked suspiciously dewy-eyed.

Fortunately, perhaps, there were some early guests arriving.
The four of them hurried to form a receiving line outside the ballroom doors.

The next hour sped by in a blur for Jane as she was formally presented at long last—at the advanced age of twenty—to her peers in the
ton
. There were familiar faces among those of strangers. Some people she felt she already knew quite well. There was the very handsome and charming Viscount Kimble, who Aunt Harriet seemed to believe was a prospective suitor for her hand. There was the amiable Sir Conan Brougham, and a few more of Jocelyn's friends, who had visited him at Dudley House while Jane was there. There was Lord Ferdinand Dudley, who bowed over her hand, raised it to his lips, and grinned at her with his attractive boyish charm. And there were Lord and Lady Heyward. The former bowed courteously, said all that was correct, and would have moved on into the ballroom if his wife had not had other ideas.

“Oh, Sara,” she said, hugging Jane tightly at risk of grave damage to both their appearances, “you
do
look lovely. I am
so
envious of your ability to wear white. I look like a ghost in it myself and simply must wear brighter colors. Though Tresham and Ferdie are forever criticizing my taste, odious creatures. Is Tresham coming tonight? He would not give me a direct answer when I met him in the park this afternoon. Have the two of you had words? How splendid of you actually to quarrel with him. No one has ever been able to stand up to him before. I do hope you will not forgive him too readily but will make him suffer. But tomorrow, you know—”

But Lord Heyward had grasped her firmly by the elbow. “Come, my love,” he said. “The line will be stretched down the stairs and across the hall and out to the pavement if we stand here talking any longer.”

“
Have
you quarreled with the duke, Sara?” Lady Webb asked as they turned away. “You had so little to say for yourself after he called on you last week. Do you know if he intends to come tonight?”

But there really was a line of people waiting to be presented. There was no chance for further private talk.

He did come. Of course he came. He was late, but not
too
late. Jane and Lady Webb were still standing outside the ballroom doors with Lord and Lady Lansdowne while all was abuzz inside and the members of the orchestra were tuning their instruments. He was dressed in a tailed black, form-fitting evening coat with gray silk knee breeches, silver-embroidered waistcoat, sparkling white linen, lace, and stockings, and black dancing shoes. He was looking formal and correct and haughty as he bowed in turn to everyone in the receiving line.

“Lady Sara,” he murmured when he came to Jane. He grasped the handle of his jeweled quizzing glass but did not raise it quite to his eye as he looked her over slowly from head to toe. “Dear me. Looking almost like a bride.”