The Heart's Companion (2 page)

Jane sighed, knowing better than to argue with that truth. "In all events, I trust she does not expect us to introduce her to the earl. I didn’t even know he was in the area, and I am certainly not going to go out of my way to make his acquaintance."

"I have no doubt Serena and Millicent will somehow contrive to meet him," said Lady Elsbeth dryly. "But I do wish she’d given me more notice. A house party in less than a week! She was also rather vague about the number of guests accompanying her. I must speak to Mrs. Phibbs about airing some rooms and stocking the larder. And what shall we do about entertainment?"

A slow smile spread across Jane’s lips.

Lady Elsbeth, seeing her niece’s expression, repressed a shudder. "I know that look. You’re planning mischief."

"Not at all. I am merely contemplating how we might use Penwick Park for entertainment that may swiftly chase off my dear aunt and cousin."

"I don’t understand."

"Unless Aunt Serena and Millicent have drastically changed in the past few years, they hate to bestir themselves unless it is for dancing or shopping. Their idea of enjoyment is to sit in a central portion of a room, strike an elegant pose, and allow the world to come to them. No, not allow, demand the world come to them. Consequently, what do you think would happen if we plan sports and games, picnics and outings; in short, all manner of active country pastimes? Perhaps we could also make a point of including the children whenever possible. Yes. We shall contrive entertainments that are anything but sedentary. Then we will see how much my aunt and dear cousin like the country!"

Lady Elsbeth’s answering smile was all that Jane could hope for.

"You won’t throw a rub in my way?"

"I? I should say not. I don’t know what has happened in the past between you and Serena, but I’ll wager you’ll take the ribbon this meet. I must confess Serena has never been a favored sibling of mine. And I cannot help but wonder if she wishes my spinster services in some way, and that is why she is so anxious to see you married. While I, too, wish to see you married, I have no intention of becoming her unpaid servant when that happy event transpires. No, plan what you will. I shall be a cheerful spectator of this game."

Jane’s expressive green eyes narrowed in thought. "Games... games.... Yes. I shall plan recreation totally in keeping with Penwick Park’s attributes and therefore above suspicion. I might even come to enjoy this visit."

"I wouldn’t care to hazard funds on that likelihood, but I shan’t interfere." Lady Elsbeth gathered up her correspondence. "As I stated before, I have household plans to make with Mrs. Phibbs. May I ask a boon of you?"

Jane set down her coffee cup and absently brushed muffin crumbs from the tablecloth into her hand. "Naturally, Elsbeth. You know better than to ask." She emptied her hand over her plate.

"I know, but as I am the one here on sufferance, I feel a need to ask and not presume." She ignored Jane’s annoyed expression. "I was to take a decoction of herbs over to Mrs. Chitterdean this morning. Her maid has contracted a perfectly wicked grippe that is threatening to descend into her chest. Mrs. Chitterdean is frantic, for evidently Mr. Chitterdean is susceptible to every ill and whenever he does take to his bed with an illness he invariably loses his voice completely. Not a sound can he make, not even a whisper!"

Jane laughed. "I understand her concern. For a man of the cloth to lose his voice must be a veritable disaster! I shall be happy to take your medicinal syrup over to the parsonage."

"Thank you. And I promise to do all I can to make this proposed visit from my sister as short as possible. Are you sure you don’t want to tell me what contretemps lie between yourself and Serena?"

Jane smiled, albeit wistfully, as she rose from the table. "No, best of my aunts, not even for you shall I wallow in my unhappy past. It is done. It is obvious that even Aunt Serena sees it in that light. Now if you’ll excuse me, I must speak to Twink about delaying the boys’ lessons for the day. You know," she mused with a tiny laugh, "I do believe that were I forced to earn wages, I should make a frightful governess. I can always seem to discover an excuse for putting off lessons. "

Lady Elsbeth laughed as she tucked her sister’s letter into a small pocket at the side of her high-waisted morning gown. "But just the sort of governess the boys would prefer. Nevertheless, I don’t know why you insist on taking over their lessons."

"Because poor Twink is barely capable of supervising the boys. I dare not ask her to do more than that. Besides, the subjects the boys are studying would leave her baffled and querulous if she were asked anything. But if we do not attempt to establish some measure of discipline in this household, we shall be ridden roughshod."

Lady Elsbeth laughed and shook her head. "No matter. Come down to the stillroom when you are ready to leave. I shall make up a basket for Mrs. Chitterdean and leave it on the worktable."

Jane Grantley scanned the blackberry hedge. It was early in the season, though many branches near the top of the verdant growth already sported large, deeply colored berries. Not enough, perhaps, for jam making, but far too many to leave to the birds alone. Blackberries with cream would make a nice treat for the children’s tea, and the idea of picking the ripe fruit reminded Jane of her happy childhood. It was funny how life took so many odd twists and turns, quite in the manner of the maze at Hampton Court.

It was eight years since she’d been without a care and had the freedom to pick berries. Not since her mother died shortly after Mary’s wedding. Afterward, it took a long time to pick up the pieces of her life, to sail ahead, ready to meet new experiences with assurance. Luckily, or unluckily, the semblance of confidence was easily donned until, with time, the true article came to cloak her.

Jane sorely missed her mother when she’d had her come out. Perhaps if she’d been alive, Jane’s life would have run differently. She doubted she’d be worrying Lady Elsbeth with fears of spinsterhood. Unfortunately, without her mother’s calm good sense and guidance, it took her a painfully long time to learn to believe in herself. At least those days were long past and she could once again enjoy life.

Jane glanced down at the empty basket she’d set by her feet, then glanced up toward the sun, screening her eyes with a slender hand as she evaluated that fiery orb’s position in the sky. She hadn’t tarried long at the parsonage. Mrs. Chitterdean was too distracted for stimulating conversation, her thoughts on the sick housemaid and her husband’s susceptibility to infection. She’d thanked Jane effusively for the herbs and questioned her closely on their proper usage, then her mind seemed to drift away toward the tiny upstairs room the maid occupied. After hearing a protracted fit of hacking coughs from above stairs, Jane gracefully took her leave, promising Mrs. Chitterdean that Lady Elsbeth would brew more of the decoction should it prove necessary.

She judged that it still wanted the hour of noon, and she would not be expected back at Penwick Park for some time yet. It would be no great matter to delay her return in favor of harvesting some of summer’s early bounty. She picked up her basket and studied the ground leading to the ripe berries. She would have to step carefully, but she decided the goal was worth the effort. Smiling in delight at her enterprise, she stepped through the tall grasses and wildflowers and began filling the basket with berries. Not far away a lark sang, accompanied by a gentle breeze soughing through the trees and bees buzzing as they moved from flower to flower in the fields and on the tiny white blossoms remaining on the hedge.

Jane realized she was filled with a serenity she’d not felt in years. She found she could even look on her aunt’s and cousin’s proposed visit with a modicum of amused equanimity. That knowledge surprised her, for the last house party she’d attended with them had been an unmitigated disaster. Though, she reflected, it had proved educational, even if it had cost her a prospective groom. Months afterward she considered it a turning point in her life.

She paused, remembering those mercurial days. How she admired and liked David Hedgeworth! She wove such schoolgirl dreams about him. He embodied for her the ideal gentleman: refined, considerate of others, gentle, organized, and intelligent. Those were the attributes she saw and most admired. What she failed to consider was his wealth. But who would blame her, as plump-in-the-pockets as she was herself? She failed to understand how desperately people sought gold’s glitter.

Jane sighed. Thanks to her aunt and cousin, she’d been well educated, and it was the Honorable Miss Millicent Tipton, rather than Miss Jane Grantley, who married David Hedgeworth. She shook her head dolefully, trying to dispel the old memories. Mr. Hedgeworth was dead now. Perhaps it was time to heal the breach with her mother’s sister. Lady Serena Tipton was no lady, but she was family, so perhaps that should count for something.

Jane smiled mischievously, her eyes sparkling. Three years ago she’d proved an apt pupil, and now she had plans to make. Elsbeth was correct, she thought with a hint of smug satisfaction. This game would be hers. Impulsively she leaned farther into the hedge, stretching to gather the plumpest and ripest berries from the top.

She popped a fat, sun-warmed berry into her mouth, then reached up to gather more fruit. A stinging sensation on her arm halted her. Looking down, she discovered blackberry briars clinging to the sleeve of her dress. She pursed her lips at her own carelessness and twisted slightly so her other hand could free the delicate fabric and save it from harm. Her turning tugged and raised her skirts. She glanced down at the blue and red patterned muslin dress and bit back a cry of dismay. With chagrin she realized what her impetuous foray to reach the topmost berries had accomplished. She was caught in brambles and every move she made caused thorns to sink deeper into the fine muslin fabric. Freeing herself would be a slow, laborious process else the dress would be reduced to tatters.

Muttering and calling herself every kind of fool, she carefully set the basket of berries down and began to work free her captured sleeve.

"Madam. I am aware the philosopher Montaigne wrote that the path of true virtue demands a rough and thorny road; nonetheless, I do not believe one need take the man’s words quite so literally."

Jane started and looked toward the owner of the deep, sardonic drawl. She found herself staring up at a gentleman dressed in the first style of fashion seated casually astride a large bay horse. Her cheeks stained a deep pink. Several thoughts sailed through her beleaguered brain: first was amazement that she had not heard the animal approach; second that she should be found in so embarrassing a plight; and all the rest centered on the unknown gentleman and the sudden riotous trembling in her limbs. The last so dismayed her that she abruptly drew cold dignity about her like a cloak and disciplined her wayward nerves. Only a faint tinge of high color remained in her cheeks when she finally met his amused gaze and raised one black brow in arrogant inquiry.

"Tall, graceful, black hair, blood-freezing glare...." the man murmured. "Ah! I have it now, you’re the Ice Witch!"

He swung easily out of the saddle, missing the brief spasm of pain that twisted Jane’s features. He led his horse over to a sapling, tying the reins to its sturdy trunk. By the time he turned to face Jane, she had marshaled her emotions and her face once again held the cool, expressionless mask.

"I take it I have the dubious honor of addressing the Earl of Royce?"

"Miss Grantley, you disappoint me. I would have thought you would have returned like for like."

Jane repressed a smile. "By that I gather I should have addressed you as the Devil’s Disciple?"

"Since we have not been formally introduced, the use of informal names seems fitting, does it not?"

His gaze held hers, his eyes so dark they reminded her of night and the wild creatures that roamed in its sheltering darkness. She had never seen the man before, but she felt she would have known him even if she hadn’t been forewarned of his presence in the neighborhood.

He was not a handsome man. His face was tautly lean with high cheekbones and a fierce blade of a nose. Lines of world weariness bracketed those haunting midnight eyes as well as his firm, thin-lipped mouth. His marsh-brown hair was cut unfashionably short with silver lights glinting at the temples and other touches threading its thick depths. No, he was not a handsome man, but there was that within him that would turn a woman’s head no matter her age or station in life. The Devil’s Disciple. He was well named. She shivered involuntarily, her gaze slid away.

"I’m sorry, my lord, but I do not agree with you," she said, cool dismissal in her voice. She directed her attention back to the thorns holding her captive, though she was only too aware of the man's tall, lean presence.

His deep answering laugh made her want to gnash her teeth, though she gave no sigh of perturbation. It was a restraint perfected in her days of uncertainty that she found useful. Few people knew that the confidence she possessed was not carried from birth.

"Confess, Miss Grantley, you are not sorry at all."

She looked up at him then, hauteur shimmering in the hint of a smile she bestowed on him. "You have such a ready understanding, my lord, that my words are superfluous."

He gave a wry smile and bowed elegantly, in a manner that somehow belied the courtesy of the action. Instinctively he admired this tall, slender woman who stood at her ease as if in the middle of a ballroom rather than caught in a blackberry patch. Her piquant face was featured too sharply for beauty, with its thin, straight nose, defiant chin, and prominent cheekbones. Her most arresting feature was the pair of slanting, silver-green eyes that held speculation, intelligence, and coolness in their depths. Meeting her, he now understood the sobriquet Ice Witch, the name bandied by gentlemen who felt her cool green gaze. It was, however, a false description. She was not all cold female arrogance. She was filled with a quiet, yet intractable, womanly self-confidence. She didn’t give a damn about him. Neither his title nor his reputation affected her. He’d met men with a similar self-assurance, but never a woman. He granted she was not his normal flirt; nonetheless, he felt a perverse desire to shake her out of her complacency and see passion melt her green-ice gaze.

"Seeing you standing there, thus, Miss Grantley, I find I am consumed with a desire totally alien to my nature. I would play knight gallant to your damsel in distress." He paused to stroke his chin with one tan-gloved hand. "I am awed by the novelty."

Jane bristled. "I assure you, my lord, I would not have you do anything untoward. It might be too damaging to your sensibilities."

"Oh, you may rest assured on that note, my dear, for I have none," he returned languidly.

Jane compressed her lips to keep from laughing at his sallies. It would not do to encourage this man, and she was confident that any relaxation of her guard would do so.

"Now, let us see how badly Mother Nature wishes you rooted to this spot," he said, striding to her side and bending down to reach the brambles entangling her skirt.

His large hands had a surprisingly light touch as they gently worked her skirt free from the grasping thorns without damage to the fabric. Jane scarcely dared breathe with him standing so close to her; his light touch was somehow too intimate. When he was done and stood up, a deep sigh escaped her. She smiled at him.

"Thank you. Oh!" she screeched as he swept her off her feet and into his arms. "What are you doing? Put me down! How dare you!" She kicked her feet, squirming frantically against his rock hard form. Her struggles only served to tighten his grip.

He laughed at her quick anger. "Calm down, you little witch. I am only assuring myself that my handiwork is not for naught," he said, smiling easily, his dark eyes glinting with devil’s fire. Privately he congratulated himself on piercing the wall of her icy reserve.

He set her down by the side of the road, his hands moving up slowly, decisively, to cup her slender shoulders.

The pulse in her neck began to jump, and she stared bemusedly up at him, caught between indignation and a strange excitement.

"And now I claim my right to reward," he murmured, his voice low and resonant.

"I beg your par—"

Her haughty words were lost in a searing kiss, his fingers tightening about her shoulders as he claimed his prize. Jane, too stunned to resist, bobbed adrift in a wild sea of sensations. When at last he let her go, she staggered backward, her cheeks flaming. But she was mistress of herself, and though her eyes glittered, her manner was cold, clothed in a mantle of aloof dignity.

"You, my lord, are no gentleman!" she pronounced softly.

"Yes, I am aware of that," he said easily, and the raffish smile he returned sent warning shivers down her spine.

Though nettled as much by his cavalier manner as her reaction to him, Jane was determined not to reveal her lack of composure. Aware of a faint warmth in her cheeks, a lamentable mute testimony to the man’s disturbing influence, her black brows came together and she continued to glare at him.

The earl crossed his arms over his broad chest and cocked his head, studying her. "You do that very well."

"My lord?" she asked, chafing at his urbane countenance.

"Have you ever considered a theatrical career? No, of course not," he drawled, lowering his arms to rest his hands on his hips and flashing her another of his relaxed, devilish smiles. "Ladies of fashion and privilege confine their thespian instincts to that greater theater of human comedy: the Bon Ton."

"And gentleman of fashion and privilege confine their brains to the lower half of their bodies!" Jane returned with asperity, then bit her lip in exasperation for allowing herself to be so drawn. Her father and sister often teased her for the sometimes unladylike cast of her mind, but it was a tendency that she had, until now, kept carefully hidden from society.

His dark eyes flared wider, then sank to their habitual heavy-lidded gaze as he burst into appreciative laughter. "A hit! There is fire in our Ice Witch! Well done. But beware, my dear, when and to whom your temper betrays you lest you melt away. Now shall we cry quits and be friends?" he inquired affably.

Jane stood rigid with rage and embarrassment, her skin now blanched white save for two bright flags of color flying high on her cheeks. "Friends implies a commonality of interests and taste. I hardly think that a possibility between us," she regally assured him. "And I remind you that we have not been formally introduced. Therefore it would be the height of impropriety to embroider upon this chance and slight acquaintance," she added repressively.

"Ah, an Ice Witch with cold menace. Or is that your witch’s familiar, complete with claws? I say again, you may find you are out of your league. After all, what is a witch in comparison to a devil? Good day, Miss Grantley," he said curtly, his face a sudden study in granite hardness. He tipped his hat, then turned on his heel, mounted his horse, and rode away without a backward glance.