A Secret Passion (12 page)

Chapter Six

THE surprised stares of two bleary-eyed servants greeted Jane and Clarissa the next morning in the kitchen as they saw to their own spartan breakfasts. The few remaining servants at Pembroke Manor had been enjoying a break from their duties and should have been somewhat put out by the sudden arrival of the two ladies. Yet the maid-of-all-work and the assistant cook burst into smiles and effusive greetings.

“Ah, Miss Jane, the new head groom will be ‘appy to see you. He’s been ‘aving the devil—ah, excuse me, Mum, but he’s been ‘aving a bad time with most o’ the young ‘uns!” said the young cook.

“Nelly, it is good to see you, too! Will you send word to the stable that I’ll come around within the hour?”

With a quick bob, the servant left. Jane had hoped she would not have to set foot in the house, as her father would be furious. She had expected Harry would meet her at the village square with a proposal and a plan. But at least the news of her removal from her family had not reached Cornwall. She fortified herself with the knowledge that Harry would rectify everything within a day or two. And she prayed her father would send George back here to watch over the stables.

To relieve her sense of unease, Jane informed Clarissa of her intention to ride that morning. Clarissa said she would write to her brother to inform him of her temporary invasion of the family home. Jane’s domicile was to be left vague in nature.

Jane breathed deeply as she entered the large, well-kept stables beyond the gardens of her family’s home. There was something achingly familiar about the scents of pine and hay, and the sounds of horses munching on their oats and molasses, that brought a great sense of peace to Jane. She hugged herself and almost cried with the sheer joy of being home. She took great pleasure in talking to the head groom. A three-year-old bay gelding was chosen for morning exercise.

After a fast trot across the first meadow, she urged the young horse over a small stile separating two fields on their property. The strong sun of early summer was producing a fast rise of wheat in an adjoining field. Everything felt so right that Jane relaxed and enjoyed a long gallop before crossing the bridge leading toward the manse. This was where she belonged—on a great horse, in the gentle summer of Cornwall. She felt in her bones everything was going to be all right. London and Littlefield were far behind her. Her future with Harry beckoned.

She halted when she saw the small party coming into view of the opposite bank.

“Hey ho,” cried Harry as he moved ahead of the ladies beside him and waved. “We’ve just been coming to see you.”

Jane laughed and replied, “I’ve saved you the trouble.”

“Oh, but we still have to have our walk, and the ladies do so want to see the famous Pembroke stables,” insisted Harry, brushing the lock of brown hair from his eyes of the same color. He was wearing his ancient boots that were too short and a rust-colored coat patched at the elbows. Dear Harry!

Miss Dodderidge scurried forward to reclaim his arm. He looked down at her impish face containing a wide mouth that seemed a bit rouged if Jane’s eyes did not deceive her.

“Do not let me keep you from your mission,” replied Jane with a smile. “I shall meet you there in a half hour’s time.”

Jane trotted back toward the stables and tried to think of a plan to have a private interview with Harry. She had always shared so much time alone with him when they were younger that she could not understand why she was unable to corner him now. Why had he not come around to the house alone? Her suspicions lay in the direction of the pretty, petite Miss Dodderidge.

Jane refused to worry about the young miss. Jealousy was not part of her character. She was in a serious situation, which Harry knew about from her letter, and he would marry her. There was no question. He was a gentleman’s son, and he had been her best friend ever since they were children roaming the high cliffs together. She was uncomfortable because, well, because there were so many things left to be settled and so much to say.

She wondered if it was right to marry Harry without baring all her secrets. She reasoned that gentlemen had secrets—secrets about mistresses—that were never divulged. Certainly there were things that one kept to oneself and never discussed.

As Jane’s horse trod on the withered daffodil stalks in the last field before Pembroke, she thought about Lord Graystock. His eyes had dilated when she had whispered his name that dark afternoon. She remembered his beautiful hands, and capable fingers. His palms had been smooth except for the hard, callused places defining an avid horseman. She visualized what his hands had done to her that day. He had touched her breasts, and her face, and the most sensitive recesses of her body. She shivered in the morning sun and wondered where he was at that moment. And she hoped she would never have to face those steel-colored eyes ever again.

Halfway to London, he had wondered for the hundredth time if he should go back to her door, or onward to her father. On the one side, he had a niggling premonition that she would reject him outright despite the circumstances. In fact, he was sure she would delight in refusing him. He also knew that accepting her refusal would be the coward’s way out of this disconcerting turn of events. On the other side, she was a widow and thus had the right to determine her own future.

But she lived with her father. And why was that? Why had Cutty not left her a large independence? He had been quite well-to-do. Cutty Lovering had had one of the largest houses in Mayfair and a rich seat in Northampshire. It was true Cutty’s son had inherited the lot of the entailed holdings.

Rolfe knew the younger Mr. Lovering as well as or as little as he knew many other young bucks at White’s. Mr. Lovering’s name appeared regularly in the betting books, but he was not one of the notorious gamesters who played fast and deep. The virtuous Mrs. Lovering should have been well cared for by her deceased husband or her stepson. Perhaps the stepson who looked as if he matched Jane in years had tried to force himself on his stepmother after the old man’s demise, and Jane had removed to her father’s house. Rolfe cursed. Now he was fabricating stories, a character trait that had never surfaced before.

There was something about the way Jane had acquiesced to Rolfe’s advances despite her innocence that infuriated him. She had not been a skilled courtesan, but she had not hesitated in her liaison with him. Or had she? She had started to insist he stop when he asked her if she wanted him to stop. A gentleman would have desisted, but he had not. He had taunted her, knowing her pride would not allow her to show any fear.

But he had not known she was chaste. And even when he had discovered her innocence, he had not been able to pull back from the cusp of deflowering her. His complete lack of control disgusted him.

As Rolfe stopped at a watering trough in one of the numerous small villages en route, he removed his gloves and brushed the dirt off his coat. After a few minutes’ rest, he continued past the last edges of the town. He had contemplated stopping for nuncheon, but had realized he had no appetite for food. He pulled a small flask from his saddlebag and drank deeply. The half bottle of brandy he had consumed the night before and the liquid fire in the flask had not dulled the guilty feelings he desired to obliterate. If anything, the spirits made him even more keenly aware of his predicament.

It was back to the business at hand—or rather at foot, that of leg shackling. An ill feeling settled in his stomach as he remembered his first marriage, to Constance. She had been a mere child--so petite, so lovely, with her deep auburn hair and large green eyes that always sparkled with mischief.

That had been before their marriage. It was not that she had not had any feelings for him. She had adored him with every ounce of her being. In fact, she had worshiped him. Watching her perish, and the child as well, had scarred Rolfe’s psyche in a way no battlefield scene afterward could. The oft-played scene revolved in his head—the endless flow of blood, Constance’s pitiful pleas for help and for her mother, and her almost blue face at death matching that of the child, a little boy with black hair. Overnight, it had seemed, the old earl’s hair had turned white and the entire village had gone into mourning.

He shook his head and brought his mind back to the immediate future. There was a meeting to arrange behind the walls of one of the oldest houses in Hanover Square, the house of Lord Fairchild, his future father-in-law. He rehearsed in his mind all possible scenes toward the successful outcome of his suit. But then, it should not be difficult, given his rank and his wealth. It was just his reputation, which would bring pause to any devoted father.

Rolfe was well aware of the rumors that circulated each time he surfaced in town. One older, flirtatious widow from Brussels had had the audacity to whisper in his ear with a coy French accent that she would like to “make love to the dark murderer from the countryside.” She had scratched the back of his neck as she giggled behind her fan to hide her insidious, cavity-filled mouth. And while his paltry handful of acquaintances were eager to join him in gentlemanly pursuits, such as fencing, riding, and breakfasts at White’s, those same gentlemen almost never invited him to private entertainments in their houses, let alone introduced him to their female relatives. It was when he realized this that he had closed the door on forming any attachments to other human beings. He had become ruthless in his aloneness. In seven years he had become as cold and as impersonal as a judge at sentencing. He could have easily disputed the allegations by exercising his considerable diplomatic skills, but by his inaction he had chosen his course.

Jane Lovering caught one of her booted heels on the lower rail of the fence as she studied the paddock full of horses. She leaned into the fence, removed her hat, and handed it to the groom along with her riding crop and gloves. She squinted as she appraised the new crop of babies. This was one of her favorite activities. It was funny. Some of the gangliest foals could turn into marvelous three-year-olds. But they seemed to grow in spurts. First the hind end would grow, followed by the front, or possibly the neck would mature before the rump. But the two things she prized most was a certain look in the eye and a straight stance. She was just picking out her favorite, a black colt sure to turn gray like his dam, when the party from the manse made their appearance.

Harry moved behind her. “There you are—as always!” he exclaimed. “Picking out a new favorite?”

It was one of the reasons why Jane loved him. He had always been able to read her mind. “Of course,” she replied. “Over there by the gray mare. The smallest one. Born just two weeks ago, I think. He is a beauty, isn’t he?”

“Quite the looker,” responded Harry as he turned to address his sister and her friend. “Look, girls, come see the newest additions to the famous Pembroke stables.”

“Oh, they are quite pretty,” exclaimed Miss Dodderidge, gazing into Harry’s eyes.

“They are more than just pretty. A fine fortune they will fetch,” said Harry. “That is, if Jane—or I should say Mrs. Lovering—has anything to do with their training. A finer horsewoman does not exist,” he continued, looking at Jane. He had mentioned her married name with humor in his melodious voice.

Jane felt the warm cloak of praise and was filled with happiness. He still loved her, she was sure. Jane motioned the group past the pasture toward the house.

“I would be honored if you would all join us for refreshments inside. I will give Miss Dodderidge a peek in our library if she is interested in the history of our family’s stables,” she said with a friendly air.

“Oh, I would be delighted, Mrs. Lovering. Quite delighted to hear everything about you and your husband’s progress,” responded Miss Dodderidge while eyeing Harry.

It amused her really, this young lady’s flirtation, Jane thought as Harry clarified Jane’s status as a widow. Miss Dodderidge’s flutterings of apology were met with a smile and assurances of forgiveness. The first inklings of Harry’s friendship with Jane marred the forehead of Miss Dodderidge.