Anne Barbour (18 page)

Charles started, but appeared resigned to his fate. “Yes, my love,” he replied meekly.

As soon as the two women had left the room, the others moved to the door as well, Charles in the lead.

“One moment, if you will, Charles,” Simon called firmly, reaching to place a hand on the earl’s shoulder. “I’d like a word with you.”

As the two stepped into the corridor, Simon knew an almost overpowering urge to shake Charles until his ears fell off. He maintained his hold on the earl’s shoulder until they reached the study, whereupon he thrust him into the room before him.

Plunging the hapless peer ungently into a chair, Simon sank into the one behind his desk.

“So, Charles,” he said in a voice of awful calm, “you are betrothed.”

Charles shifted uncomfortably, his long legs angled in front of him. “Simon, I swear I meant to tell you, but...” He trailed off in a painful pause.

“But, what?” growled Simon.

“Well, the thing is, nothing’s really settled yet.”

“Odd. Lady Hermione appears to feel the matter is settled.”

“Yes, well—I did propose.”

“And?” Simon experienced the eerie sensation that the furniture was advancing on him, closing him in, and that the air in the room was pressing down, making it hard to breathe He noted absently that Charles’s shirtfront was no longer pristine, being quite damp with perspiration.

“And she did accept,” concluded Charles in a despairing whisper.

Simon leaned forward on his elbows, steepling his fingers before him. “Ah. And you have her family’s permission.”

“Lord, yes,” muttered Charles. “Her brother practically embraced me when I went to ask for her hand. But,” he continued eagerly, “nothing has been signed yet—no settlement papers, dowry—that sort of thing. I was hoping—that is ...”

“You sound less than anxious to enter the married state, Charles.” Simon marveled at the steadiness of his own voice.

Charles heaved a martyred sigh. “To tell you the truth, old man, I’ve been hoping desperately for something to happen so that I won’t have to go through with it.” Catching Simon’s expression, he ducked his head shamefacedly. “I know how that sounds. I mean, I did” ask her, but only because m’sisters and m’mother have been after me like terriers. Don’t give a fellow a moment’s peace. ‘Eminently suitable,’ they say. ‘So well bred.’ But, good God, Simon, did you get a good look at her? She has a face that would curdle custard and a disposition to match. I know I should have told you she was coming, but I kept hoping something would stay her.” He glanced reproachfully at the ceiling as though calling a recalcitrant Deity to His duty.

“Poor lad,” said Simon. He rose and came around the desk. “Stand up, Charles.”

Instead, Charles cowered in his chair. “You ain’t going to hit me, are you?”

“Hit you? For letting me think I was entertaining an eligible parti for my ward?” He reached down and wrenched Charles to his feet by the scruff of his neck. Though Charles topped Simon by at least four inches, it was Charles who drew back in fear. “Or,” continued Simon in a voice of iron, “for putting me in an absolutely untenable position, so that I now find my life in ruins? No, I’m not going to hit you for that.”

Whereupon he reached back and brought his fist forward, plunging it into the center of Charles’s face, knocking the earl to the floor, where he sprawled in an awkward heap.

“Aaugh!” cried Charles, his hand pressed to his nose. He pulled it away and examined his fingers in fascinated horror. “I’m bleeding!” He fished in his coat pocket and produced a handkerchief, with which he attempted to stem the flow. “You said you wouldn’t hit me!”

“You’re lucky I’m not going to do it again, and a few more times after that. I promise you I’ll do much worse if you ever so much as breathe heavily on Miss Burch again.”

“M-Miss Burch?” An expression of contrived innocence spread over Charles’s features, and Simon’s foot fairly twitched with an impulse to kick him.

“Yes, Miss Burch. She told me what occurred between you— and after I had taken pains to explain to you that she is under my protection. I should demand that you marry her, I suppose, but it seems unfair to serve her such a turn.”

Charles blanched. “I’m terribly sorry, old man. Don’t know what came over me. It won’t happen again, I assure you.”

At the conclusion of this disingenuous speech, Simon was inclined to pull the earl to his feet for another lesson, but after a moment, he nudged him with his toe.

“Get up, Charles. And get out of my sight.”

Charles did not need to be told twice. With surprising agility in one who had been so utterly brutalized the moment before, he leaped to his feet. The next moment, handkerchief still pressed to his nose, he whisked himself out the door.

Simon retreated to his chair behind the desk, and for many long moments he sat there, his head in his hands.

Dear God, what was he to do now? Within two weeks, if his ward had not received a serious declaration of intent, it was he who would be down on bended knee before her. A vision of life with Winifred rose before him, and a groan of anguish welled up from the depths of his soul.

He found little solace in the fact that Winifred’s requirements for a husband apparently included an exalted title and a great deal of money. Simon was a wealthy man, and though he was not a peer, he was closely related to one which, in Winifred’s mind, probably amounted to the same thing. No, there was little doubt that she would accept his proposal. His expressed determination that she would never set foot on the stage would carry little weight with Winifred, given her unshakable confidence in her ability to sway men to her desires.

He uttered another groan before reaching for the pile of papers left earlier for his perusal by Minster, the estate agent.

Only a few yards away, Jane entered the library. It was, she thought, one of the pleasantest rooms in the house. Unlike the libraries in so many gentlemen’s residences, it was light and airy, painted white and embellished with garlands of gilded carvings. The atmosphere of restful luminescence was further heightened by the bookcases of bleached lime which lined the walls.

She always welcomed an opportunity to slip away from the household for a few minutes among her favorite books, for Winifred’s father, though his taste in women was dubious, had a magnificent collection of volumes of every genre. Jane favored the classic tales of adventure and love, and she was currently enthralled with The Song of Roland.

She had scarcely removed the book from the shelf, preparatory to curling up in one of the comfortable leather chairs that dotted the room, when the sound of the door opening caused her to turn.

At the sight of the figure who stood there, she knew a moment of panic, and clutched the huge volume to her breast in a protective gesture.

The next moment, she dropped the book on a nearby table, and strode toward him.

“I was just leaving, my lord,” she said to Simon as he stood frozen on the threshold. “If you will excuse me.”

She attempted to push past him, but he grasped her shoulders and pulled her inside the room, closing the door with his foot.

“Jane—please. I must speak to you.”

“You have already spoken to me, my lord, with what results I do not care to consider.”

“I know, but you must listen.” He tightened his grip as Jane began to wriggle in his grasp.

“Is this how you attained your success in diplomacy—my lord?” Jane said scornfully. “By coercion?”

Simon immediately loosened his grip, but he did not release her. Instead, he moved with her farther into the room, pausing before an oak library table.

“I deserve all the contempt you can heap on my head, Jane.” He spoke with great effort, she noted, and he looked as a man might who had just been handed a heavy burden. “Just give me five minutes. Then, if you wish to leave, I shan’t try to stop you.”

Reluctantly, Jane ceased struggling, and Simon lowered his hands.

“Thank you,” he said. Jane looked into his eyes and immediately wished she hadn’t. The golden flecks swirling against their velvety brown background disoriented her and caused strange, wonderful sensations to curl in the pit of her stomach. “Actually,” he continued, “I merely want to apologize.”

Though she was no longer in his grasp, Simon did not move away from her, and she could feel the warmth of his breath on her cheek. The all-gone feeling produced in her stomach by his touch, the soap and lotion scent of him, totally unnerved her, and she raised her hand, as though she would brush it away.

“What I said was absolutely unforgivable, and I did not mean a word of it.”

Jane found it hard to breathe, and she pulled away from Simon, seeking deep within herself for the anger that had sustained her earlier. “Then why did you say it?” she asked levelly.

Simon was silent for a moment. “I’m not sure, if I can answer that,” he said at last. “As I told you before, I am—anxious to get Winifred married, and I thought I had found the perfect partner for her. So desperately did I cling to that belief, that when you told me something that threatened to shatter it, I—well, I scrabbled around for a—a theory that would allow me to deny what you said.”

Jane was still angry, but she was puzzled as well. “I do not understand,” she said, “this great determination to find a husband for Winifred right this minute. Winifred is not getting any younger, but surely—if you just wait until you can take her to London for the Season—”

Once again, Simon paused for a long moment before replying. “I don’t think I can explain that either,” he said with a sigh.

Jane knew a surge of disappointment. She schooled her features to immobility, however, as she said briskly, “There seems to be a great deal you cannot explain, my lord.”

She would have moved to the door then, but was halted by the look of unhappiness that flooded Simon’s eyes. A strange, sad feeling swept through her, and she put her hand out. Before she was aware of what was happening, Simon had pulled her against him.

His arms encircled her, and he pressed his cheek against her hair. Jane felt him shudder against her, and her resentment melted in a wave of longing that caused her to curl against him. When he drew back to cup her chin in his hand, she raised her lips to his.

“Lovers and madmen have such seething brains ...”
—A Midsummer Night’s Dream,
V, i.

Simon reveled in the feel of her against him. He knew he had no right to enfold her in his arms. She had given him no encouragement, beyond the lightening of her storm-cloud eyes and her lifted hand, but so deep was his need of her at that moment, that with her gesture, he was lost to reason. In the turmoil of the desire she stirred in him, he became aware that she had brought her arms about him. She lifted her mouth, and with a choked sigh, he placed his lips against hers.

This time the kiss was not urgent, but deep and tender and seeking. Simon’s hands moved on her back. God, she felt good! When she pressed against him, he pulled his mouth from hers to drop kisses on the vulnerable, petal-softness of her eyelids, then along her cheeks, and the infinitely tender line of her jaw. The scent of lavender enveloped him, and the small noises she made in the back of her throat drove him to the brink of insanity.

He drew his hand over the lovely, womanly fullness of her breast, and she gasped. It was at that moment that the realization of what he was doing forced its way into his mind. Apparently, Jane was brought to reason at the same moment, for she drew away abruptly, leaving him bereft.

For a moment, she simply stared at him with her great, misty eyes, her fingers pressed against her lips.

“You have to stop doing that,” she whispered brokenly.

“Yes, I know,” he said, his breath catching. “I am in danger of making it a habit. I think it’s that scent you wear.”

She laughed shakily. “You are blaming me?”

I love you, Jane Burch. I love you and I want you and I need you as I need air to breathe. He clamped his teeth on the tide of words that seemed ready to burst from him. How could he speak them, knowing the antipathy she felt for him and knowing that by this time next week he might be betrothed to someone else?

“Of course, I blame you,” he said gruffly. “I have already told you, I am not responsible for my actions where you are concerned. It was either kiss you or strangle you, and I understand they have laws about that sort of thing.”

Jane drew a shuddering breath. “You make a joke of it, and I suppose, in a way it is, but I warn you, I will not allow this to happen again. Contrary to what you must believe, I am not in the habit of allowing men to kiss me—repeatedly—on a whim.”

At this, he stiffened at the reminder that he was still unforgiven for his earlier blunder.

“No one is more aware of that than I,” he said in a low voice. “Please believe me.”

He turned to go, but swung about as he reached the door.

“By the by, I do not believe Charles will importune you again.”

“No.” Jane’s lips curved upward. “I am sure he will be kept well under guard from now on.”

Heartened, Simon permitted himself a small grin. “That is not what I meant, but you are quite right, of course. I think we can regard Charles as more or less a spent force.” He gazed at her for a long moment then, turning, he left the room, closing the door softly behind him.

Jane discovered that her knees would no longer hold her up, and she sank into the nearest chair. Her first instinct was to fan the feeble spark of anger that still lay deep within her at the words he had spoken earlier in the day. The despicable cad had not only hurled false accusations at her, but had had the temerity to maul her like a common chambermaid. She should have given him a piece of her mind and then slapped him.

But she had done neither. In fact, at the time, she would have had difficulty in locating her mind at all, let alone giving pieces of it away. When he had pulled her to him with his need written plain in his eyes, rational thought had deserted her. She knew only an irresistible need of her own, to press into him, to feel the lean strength of his body against hers. When his mouth had covered hers with such urgency, her response had been immediate and overwhelming. Her lips had parted eagerly beneath his, and at the touch of his hand on her breast, she had thought she would shatter with wanting.