Heiress in Love (24 page)

The notion made him even more furious—at himself.

He gave her a small shake. “Answer me, damn you!”

He couldn’t even summon the patience to temper his words to her, despite the fact she trembled, her gray eyes wide. Her body was so slender, so fragile. He could break her in two. Yet, she rode with the courage of an Amazon and the skill of a born huntress. Latent pride in her warmed his chest, even as his brain seethed with anger.

With a gasp, she wrenched from his hold and stepped back. “Isn’t it obvious what I was doing? I came out here to be alone!”

“And instead, you nearly got yourself killed. Don’t
ever
do that again!”

Her sleek brows snapped together. “You are not my husband yet, Lord Roxdale. Don’t presume to lecture me.”

“You may thank the fact that I am not your husband for my restraint! Have you no consideration for your horse, if not for yourself?”

She opened her mouth to argue, then shut it. Her lips pressed together; her nostrils flared.

“You are right,” she admitted. “
Confound
it! I knew it as soon as it was done, but I—” She passed a shaking hand over her eyes.

Jane’s frank acknowledgment that she was in the wrong disarmed him.

“Why?” he said huskily. “Why would you do such a thing?”

Her struggle was almost painful to witness, but he didn’t break the fraught silence that ensued. He sensed that whatever the problem was, it loomed very large for her. At this moment, her defenses were down. He’d have no better chance of finding out than now. Thank God she wasn’t a weeper; he could never resist feminine tears and would have let her off the hook without another word.

“Come,” he said gently, taking her hand in a light clasp. “Our horses are refreshing themselves. I’ve no doubt you are parched, too.”

She went with him willingly. She bent over the clear, cool stream, where he made a cup for her with his hands. She held his wrist to steady it. He tried to keep his mind off her lips as they inadvertently brushed his palms.

She murmured her thanks, dabbing at her damp mouth with her fingertips, then waited while he satisfied his own thirst. He gestured to a nearby tree and assisted her to sit in the shade.

No sooner had he made himself comfortable beside her than she sprang up and began to pace. With an inward sigh, he made as if to rise also, but she waved at him in a gesture that he took to mean he should remain where he was.

One hand clenched into a fist, Jane bit the tip of her thumb through her glove. Then she turned to face him, the skirts of her black riding habit swishing about her boots.

“Do you still wish to marry me after … after last night?”

Constantine well knew that the man who hesitates over that kind of question is lost.

“Yes,” he said.

“Oh.” Apparently, that came as some surprise to her. Her gaze was so pointed in its concentration, she seemed to be trying to read his mind.

He smiled. “In fact, at this moment, I can’t think of anything I would rather do.”

Startled gray eyes flew to his. “Really?”

“Really.”

“Even though—even though I ran from you?”

“You were naturally unprepared for such a display of, er … passion,” he reasoned. “It is I who bear the blame. I have no excuse, except that I lost my head over you.”

And was likely to do so again, because she colored so charmingly at the oblique compliment. Her black beaver hat set off her auburn curls to perfection and all that pent-up emotion had made her eyes sparkle with cool fire. Her lips, perhaps chapped by the wind, were cherry red. Made for kissing. It was as if a cruel god heard Constantine’s resolve to behave himself and flung it in his face.

But despite the temptation, he
would
behave himself. He wanted more from this woman than a quick tumble in the grass. Marriage was a serious business, which was why he’d so assiduously avoided it in the past. And clearly, seducing Jane required more patience, subtlety, and self-control than even he had guessed.

“Last night was … disconcerting,” he added, in a flash of honesty.

Unimpressed by a disclosure that had, in fact, cost him something, she shook her head.

“You don’t understand.” She made as if to clasp her hands together, and ended by rubbing them over her face. “You don’t understand, and I can’t begin to tell you.”

“Am I so forbidding, then?” He said it lightly to cover his real concern.

She made no reply, though her agitation seemed to vibrate from her in waves.

After a moment, he added, “You know, I always thought that confessions ought rather to be made to sinners than to saints. Sinners have so much more compassion.” He thought about that. “Well, they don’t often sit in judgment, anyway.”

She seemed struck by his words, fallible though the logic might be. For some moments, she chewed on her lip before she turned to face him. Unsmiling, he gazed back at her, willed her to unburden herself of this terrible secret.

Her lips parted; her eyes softened. One strand of that glorious hair rippled across her face …

Then she looked away, blowing out a long, unsteady breath, her confidences borne off by the wind.

An ache formed in his chest that had no business being there. Why the hell should she confide in him? What would he do with her troubles anyway?

Make them ten times worse,
his father would have said.

“I have to get back.” Disappointment roughened his tone. Foolish and unreasonable of him, but he wanted her to trust him.

He rose, putting on his hat.

She nodded, still refusing to look at him. For a moment, he watched the gauzy black scarf that trailed from her hat flirt between her shoulder blades. He wanted to shrug off the unsettling, unnamed emotion that made him linger without an agenda or a plan, or even a clue, if it came down to it.

The silence seemed to stretch forever between them.

Finally, he cleared his throat. “Jane. Grant me a favor?” He tugged on his gloves.

She stiffened. “What is it?”

He glanced back at the hedge, and then at her mount. “Please. Take the long way home.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Extraordinary Meeting of the Ministry of Marriage

Agenda (
notes by Oliver, Lord deVere
)

The Duke of Montford sat in a deep leather armchair at White’s club in St. James Street, London, drinking good brandy and amicably trading barbs with Oliver, Lord deVere.

Their rivalry had lost much of its former heat. As the years rolled by, Montford found himself with increasingly more in common with the head of a rival house. Not that either of them would ever admit it aloud, least of all to one another.

“Think you’re vastly clever, don’t you?” DeVere’s voice was a deep aristocratic rumble. “Think I don’t know the pair of you are in league together.”

Eyes half closed, deVere slumped in his chair, swirling his brandy. The man was in his forties, drank deeply, yet maintained a fit and muscular physique. Montford often wondered how he managed it.

The duke didn’t trouble to answer the charge deVere laid at his door. Even if he denied it, the man wouldn’t believe him.

The hastily convened meeting of the Ministry of Marriage had unfolded exactly as Montford had foreseen. He’d heard the cases put forward for each candidate and the proposed matches. He’d taken due note of every point for and against, smoothing over the arguments that naturally erupted between proud and volatile personalities with so much wealth and position at stake.

He’d adjourned the matter of Lady Roxdale until he’d had time to consider further. Given the way Frederick had left his fortune, it was clear that not just any candidate would do.

“Lady Arden was conspicuous by her absence today,” commented deVere.

“Yes.” Montford sipped his brandy. “One would assume she’d be eager to put Constantine Black’s case, wouldn’t one?”

With a brooding glare, deVere tossed off the rest of his brandy and slammed the glass down on the table. “Damn it, she’s making fools of us all! What would you wager she’s not down there interfering? Meddling and matchmaking, trying to get the drop on the rest of us.”

When Montford didn’t reply, deVere scoffed, “You wouldn’t wager a groat. She’s at Lazenby Hall this very minute, and you know it.”

Mildly, Montford replied, “There is no reason Lady Arden cannot visit Constantine Black if she chooses. If she contravenes the rules, she will be disciplined.”

“
I’d
like to discipline her,” said deVere, his eyes kindling. “Damned fine figure of a woman. Pity she’s such a termagant.” He cocked an eyebrow. “You have an interest there?”

Montford suppressed the urge to lie. “No.”

Not at present. When this particular business is over, then perhaps …

But it was never over, was it? And in the end, he was simply making excuses.

“Hmph. You’re a wily cove, Montford. I don’t trust you, but at least with you, I know where I stand. Or don’t, as the case may be.” With a slightly owlish cast to his eyes, deVere raised his glass as if in a toast. “More than that, I cannot say about any man I know.”

The convoluted logic of this statement very nearly eluded Montford, but he believed it was meant as a compliment and he took it as such. A rare gift from deVere.

The big man rose. “Think I’ll travel down to Gloucestershire to stay with my nephew for a few days. Give him a nudge along. Do some meddling on my own account.”

He drew out his quizzing glass and swung it to and fro. “About that other girl of yours. The beauty. Rose … Rosemary …
Rosamund,
that’s it. Ready to set a date yet? Only, my boy’s champing at the bit, d’ye see?”

With a slight, incredulous smile, Montford rose also. He doubted that the Earl of Tregarth champed at the bit to be leg-shackled to Rosamund. He’d made no attempt to pursue his interest with her since they were formally betrothed. More likely, it was Lord deVere himself who was impatient to see the alliance between his kinsman and a Westruther heiress signed, sealed, and delivered.

He clapped his companion on the shoulder. “Patience, Oliver. At present, the issue is a trifle … fraught. You would not wish to trammel the lady’s delicate sensibilities. Let us speak of it again in the new year.”

As they parted on the stairs, Montford considered Lady Rosamund Westruther. How much simpler it would be if young people could see their little infatuations and flirtations through the wiser eyes of their elders. As a man of considerable experience, Montford knew the concept of enduring romantic love was a fable.

Infatuation, desire, passion—all of them existed, of course. But a deep,
lasting
passionate love between a man and a woman—in that, he did not believe. Affection, liking, respect, yes. But from what he’d seen, those things most often sprang from marriages where the parties did not consider themselves in love in the first place.