Masque of Betrayal (26 page)

Dane didn’t answer. He felt certain that Jacqui had been about to reveal something, something that could, perhaps, provide Dane with the insight he needed to better understand his complex betrothed. He studied her in brooding silence, wondering if he’d ever get inside Jacqueline’s beautiful, complicated head.

He pondered her last words, and a twist of guilt wrenched him. No, Westbrooke Shipping hadn’t claimed nearly as much of his time as he’d pretended. Much of his evening hours had been spent watching the Holts’ house, waiting to see if either Jacqui or George did anything suspicious.

Nothing had occurred.

And Dane was beginning to feel like a bastard.

For the hundredth time, he found himself praying that Alexander was wrong, that all their concerns had been for naught. After all, there had been no further news from Jay, other than the fact that he was vigorously negotiating with the British. Perhaps there was another explanation for … for what? For the fact that each and every American condition had been anticipated verbatim? No, that was impossible. The reality was that someone close to their government was a traitor.

But Dane still could not accept that it was Jacqui.

He looked down at her now as she nervously shifted in her seat, the typical picture of a beautiful young woman about to meet her future husband’s mother. A wash of feeling swamped him and he wrapped his arm about her shoulders, pressed her head to his chest.

“All will be well,
chaton
,” he told her softly. “Just learn to trust me.”

Jacqui closed her eyes, allowing herself … just for an instant … to believe Dane’s words. It felt glorious to lean on him, to be absorbed in his strength. She nestled closer, feeling relaxed and content and … home.

“Dane … tell me about your mother.”

Dane smiled against Jacqui’s silky hair. “My mother is a most unusual woman. Quite the rebel, actually. She is spirited and so full of life that I often forget she is no longer a young girl. The two of you will get along famously.”

Jacqui looked up at him curiously. “Was she stunned by your news of our betrothal?”

“Stunned? No.” Dane chuckled, remembering his mother’s relieved
At last! I thought for certain you’d never recognize your feelings for this young woman, much less act on them!
“Not stunned, Jacqueline, but very pleased.”

“Have you told her much about me?” Jacqui continued cautiously.

Dane’s smile faded. There was too much he couldn’t tell his mother, too much he himself had yet to learn. His stomach clenched.

“My mother and I haven’t seen each other these past weeks,” he answered curtly. “I rode out to Greenhills long enough to tell her of our plans and to receive her invitation to dinner. You can speak with her yourself tonight.”

“I see.” Jacqui fingered the folds of her rose-colored gown. “She must miss your father dreadfully.”

“I’ve told you in the past, I don’t wish to speak of my father. I haven’t the slightest idea whether my mother thinks of him or not. I only know that I don’t.”

Dane’s tone was glacial, as it had been the first time Jacqui had mentioned his father. Only this time she wasn’t fooled into thinking his vehemence signified coldness or detachment. This time, with months of growing to know Dane behind her, Jacqui was startled to find that, rather than becoming miffed by Dane’s curtness, she was besieged by a wave of sympathy and remorse, an innate understanding of the internal pain that prompted his bitterness. To her amazement, she wanted to help him.

“What did he do to make you so angry?” she asked quietly.

Dane’s head jerked around, and his eyes narrowed at the question. “Leave it, Jacqueline!” he ordered.

Jacqui reached up to touch his face. “I only want to help.”

Something inside Dane snapped at the never-before-seen tenderness on Jacqui’s face. He fought the tide of feeling that reminded him how bloody much he loved her, how ill-fated that love seemed destined to be. When that attempt to stem his emotions failed, he channeled them the only way he could handle, the only way she would accept, dragging her onto his lap, burying his vulnerability beneath his passion. “Help me by giving me this,” he muttered thickly, burying his lips in hers. “Only this.”

By the time the coach bounced into the curving drive of Greenhills, they were wrapped in each other’s arms, lost in the deep, consuming kisses that manifested all that was left unsaid between them. Feeling the carriage slow, they broke apart, Jacqui hastily smoothing her skirts and fixing her hair and Dane readjusting his shirt and coat.

“What is your mother going to think?” Jacqui demanded, her breath still coming in uneven little pants.

Dane studied Jacqui’s softly flushed cheeks and moist, sensual mouth, knowing his love for her would be his undoing. Aloud he said, “My mother will think that I have the most exquisite taste in women and that I cannot keep my hands off my beautiful wife-to-be.” He raised Jacqui’s chin and ran his thumb over her kiss-swollen lips. “She’ll be right.”

What Lenore Westbrooke thought was that Jacqueline Holt represented the challenge of a lifetime … the ideal mate for her strong, commanding son.

“Jacqueline … I am delighted to meet you at last.” Lenore met them as they walked up the path leading through the gardens. She kissed Dane’s cheek, then took Jacqui’s hands in hers and squeezed them, her expression open and welcoming.

Taken aback by the unexpected show of affection, Jacqui returned Lenore’s smile a trifle uncertainly, thinking that Dane’s tall, raven-haired mother was the perfect feminine counterpart of her son … right down to his breathtaking smile. The only exception was their eyes, not only the color, but the intensity. Rather than the piercing silver-gray of Dane’s, Lenore’s eyes were a keen, warm shade of hazel, as gently insightful as Dane’s were penetrating and capable of delving into one’s very soul.

Jacqui took a deep breath. “I’m pleased to meet you as well, Mrs. Westbrooke.” She hesitated, then plunged on with her customary directness. “I’m sorry, but I’m not certain how to address you. Would you prefer ‘my lady’?”

Lenore laughed, not only at the absurdity of the thought, but at the undisguised look of distaste on Jacqui’s face. Definitely a woman after her own heart. “Absolutely
not!
I haven’t used my title in over a decade, Jacqueline, not since Dane and I came to America.” Her eyes danced. “However, ‘Mrs. Westbrooke’ poses a bit of a problem as well, does it not? After all, in but a few short weeks you too shall be ‘Mrs. Westbrooke’!” She made a wide sweep with her hand, carefully planting the first tentative seeds of friendship, intuitively discerning that Jacqueline’s friendship was not easily won. “Why don’t we settle on ‘Lenore’?”

Jacqui looked startled before a genuine smile curved her lips. “Very well … Lenore.”

“Good.” Lenore released only one of Jacqui’s hands, using the other to lead her toward the house. “Now that we’ve settled the formalities, we can discuss the important issues. I’ll take you through the house and you can decide which room would be best for a reception.”

“Pardon me?” Jacqui was totally at sea. She glanced over at Dane, who was walking beside her, but he only shrugged, as lost as she.

“Oh dear, I haven’t asked, have I?” Lenore came to a screeching halt and bestowed upon Dane and Jacqui another of her melting smiles. “I would be honored if you would consider holding the wedding at Greenhills. We have so much room here. The gardens are exquisite; we could hold the ceremony amid them, if you’d like. Afterwards there are a half dozen parlors large enough to hold hundreds of guests … and another half dozen small enough, should you prefer a more intimate reception.” She paused, studying Jacqui’s surprised expression. “Forgive me, Jacqueline, it is not my intention to coerce you or make you feel obligated. I am certain you’ve begun making plans, and I have no idea if Greenhills would fit into them. Alter nothing on my account; this wedding is yours and it should be exactly as you wish it to be.”

A hint of sadness touched Jacqui’s face, then was gone. “Actually, I am having a very difficult time with the staggering number of details that must be attended to,” she replied evenly. “As I’ve never before planned a wedding, I find the whole thing quite overwhelming.”

Lenore heard the same wistfulness in Jacqui’s tone that Dane had heard earlier. But, being a woman and a mother, she understood its cause … and, hopefully, its cure. “Jacqueline,” she said softly, “I have but one child … Dane. I will never have the joy of planning my own daughter’s wedding. Please, won’t you give me the supreme pleasure of helping you with yours?”

A rush of relief swept through Jacqui, and she met the older woman’s warm gaze gratefully. “Thank you … Lenore,” she said, her heart suddenly lighter than it had been in ages. “I would very much appreciate your help.” She looked around at the manicured gardens, alive with pink, red, and white peonies, and suddenly she could visualize herself becoming Dane’s wife here, among flowers as lush and vibrant as the union they’d herald. “And I agree,” she said, smiling up at Dane’s mother. “A wedding at Greenhills would be perfect.”

Lenore’s whole face lit up. “Wonderful! We’ll begin planning at once!” She tilted her head quizzically at Dane. “Can you amuse yourself for an hour or so, dear? Jacqueline and I have a lot to discuss.”

Dane shot his mother a quick, appreciative look, fully aware of what she hoped to accomplish. And, watching Jacqueline thaw beneath Lenore’s sincere yet carefully measured doses of affection, Dane knew that his mother was on her way to success.

“An hour, Mother? I think I can manage to take care of myself for that brief a time. In fact,” Dane glanced in the direction of the stables, “I believe I shall have Shadow saddled for a ride. No doubt he misses our wild jaunts together, racing with the wind, galloping across Greenhills at a breakneck pace.”

“Worry not,” Lenore fired back instantly, hands on hips. “Shadow is well exercised, and as I am equally adept on horseback as you, yet much lighter in the saddle, Shadow has missed you not at all.”

Dane chuckled, his amused gaze sliding to Jacqui, who was watching the exchange between mother and son with great interest. He couldn’t help but notice how her eyes sparkled victoriously at Lenore’s response. “You see,
chaton
?” He sighed with mock regret. “As I said, you and my mother have much in common. Enjoy getting acquainted.” He gave Jacqui a slow, tender wink before strolling off.

Lenore took in the play of emotions on Jacqui’s face as she stared after him.

“You’re in love with my son.” The words were out before Lenore could censor them and she cursed herself for the blunder. The mistake cost her, as she knew it would. Jacqui’s eyes grew shuttered and Lenore could feel the coldness of her withdrawal.

“Jacqueline, forgive me,” she said hastily, before the breach could widen further. “Every once in a while the mother in me rears her head. I want Dane to be happy.” She smiled. “I think you will do an excellent job of making him so. Actually, I believe the two of you will make each other very happy.”

The shutters lifted, Jacqui’s wintry stare supplanted by a flicker of doubt. “I hope you’re right,” she replied, knowing, even as she spoke, that Lenore’s wish was a virtual impossibility. She and Dane could never be truly happy … not with the wall of deception that towered between them. They could wed, stoke the flames of their passion … and destroy each other in the process.

“Come,” Lenore was continuing, “let’s have some tea and discuss your ideas for the wedding.”

The olive branch had been extended.

Jacqui took it.

“That sounds wonderful, Lenore.” Somehow the name was getting easier to utter.

Greenhills was every bit the lavish English country house, Jacqui noted, strolling through its pillared halls. Lenore had not been exaggerating about the number or size of its rooms, each one decorated with a warmth and flair that Jacqui suspected belonged to its mistress. The whole first level was marble with delicate oval windows and a magnificent winding staircase that rose to a breathtaking skylight at its peak. Grand and thoroughly modern in design, Greenhills still managed to retain its classic lines, and Jacqui couldn’t help but fall in love with its gracious splendor. The house was much like Lenore herself, Jacqui mused, smiling as she seated herself on the lime settee in the manor’s sitting room: uniquely beautiful, yet tasteful and elegant.

“Tell me,” Lenore began, settling herself beside Jacqui, “have you planned a large wedding? Do you have much family in Philadelphia?”

“No, unfortunately not. It is only my father and myself. And, of course, Greta, our housekeeper, who is like family. She has been with me most of my life, a combination governess, cook, and disciplinarian.”

“I see.” Indeed, Lenore
did
see, noting that Jacqui avoided referring to Greta in any type of parental role … such as mother. “Well, then, have you, your father, and Greta made traditional plans for your wedding?”

Jacqui’s eyes sparkled. “You will soon find, I’m afraid, that there is very little that is traditional about me.”

Rather than appearing nonplussed, Lenore gave Jacqui an approving smile. “In other words, you are a woman of both depth and dimension who is not afraid to speak her mind and who is very much her own person! Excellent!”

Jacqui couldn’t help but grin at Lenore’s enthusiastic definition. “You might not feel that way when you hear some of my opinions on things,” she felt compelled to warn.

“Really? Such as?”

Why did Lenore’s words, her daring expression, make Jacqui feel challenged in a suspiciously similar manner to the way she felt whenever Dane engaged her in one of their frequent battles of the wits?

Lenore was about to be shocked right off her velvet cushion.

“Planning her own wedding is every woman’s dream,” Jacqui began.

“But not yours?”

Jacqui chewed her lip pensively, determined to answer Lenore’s question with total candor. “I am but one person in a very complex world. Even as we speak, hundreds are dying in France, struggling to establish a government that is sympathetic toward
all
its people, not only the wealthy and titled. Our own country is torn between honor and pragmatism, hovering on the brink of war with England, unable to look away from the English atrocities.” Jacqui stared down at her folded hands. “Given these volatile conditions, the ugliness and the bloodshed, how can I concentrate solely on my own wedding day?”