Some of Chloe’s amusement lifted, replaced instead with a contemplativeness. “My brothers and friend, Imogen, are quite insistent that I’ll one day wed and,” she gave a wry smile, “fall in love.” The droll edge to her tone indicated Lady Chloe Edgerton was not one of those romantic sorts, with hopes of a powerful match and the dream of love all rolled perfectly together.
Clearing her throat nervously, Jane then filled the quiet. “Are you familiar with her works?” she asked, nodding to the pile as Chloe proceeded to leaf through the books. All the books in question were the products of Mrs. Wollstonecraft, the unwed philosopher and mother with two illegitimate children. With her scandalous thoughts, she’d hardly be a favored figure in polite and, most times, impolite Society.
The young lady shook her head.
Well, if he’d not sacked her already, Gabriel would likely do so for this. And yet, she had an obligation to Chloe that moved even beyond the security Jane craved that would come at the end of these two months—if she could behave.
Alas, she’d never properly behaved.
She gestured to the stack of books. “Mrs. Wollstonecraft was an English writer.” Interest sparked in Chloe’s pretty blue eyes, and she then picked up the book she’d been toying with earlier and skimmed the cover. Her lips moved silently as she read the title.
“Mrs. Belden, your brother, Gabe—” Chloe whipped her head up and Jane’s cheeks heated at her inadvertent error. “The marquess,” she substituted lamely. “They will urge you to make a match, all the while trusting they know who will make you a good match.” Gabriel’s face flashed behind her eyes. “Perhaps he will be powerful,” she added. Her lips still burned with the imprint of his kiss. “He’ll have wealth and status, and Society thinks they know what you want, because Society believes you can’t yourself know what you want.” As Jane spoke, Chloe stilled, frozen, with her silence giving no indication as to whether she approved, disapproved, or worse, was indifferent, to Jane’s words. Regardless, Jane pressed forward. “Mrs. Wollstonecraft didn’t believe women were inferior. She believed we are uneducated and through that forced ignorance, we are treated as less than logical, rational people.”
The hum of silence met her words. Treasonous ones, Mrs. Belden had claimed. Then a slow smile turned Chloe’s lips upwards. “Mrs. Munroe—”
“Jane.”
“Mrs. Munroe, I quite like you.” She eyed the book in her hands a long moment and then set it down. “Are you certain you were one of Mrs. Belden’s instructors?”
Not for the first time since she’d slipped into Gabriel’s household did she feel the pinpricks of guilt sticking at her conscience. “I was.” She curled her fingers tightly into her palm. It wasn’t wholly a lie. Chloe had spoken in the past tense and Jane had once held one of those distinguished posts.
“You are not at all like any of the instructors I’d known.” A small sigh slid past the young woman’s lips. “What a very different time I would have had at Mrs. Belden’s had you been my instructor.” She wrinkled her nose. “Trust Mrs. Belden to do something as contradictory as hiring smiling, kindhearted and clever instructors such as you only after I’d left.”
“You may rest assured that Mrs. Belden still is in possession of her stern set, drumming lessons of propriety and properness into each and every lady,” she said dryly and then silently cursed at her quick tongue.
Except—Chloe burst out laughing. Her narrow shoulders shook with the force of her mirth and she dashed back tears from her cheeks. “Well, I am very glad she sent you to us.” With that she all but sprinted to the door, but then paused with her fingers on the handle. “Mrs. Munroe—Jane,” she self-corrected. “I believe we are going to get on very well.” One more smile, a jaunty wave, and a rapid snap of her skirts later, Chloe hurried from the room.
Jane stared at the closed door. With the trusting, kindhearted young woman’s faith in her and her worth, the weight of guilt magnified, pressing down on her like a boulder being applied to her chest. Before, she’d lied to strangers who believed her inferior. Gabriel, the austere nobleman, and his sister, the spoiled, indolent lady, had represented a path to freedom. Now, they were more. Gabriel was a brother who loved and loyally protected his sister. Chloe was a woman with dreams and hopes that existed beyond the strictures polite Society would impose.
She closed her eyes. Could she remain here under the guise of being sent by the harridan, Mrs. Belden, and violate Gabriel’s trust, while all the while strengthening a friendship with his sister?
Then, what choice did she have?
Chapter 9
“We must visit the modiste. We are in need of gowns.”
Seated behind his desk the following morning after his sister had gone and upended his carefully ordered world with her insistence on keeping Jane on as companion, Gabriel glanced up from the open ledgers upon his desk.
“Gowns,” Chloe repeated as though he one, didn’t know what a dress was, or two, as if there was something wrong with his hearing, which there certainly wasn’t. He was just two and thirty years, hardly one of those doddering old lords.
Either way, “You want to go shopping?” What would come next? She’d be hoping for suitors and eagerly planning her wedding? He snorted. Horses would likely fly above Tower Bridge before that day came.
“Not for me.” She clapped her hands together once in what he expected was a clue indicating he was to stand. He remained seated. His sister frowned. “For Jane.” Jane? As in Mrs. Munroe? The straitlaced, bespectacled woman whose kiss still haunted his waking and sleeping thoughts? “Now, do hurry.” With another clap of her hands, Chloe spun on her heel and started from the room.
He blinked, slowly processing that pert announcement. “Chloe?” he barked.
At once, she poked her head back inside his office. “Yes, Gabriel?”
How many years had he taken his brother, Alex, as the indolent, shiftless rogue? Gabriel swiped a hand over his face. Now, he appreciated that with his care of Chloe over the years, he’d spared Gabriel from a good deal of her scheming. He folded his hands before him and rested the interlocked digits upon the desk. “Just what does Jane,” his sister narrowed her eyes. A flush heated his neck. “What does Mrs. Munroe require new gowns for?”
With a beleaguered sigh better suited a bothered mama, she reentered the room. “Have you seen Jane?”
The bespectacled, plain young woman with her dull skirts slipped into his mind but as she’d been with her glasses knocked to the floor and the captivating blues of her eyes, her full lips swollen from his kiss. Unable to force out any words, he managed a nod.
“Well, she is perfectly lovely.”
Lovely. Jane’s was an understated beauty made all the more intriguing when challenges flew from her lips. He gritted his teeth at the wandering direction his thoughts were taking him down. “Chloe?” he bit out, his tone heavy with impatience.
“Yes, right.” Chloe flicked a hand about. “She is perfectly lovely, however, she cannot attend Societal functions in her dragon skirts.”
“And you’d have me fit her for a wardro—ouch,” he winced as she pinched him.
“Do not be a pinchpenny.” She furrowed her brow. “Unless your estates are not prospering in which case, then, we really should all consider adjusting our—”
“My estates are just fine,” he snapped.
A triumphant gleam lit Chloe’s eyes and he bit back a curse at the second cleverly laid snare he’d stepped into. “Perfect. I shall collect my cloak, then.” She skipped to the door and disappeared out the entrance.
He dug his fingertips into his temples. “Chloe,” he called. Not for the first time wishing his sister, Philippa, had the patience to wait until the Season was concluded before seeing to all the enceinte business.
“Yes?” She stuck her head inside the room once again, an impish grin on her face.
Gabriel folded his arms at his chest. “I have matters of business to attend. Important matters.” Ones that did
not include squiring her and Mrs. Munroe to modistes and milliners. When she opened her mouth, he continued, speaking over her. “And furthermore, you have Mrs. Munroe to accompany you about town.”
She dropped her eyebrows and, by the darkening of her eyes, he knew he’d made a faulty misstep.
“Oh, so you’ve foisted all of your responsibilities off on Mrs. Munroe, have you?”
Oh, bloody hell.
He tugged at his cravat, which only drew his sister’s attention to that guilty action. Gabriel immediately stopped and laid his hand back to the desktop. “I am not foisting you off on another.” Not entirely.
She brightened. “You aren’t?”
Well, perhaps he was. “Of course not.”
A pleased smile turned her lips. “Splendid.” She gave another annoying clap of her hands. “Now, do hurry.” With that, she dismissed him and rushed from the room.
Oh bloody, bloody hell. On a groan, he dropped his head into his hands. Knowing his sister as he did, Chloe had every intention of making him miserable for saddling her with a companion. Yet again, he’d stepped neatly into one of her traps. Lord Wellington himself would have admired Chloe’s masterful plotting.
Abandoning his plans for the morning, he came to his feet. Gabriel took his leave of his office. He walked at a quick, clipped pace through the corridors to the foyer. As he stepped into the marble foyer, he came to a sudden, jarring stop.
Jane stood at the center with her back arched and her neck tipped back at such an impossible angle it was a wonder she remained upright. Those tempting, red lips, that had made him forget the vows he’d taken to never be the dissolute lord to dally with his staff, were parted as though in wonder. She stared transfixed up at the towering ceiling above. The air left him on a slow exhale and it was a physical hungering to know what should so move this usually stoic, often frowning woman to such awe. It was a physical effort to tear his gaze from her moist lips.
He followed her stare upward to the mural painted on the high ceiling and frowned. He’d long detested the heavenly scenes captured by his ironical father, the devil who’d delighted in those tableaus of cherubs and angels. They adorned nearly every blasted room. When he had been a boy of nine years and his father had forced him to sit at his knee while he imparted all the dealings that would one day be Gabriel’s, he’d allowed his mind to wander. In those dreams, he’d crafted his revenge. On the darkest days, after his brother and sisters had been battered by the birch rod, Gabriel had gleefully plotted all the ways he might kill the bastard. On other days, he’d scheme up ways in which to destroy the marquess’ legacy—having those murals painted over had been one promise he’d made to himself. And yet he’d never gotten around to it.
Seeing the wide-eyed awe stamped upon the heart-shaped planes of her face, he was glad he did not. For then he’d never have witnessed Jane, riveted in silent wonder. What manner of madness possessed him? He kicked dirt upon his fanciful musings. “Jane,” he greeted with an icy calm.
She shrieked. Her slippered feet slid out from under her and she flailed her arms.
Gabriel closed the distance between them in three long strides and slid his arms under her slender frame and caught her. He braced for a stiff, polite “thank you”.
She blinked up at him. “Hullo,” she said her voice a breathless whisper that carried up to his ears. In the four days he’d known Jane Munroe, he should have learned she never did what was predicted.
With a forced nonchalance he inclined his head. “Jane.” But then, he made the mistake of looking down and his gaze snagged upon her bow-shaped lips once more. And the sight held him as transfixed as the sight of her moments ago, head tilted back in awe. Gabriel hurriedly set her upright on her feet. He cast a desperate glance about for Chloe.
“I was admiring your paintings,” Jane continued. Did she know the effect she had on his senses? Where in blazes was his sister? He didn’t need to be alone with Jane Munroe. The unpredictable minx was dangerous to his senses, threatening calm, order, and logic. The folly of agreeing to this outing reared its head with a renewed vigor. “It is lovely.”
You’ll know the goddamn difference between a painting and a mural…“Mural.” The black memory long buried slipped in as they occasionally did at the most random moments.
Jane looked to him perplexed. Some of the light dimmed in her eyes. He balled his hands. She thought he corrected her. Gabriel gestured to the ceiling. “My father,” he squared his jaw, those two words like vitriol upon his tongue. “Took great pleasure in instructing me as to the difference.”
She eyed him a moment. He wagered the lady’s curiosity warred with pride. In the end, her need to know won out. “What is the difference?”
No different than that moth lured by flame, he shifted closer, so close she was forced to tip her head back to meet his stare. Honey and lavender filled his senses until he was nearly drunk on the fragrance of summer and innocence. Ah, God help him. What hold did she have over him? Why, he didn’t even like her. She was mouthy and insolent and defied his orders. And… Gabriel pointed up at the emerald green pastures captured by the artist. “You see, the architectural elements are harmoniously incorporated into the work.” Jane craned her neck once more and followed his point, skyward. By the parting of her lips and the softening of her eyes, it was as though she were seeing the angelic tableau painted upon the ceiling for the first time.
In the honesty of her reaction, there was an innocence, a softness, he’d not imagined her capable of. A golden strand pulled free of her tight chignon and involuntarily he reached to brush it back, when her words froze him.
“It reminds me of my childhood.” It also harkened him back to the days of his own youth.
He let his hand fall to his side. There was a wistful, far-off quality to her words that gave him pause. A hint of sadness, nostalgia, but also the faintest trace of happiness. What was Jane’s story? “Does it?” His quiet question called her attention from the mural.
Color bloomed on her cheeks. Was it her body’s awareness of him? Embarrassment to be caught not once, but now twice awestruck over the pastel oils upon the ceiling? Unable to resist the lure, he captured the single blonde strand between his thumb and forefinger. He intended to tuck it back behind her ear in an entirely bold move he’d no right to. Not as a gentleman. Not as her employer. He intended to release the lock immediately. But then he registered the smooth feel of spun silk and was loath to release the satiny soft strand. She wet her lips and he followed that subtle movement, hungering for her kiss. “Wh-what do you see?”
His throat worked. The sun’s rays collected. Beauty. Perfection—
“When you see the painting. Th-the mural.” That breathlessly stammered whisper yanked him from the moment and he released her with alacrity. He blankly followed her stare.
Hell. Torture. Agony. “I also see my childhood.”
“There you are.”
They both started. Gabriel stepped away as his sister strode forward. “Forgive my delay, I was distracted by…” At the stilted silence, Chloe looked back and forth between them.
Gabriel cleared his throat. “We should be going.” Several servants rushed forward with their cloaks. As Gabriel shrugged into his cloak, he studiously avoided looking at the tempting Jane Munroe. He held out his arm to his sister.
Joseph stepped forward and opened the door. Where in blazes had the old servant been a moment ago? The other man possessed an eerie ability to dissolve into the shadows and appear when needed. Heat burned his neck in thinking of the other man observing Gabriel fawning over his sister’s companion’s loose curl.
“Would you please slow down,” his sister chided and pinched his arm. “I’d say you are trying to leave Jane behind with this ridiculous pace you’ve set.”
He slowed his steps and kept his gaze trained forward on the waiting carriage. A servant pulled open the carriage door and held a hand out. The liveried footman handed Chloe into the carriage. Jane came to a stop. She
smiled at the young servant and then the smile died as she looked to Gabriel.
And once more, the defensive walls put up between them were firmly in place. He was her employer. She was his sister’s companion. The servant helped her inside and Gabriel followed in, claiming the bench alongside Chloe.
Jane sat tucked in the corner, her hands folded primly on her lap. Had he merely imagined the smiling, innocent for a moment woman who’d spoken too briefly of her childhood, a childhood he’d wager both his arms had been a good deal more pleasant than his own? The carriage rocked forward, and he continued to study her, suddenly wanting to know about her formative years.
Which was, of course, neither here nor there. It mattered not to him. Gabriel yanked back the red velvet curtain—the shade of blood and evil—and directed his attention at the passing London streets.
*
For a moment, she’d believed Gabriel intended to kiss her.
And for an even longer moment, she’d wanted him to. Jane sat in the corner of the carriage, focusing on the rattle of the carriage wheels as they rumbled through the busy London streets. All the while, Chloe prattled on and on, a cheerful smile on her face, unknowing that in her absence, Gabriel had revealed with his solemn looks and serious eyes a glimpse of more than a harsh, unfeeling nobleman. No, having known pain and heartache, Jane easily glimpsed those sad sentiments within him.
And she hated it. For with each passing moment spent with Gabriel, he ceased to be a stranger, which was dangerous to her plans for security and her hope of a school for women such as her. Her intentions were good, honorable. Then, hadn’t Brutus said the same? Were her intentions truly honorable? Were they, when there was Chloe lauding her as a good, worthy companion, and Gabriel, a brother who fiercely loved his sister enough to entrust the final decision of a companion?
Brother and sister said something, and their laughter filled the carriage, driving deeper the knife of guilt until she wanted to clamp her hands over her ears and blot out the sound. But she could not. This was to be her punishment; to bear witness to their sibling bond—a closeness Jane would have traded her left, lonely, index finger for, growing up the bastard child of the Duke of Ravenscourt. Emotion clogged her throat as from the crystal pane she viewed brother and sister. They chatted amicably. Occasionally, Chloe would point her eyes skyward and Gabriel’s chest would rise and fall with laughter. Such a loved sibling would never be cast out, scuttled from household to household, a lost soul. For Gabriel’s high-handed words at breakfast yesterday morn, the man that he was, would not, even if his sister believed it, ever dare select the man Chloe would wed.
To Love a Lord Page 8
