by Lynn Kerstan
But the old busybody was wrong about what he thought of Jane. There could be no question of her worth. She was a finer person than he by a long shot. He admired her enormously. Hell and damnation, he wanted her. His bed felt like a glacier at night with her not in it.
Even so, was Lady Swann actually suggesting he marry Jane Ryder? That was patently impossible. Out of the question. Until she brought it up, the idea had never even occurred to him.
He recaptured his straying wits. “If it is her reputation that concerns you, Miss Ryder has assured me she will in no way be sullied by our enforced . . . er, proximity at Wolvercote. Nothing of consequence happened between us, you may be certain.”
“Oh, I can readily believe it. You have cat-lap for blood, and Jane will carry her virtue to the grave before romping with a man who fails to love her. Foolish gel. Had I been so nice in my ways, I’d have remained virgin until my third marriage. Or was it my fourth? Who can remember?” She waved a bony hand. “I admit the obvious—a devoted man is in every way a better lover. But those are few and far between, and no woman of any sense waits very long for one to cross her path.”
“I profoundly hope Miss Ryder will do so,” he said, trying not to imagine her in another man’s arms. “She deserves better than a sordid back-corner affair.”
“To be sure. But most folk never get what they deserve, for good or ill. ’Tis the way of the world.” She emitted a gusty sigh. “The ones that do, go after it tooth and nail, never mind the consequences.”
“Which is,” he said stonily, “precisely what I am doing now.”
“Cloth head! Let me tell you the plain truth, Fallon. You care only for the opinions of people you have yet to meet. You are attempting, with marginal success, to make yourself into what you think they expect of you. You have made yourself the slave of public opinion, which—trust me on this—is of less worth than a cup of warm spit.”
“You speak nonsense,” he fired back. “I mean to establish myself, and my family when I have one, where it belongs. Do you suppose I take pleasure in this tomb of a mansion, or the approval of strangers, or the prospect of courting a female simply because she has the breeding and the status to ensure our children their rightful place in Society? It is all for the children, Lady Swann. I shall never be fully accepted, nor do I care, but they will. And I’ll do whatever it takes to make sure they are.”
Her expression softened, but only for a moment. “Well said, m’lord. All balderdash, of course, but I take your point. What would the beau monde have to say should you wed the likes of Jane Ryder? My heavens. A bastard girl the next Marchioness of Fallon? It is too fearsome to contemplate. And since Jane will never let go of Nan, you would also be forced to welcome into your home the child of your father’s bastard.”
“Don’t use that word! They could not help how they were born.”
“No more than you,” Lady Swann said gently. “But if you are enchained by preposterous notions of what you owe to the Fallon name, can you expect Jane and Nan will not feel subjected to their own unfortunate heritage? Lord knows that Society would make them aware of it at every turn of the card, if they dared to show their faces among the very people you wish to join.”
Fallon felt the ground melting beneath his feet. “I do what I must. I have sworn it.”
“Only to yourself. Who else gives a groat what becomes of the Fallons? Tell you what, boy. Your father and grandfather and great-grandfather were scoundrels of the lowest order, but they had the bottom to do exactly as they pleased. Not a one shriveled up at the thought some high stickler might scratch him off her guest list, or that Lord Nobody would give him the cut direct.”
“I concede you the point, madam. But the promises a man makes to himself are inviolable. In my own way, I have always tried to be honorable. And who can trust me, if I cannot trust myself?”
“Humbug! You have talked yourself into the very creature I feared you would become. Told Jane so, the very afternoon you first came to call. Fallon means to be a self-righteous, misguided, arrogant prig, I said.” Lady Swann sagged back on her chair. “And I am so very sorry for it. This one time, I had hoped to be proven wrong.”
Fallon felt heat stinging his cheeks. “I hardly think—”
“Of course you don’t,” she said brusquely. “Men have their uses, but thinking ain’t one of ’em. And I am done beating my brains against a fence post. Ring for that flea-witted butler, will you, and have him summon a hackney. I also require a brace of healthy young bucks to cart me out of here. That freckled boy with the big shoulders is a good choice. I may hire him away from you.”
Fallon crossed automatically to the bellpull, his mind flying off in a thousand directions. Damn her. After blasting him broadside with all cannons, she meant to sail away and leave him foundering. What the devil did she expect him to do? As the water closed over his head, he yanked the rope with a vengeance.
“I’ll have my carriage brought around,” he said with forced politeness. “There will be a short delay while the horses are attached. May I pour you some brandy?”
“Yes indeed.” She held out her glass for a refill. “But make certain your servants move quickly. Jane must not know I have come here. She was gone to the shops when I stole away, and I must be snoozing in my parlor before she returns.”
Fallon met Larch at the door and gave orders for the carriage and footmen. Then he returned to Lady Swann, only because it would be insufferably rude to leave her to wait alone.
She sipped at her brandy, ignoring his presence. Because she was altogether disgusted with him, he supposed. But then, he was pretty much disgusted with himself. He cast about for something to say.
“I would ask that you give my regards to Miss Ryder,” he began awkwardly, “but I expect that is not possible. Under the circumstances. As you were not here, and have not spoken to me, you can scarcely convey a message. From me to her, that is.”
“Oh, do stop rabbiting on, Fallon.” She shook her head. “And have another drink. You’re white as a sheet.”
Because I’m drowning, he thought. Soon to be fish food.
“I am concerned for Miss Ryder,” he said, blundering ever deeper with every word. “You have raised doubts in my mind. But they are, unless I am much mistaken, of no significance. By your own account, and hers, too, she will do better if we have no direct contact from here on out. And when she is wed, with children of her own, I am persuaded that she will scarce remember me at all.”
Lady Swann only looked at him. After several moments, he began to grasp the nature of the evil eye.
Finally, to his relief, a pair of brawny footmen entered the drawing room, one of them the freckled youngster who had caught Lady Swann’s fancy.
She immediately beckoned him closer. “What is your name, boy?”
“P-Peter Goodbody, ma’am.” His face went scarlet when she rubbed her hand up his leg.
“Oh, my! Was ever a man so aptly named? Lord Fallon has said you are to escort me home, Peter Goodbody.” Her gaze lifted to Fallon. “Is that not correct?”
He waved approval, feeling rather sorry for the hapless young man. Jaw tight, he followed the small procession to the pavement and saw Lady Swann settled in his carriage, young Peter seated beside her. For a few moments, he stood with his hand on the open door. “Good-bye, Lady Swann. And please, do not fail to send the direction of your house in Bibury. My solicitors will contact Miss Ryder to make final arrangements for the settlement and allowances. I assure you, they will be generous.”
“Yes, yes, the money will flow. I have no doubt of it. ’Tis a simple matter to dig into your pocket, after all.” With that, she rapped on the panel and the coach immediately lurched away from the curb. A footman ran after and managed to close the door.
Feeling more stiff and lifeless than a tin soldier, Fallon made his way back to his study, sat behind his desk, and ca
refully sharpened his pen. He placed a fresh sheet of paper on the blotter, dipped the pen in the inkwell, and wondered what the deuce it was he had meant to write just before Lady Swann erupted into his well-ordered afternoon.
Richard Wellesley’s invitation swam into his vision. Ah, yes, the Twelfth Night dinner, and the two young ladies Wellesley wished him to meet.
He was forced to make three attempts before producing a neat, unblotted acceptance. When a servant had been dispatched with the letter, he remembered to inform Latmore of his plans and instruct him to lay out formal dress. He wanted to make a good impression, after all. Tonight would mark the beginning of the rest of his life.
Chapter 16
ALL THE GUESTS invited to Lady Swann’s Twelfth Night party were male.
The celebration had been Jane’s idea, but since she had no friends of her own to invite, Eudora kindly agreed to act as hostess. Not that she ever considered doing otherwise, as Jane very well knew.
Enthroned on her Bath chair by her favorite spot near the hearth and, not by accident, directly under the kissing bough, Eudora was in exceptionally high spirits this evening. And in excellent looks, Jane had assured her truthfully. She wore a satin gown of vivid blue to match her eyes, and a paisley shawl of purple and carmine and teal. A brace of peacock feathers towered over her jet-black curls.
The parlor blazed with light. Jane had affixed red and green ribbons to the silver candelabra and hung wreaths of evergreen and holly on the walls. That very afternoon she had purchased a lovely crèche of carved cherrywood, complete with shepherds, angels, Magi, sheep, and a donkey. The Baby Jesus looked a trifle glum, and she rather wished for a goat to complete the scene, but it all fit nicely on the mantelpiece.
Eudora’s antique servants would have been overwhelmed by thirteen seated to dinner, so Jane hired, over Cook’s vociferous objections, an “assistant” chef and two serving maids. Lovely smells wafted up from the kitchen—eel soup, roast goose, baked salmon, mince pies . . . Jane’s mouth had been watering all afternoon.
Shortly before eight o’clock, when the guests were expected to begin arriving, Felicia toddled off to bed. Two helpings of rack punch had done her in, and old Mr. Mantooth must have dipped heartily, too. He was snoring in his chair by the front door when the knocker sounded.
Suspecting an explosion could not waken him, Jane decided to leave Mr. Mantooth where he was and opened the door to the first of Eudora’s gentleman friends. To her astonishment, he was a young man, no more than thirty, with a round pleasant face and gentle brown eyes.
Smiling shyly, he removed his hat and bowed. “M-Mumblethorpe, ma’am, at your service. I expect you are Miss Ryder. Lady Swann has told me about you. Most pleased to make your acquaintance.”
“And you are most welcome to come in, sir,” she replied with a curtsy.
“I am early, I know, but my invitation instructed me to arrive betimes. Unless I am mistaken, Lady Swann has appointed me to act as her cicisbeo for the evening.” He flushed to the roots of his receding hairline. “It is a great honor, to be sure, but I’m afraid I haven’t the slightest notion what she expects me to do.”
“Whatever she tells you,” Jane advised, instantly drawn to the earnest, impeccably dressed gentleman. “She will not hesitate to make her wishes clear. Doubtless she will wish you to sit close by her, and I suggest that when you make your bow, you also take note of the mistletoe suspended above her head.”
“Ah. Thank you, ma’am. It happens I am a bit nearsighted and was like to offend her from the very first.”
Jane had scarcely led him to Eudora when the knocker sounded again, and for the next half hour she was kept busy ushering one elderly guest after another into the parlor. In all her life she had never received so many compliments as she did in that delightful thirty minutes. Each gentleman bowed with old-fashioned courtly grace, kissed her hand, and pronounced himself overwhelmed by her charms.
She had met them before, of course, when they called on Eudora, and they had always greeted her politely. But on those occasions she was merely a secretary, working at her desk while they cozed with Lady Swann. This night was altogether different. They had put on their party manners and approached her with the deference they might accord a duchess.
The Earl of Roedale arrived with several bottles of champagne, specially selected from his cellar for this splendid occasion. Lords Filbert and Doughty wore brightly colored brocade coats, even brighter waistcoats, and pearl-buckled high-heeled shoes. Powder from their tye-wigs dusted their shoulders and caused them to sneeze repeatedly into their lace handkerchiefs.
Sir Liston, who had limped in on a crutch, was sufficiently healthy to pinch her derriere when she leaned over to place a tapestry stool under his gouty foot.
She was half in love with them all by the time she could count eleven guests in the parlor. Like Eudora, they had refused to allow creaky joints and aching bones to diminish their hunger for life. While two maids circled the room with platters of hors d’oeuvres and cups of lethal punch, the men ate with relish, drank rather too deeply, and told decidedly improper stories. Jane hoped that supper would be ready before they were too foxed to locate the dining room.
She could not help but notice that Eudora kept glancing toward the parlor door as if expecting someone else to arrive. For that matter, she had ordered an extra place be set at table, insisting that thirteen for dinner was an unlucky number, although Jane had never known her to be the least bit superstitious.
How she would miss this extraordinary old woman! Eudora Swann was her dearest friend in the world. She had never loved anyone nearly so much, not even her mother, who always treated her well enough, considering that she blamed Jane for making the both of them social outcasts by being born. As if a babe had any choice in the matter.
Mortified to feel tears burning at her eyes, Jane slipped from the parlor and went to her bedchamber, where Nan was sleeping peacefully in her crib. Mrs. Gillis, the wet nurse, had already retired to her bed in the next room.
Jane disliked the woman, who made her living nursing one infant after the other with no apparent fondness for children at all. On the whole, the goat at Wolvercote possessed a better disposition than Mrs. Gillis. But she had agreed to come with them to Bibury and remain until a local woman could be found, so Jane was careful to keep on good terms with her.
After adjusting the blanket Felicia had embroidered for Nan with her arthritic hands, Jane took a moment at the mirror to powder her nose and straighten her hair. She was wearing a gown of muted gold sarcenet, which had been folded up in tissue paper since she bought it on a whim several months ago. With the gold stars Eudora had given her shining on her earlobes and the Kashmiri shawl that once belonged to Lord Fallon’s grandmother draped around her shoulders, she felt positively elegant.
There would be no call for such finery in Bibury, she thought, or ever again. Only this once, at her Twelfth Night party, could she disguise herself as a gentlewoman.
Widgeon, she chided, heading downstairs to the kitchen where Cook was stuffing an apple into the open mouth of a roast suckling pig.
“We’re all but ready to serve,” Cook said, licking her fingers. “But the goose ain’t quite crispy. Mebbe twenty minutes, Miss Jane.”
“Thank you. But do tell the maids to stop dishing up the punch. And when they pour wine at supper, an inch in each glass will do. Otherwise, we are like to have eleven gentlemen sleeping under the table tonight.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Cook responded with a wink. “In the old days, scarce a night went by without three or four cat-shot nobs snoozin’ where they fell.”
Laughing, Jane stopped by the dining room to make certain everything was in order. Eudora had put out the name cards herself, making sure each gentleman was placed near his friends. She would be seated at the head of the table, of course, with Jane at the foot and
the empty fourteenth chair to Jane’s right.
Then she noticed that someone had set a high-backed chair where Eudora’s Bath chair would need to be. Crossing to the far end of the room, she pushed it against the wall. And while her back was turned, she heard the dining-room door open and close behind her.
She glanced over her shoulder.
Her heart made a flying leap to her throat.
Lord Fallon, spectacularly handsome in black evening dress, his collar and neckcloth snowy white over a silver-threaded waistcoat, gazed at her with an unreadable expression on his face.
Clutching at her shawl, she made a slow turn on watery legs, putting one hand on the edge of the table to steady herself.
Fallon’s lips moved and tightened and moved again, as if he was trying to say something.
She summoned a polite greeting, but it never made its way past her constricted throat.
And then, with an oath, he charged across the room, knocking over a chair on his way, and pulled her into his arms. There was nothing gentle about his kiss. He held her as if fearful she would try to escape, and ravaged her mouth with lips and tongue while one hand threaded through her hair and the other clenched her around the waist.
She had never thought to see him again or be in his embrace once more. But here he was, his heart pounding against her breasts as he held her even closer. She thought she would die from the joy of it.
And then she thought she might really die if he didn’t permit her to breathe very soon.
He lifted his head just as she began to push him away. She kept both hands open against his chest as he moved his own hands to her shoulders and gazed down at her, searching her face. He looked nearly as bewildered as she felt. It was a wonder they didn’t melt together into a puddle on the floor.
“I should not . . .” he began slowly, his voice hoarse. “That is, I did not mean to . . .” He took a deep breath. “You see, Lady Swann said—”
“That you should kiss me?” Jane offered, trying to help. He looked so very angry with himself. She longed to smooth his harsh, frustrated expression and kiss the muscle ticking wildly in his cheek.
