by Joan Smith
“Good gracious, how should I know what it was? I’m no expert.”
“You certainly fooled me,” he said, with a rakish smile lighting his eyes as his arms went around her. “Did he kiss you like—this?” he said, and drew her close against him to ravage her with a soul-destroying embrace, until her heart was pounding in her ears and her lungs felt as if they would burst. His warm fingers massaged the vulnerable nape of her neck, before moving to her back to crush her against him.
“N-no, it was nothing like that,” she said, when he finally released her.
For a long moment they stood, just gazing at each other in silence. Then Jane lifted her fingers to his cheek. “I’m sorry, Fenwick—about the meadow. What must you think of me?” she said in a small voice.
He took her hand and lifted it to his lips. “I think you are the most darling, adorable wretch who ever slapped my face. I thought you had run mad—or I had—or the whole demmed world had,” he said, with a frown growing between his eyes. Then it eased to a soft smile. “Perhaps what I mean is that I thought you were miffed with me for leaving so suddenly, without calling. I did think your annoyance a tad excessive, but grand passions breed the grand gesture. It was that casual mention of a certain Fortini molesting you that made me realize there was more to it than anger at my desertion.”
“I thought you mistook me for a lady of easy virtue.”
He shook his head ruefully. “Never that. A blind man could see your virtue is unblemished.”
He went to the sofa and drew her down beside him. “Did you really think I was checking up on you, Jane? I didn’t want to go. I just felt I owed Swann the chance. He doesn’t meet many ladies, and I knew you liked him. But then I thought of your feelings. I was arrogant enough to think perhaps you would prefer me to Scawen. By the time I had rationalized myself into thinking I was doing the right thing to come back, I was halfway to Bath, so I decided to continue on and tell Mama.”
She listened, her joy rising at every word. But all she said was, “Tell her what?”
“That I am engaged. That is, I hope to be—if you’ll have me.”
“I shan’t be inheriting Wildercliffe. I’m not Pargeter’s daughter.”
“I believe you’re confusing me with your erstwhile long-distance suitor, Sir Nigel Sykes. And how dare you suggest I’m marrying you for your money!”
“I haven’t said I’d marry you at all.”
“You’ve lost out on Swann, and after I went to the bother of finding a pair of black swans to replace you.”
A familiar smile trembled on her lips. “I couldn’t possibly, Fenwick.”
“My fiancées call me Desmond.”
“I wouldn’t know how to behave in the august society you inhabit.”
“Behave like the lady you are—sane, sensible, seductive. That last only when we are alone, of course.”
“Seductive!”
“In your own modest way.”
Jane considered this a moment in silence, then said, “What did your mama say when you told her?”
“She thinks I’m very brave to shackle myself to one of Miss Prism’s ladies. I shall make sure she knows you aren’t responsible for my black eye.”
The door opened suddenly without a warning tap. Swann stepped in, followed by Harriet. “Ah, there you are, Miss Lonsdale. Lady Pargeter seems to have disappeared. We wanted to ask her if it would be convenient for Miss Stowe to start work tomorrow morning.”
“I’m sure that will be fine, Harriet,” Jane said.
Her friend apologized a dozen times for taking such an abrupt departure. As Harriet apologized, Swann noticed that Fenwick was holding on to Jane’s hand as if he were afraid she’d escape.
“I believe I catch a whiff of April and May,” he said archly.
“Miss Lonsdale has done me the honor of accepting an offer of marriage—I think?” Fenwick said, looking a question at Jane.
Harriet looked aghast. “Jane! Are you sure? Oh, I’m sorry, milord. I don’t mean to suggest—but your temper is rather—not that you didn’t have a good reason to be so angry if you love her.”
“Of course he loves her,” Swann said. “Any fool can see that. Not that I mean you’re a fool, Miss Stowe. How should you know? You haven’t seen him sulking and skulking about like a dashed hermit when he thought I had the inner track. About them black swans, Fen—when do you figure they’ll arrive?”
“You’ll have to go and fetch them. I thought you’d want to see them before purchasing.”
“Ah. I’ll drop Fletcher a note this very night.” He turned to Harriet. “Perhaps you could help me write it, Miss Stowe? I’m not much of a hand at writing. Dashed pen always splatters ink on me.”
They went to the library table to write the letter. Fenwick looked at Jane. She nodded, and they both slipped quietly from the library. Instead of returning to the saloon, they went into a small parlor for privacy’s sake.
“Well?” Fenwick said. “Is it a bargain, or are you going to jilt me after I’ve made the announcement?”
“Knowing your violent temper, I had better accept.”
“Much better,” he said, with a smile of infinite tenderness, and kissed her.
Copyright © 1996 by Joan Smith
Originally published by Fawcett Crest [ISBN 0449224929]
Electronically published in 2013 by Belgrave House/Regency Reads
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This is a work of fiction. All names in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to any person living or dead is coincidental.
