Righting herself, she rolled her eyes. “This performance will be sadly compromised.”
He slowly released her arm. “I don’t mind. I just want to hear you sing.”
She pointed toward the desk. Or what she thought was the desk. “I need an audience. Sit.”
He promptly did, spreading his booted feet. “All of London awaits.”
“Give me a moment.” Setting a hand to her bodice, she admitted, “I’m not fully prepared. I usually have to loosen the strings on my corset to allow better breaths.”
His bare hands slowly gripped the edge of the desk he was sitting on. “Did you need me to unlace you?”
Her heart flipped. She pointed at him. “The laces stay on, Brandy Boy.”
He stared. “I’m not that drunk.”
“Oh, yes, you are. Or you wouldn’t have said it.” She wet her lips, knowing it had been quite some time since she sang for anyone outside of her students. “I must warn you. I’m out of practice.”
He smiled. “I will revel in it all the same, I assure you.” He swept a hand toward her, announcing he was ready to be entertained.
She nodded and steadied herself. Drawing in a full, well-embodied breath, she released the melody. Closing her eyes, she gave way to the lilting of her voice, taking it higher and higher. She had always felt like she was flying when she pushed her voice to obey. She sang and sang as if she were back onstage, letting her voice drift toward an audience that breathed when she breathed. Dropping her voice in finale, a lavish breath escaped her, knowing she hadn’t sung like that in years.
Reopening her eyes, she exhaled.
Martin stared at her heatedly for a long, pulsing moment. “Do you miss being onstage?”
She swallowed, sensing he was looking at her the way all men had back in her days at the opera: with lustful intent. But coming from him it was…different. “Sometimes. But I would never go back to it. I prefer the quieter life I have chosen. It’s lovely to be able to go into public and not have people crowd around you wherever you go.”
Rising from the desk, he strode toward her and leaned in close, making her fully aware that he had intentions.
Their eyes locked.
She could barely breathe.
His full lips parted and his hand slowly trailed toward her corseted waist, his fingers dragging across the material of her gown. His chest visibly rose and fell beneath his embroidered waistcoat.
She knew, even if she hadn’t swallowed a single drop of brandy, she would have kissed him. But she also knew giving in to a kiss would only lead to more. Much more. Like…a relationship. And sex. She panicked at the thought. “We shouldn’t.”
He paused, his hand trailing around her waist. “Why not?”
“Because kissing leads to things.”
“Does it?” He sounded mildly amused and leaned in closer.
She swayed against him, her skin tingling and aware of his touch. “If I let you do this, it will change everything between us,” she whispered, trying not to look at his lips. Trying not to kiss them. Trying not to need them. “And I’m not…I’m not ready for that.” He was, after all, Martin. Her dearest, dearest Martin. How was she ever going to get past that?
“Will you ever be ready?” he whispered back, the warmth of his breath grazing her skin.
“I don’t know,” she admitted.
He gently fingered her gown. “Do you want to be ready?”
Despite herself, she nodded. For she knew she didn’t want to spend her life alone. She was tired of it.
He hesitated, as if meaning to say something, then edged back, his hand falling away. He nodded. Stepping back farther, he gestured toward the door. “I will take you home.”
She let out a breath, feeling like she could focus again.
He remained silent for the rest of the night.
Even in the carriage ride.
Even as he assisted her out of the carriage back on Foley Street and into the snow.
Neither of them seemed to be under the effects of brandy anymore. And she was glad for it. It meant whatever was about to be said or done would be done without the blurring of sensibilities. “When will I see you again?” she offered, breaking the silence of the night and the snow-covered street surrounding them.
He captured her gaze. “Do you want to see me again?”
She readjusted her cloak. “Would I have asked if I didn’t?”
He lingered by the open door of the carriage. “Then you will.”
She swallowed, realizing that she was actually pursuing this and him. What, oh, what was she thinking? It was obvious she had missed having him in her life. She missed his quiet passion for everything. The sort of passion she used to feel and have for everything. “When will I see you again?”
“When you least expect it.” Slipping his hand into his inner waistcoat pocket beneath his greatcoat, he withdrew a gold locket. Taking her hand, he placed it in her palm and closed her hand firmly around it. “Tell me your answer when you see me again.” He released her hand. “Good night, Jane. And don’t forget to call on your father at Christmas.” Inclining his head, he turned, hopped into the carriage, and settled into the seat.
The footman eyed her—as if politely refraining from pointing out that she ought to step away—then folded up the stairs, shut the door, and jumped up onto the backside of the carriage.
Jane glanced down at the locket, stunned at realizing it was her mother’s gold locket. The one her father had given to her mother when they had gotten engaged. Where did he—
She glanced up and opened her mouth to say something but shut it, realizing she was simply too stunned to even do so. Was this a marriage proposal?
“If you would please step away, my lady!” the footman called down to her from his back post. He waved her off the street with a gloved hand. “For your safety, please step away!”
As if she was going to let Martin take off without explaining himself. She jumped toward the brougham and, using the reticule dangling from her wrist, thwacked the carriage window. “Martin!”
Martin leaned forward in his seat, reappearing at the side window she’d hit with her reticule. His dark eyes met hers through the glass, causing her heart to skip.
“Is this a marriage proposal?” she yelled out, holding up the locket.
He held her gaze for a long, piercing moment, clearly weighing how he wanted to respond. He then called out through the glass, “Yes.” With that, he leaned back into his seat and hit the roof of the carriage with a gloved hand, signaling the driver.
“Onward!” the driver yelled out as he jiggled the reins, moving both horses into the street.
She stepped back onto the pavement and watched in complete exasperation as the carriage pushed its way through the snow. She let out a shaky breath and glanced down at the locket in her hand. For her father to have given up her mother’s locket meant her father had not only forgiven her but approved of the match.
And despite everything, she approved of the match, too.
Chapter Five
We both have fears and doubts in what we share and who we are.
We must try to rise above it and embrace what is, not what should be.
—Mister X
Christmas, late morning
The rare sun glistened and brightened the snow that covered every roof and every path. Jane lingered on the doorstep of her father’s vast terrace house dressed in her finest gown and cloak with a small basket full of freshly roasted chestnuts hooked onto her arm. They were her father’s favorite. Last she knew.
She fingered the locket around her neck, finding comfort and strength in knowing that she was no longer alone. That no matter what happened between herself and her father, she had Martin. Like she always had. Once upon a time. And now forever.
Lifting her hand to the brass bell beside the door, she twisted it. Moments edged past, and with it the occasional clattering of coach wheels and clumping of horses’ hooves from the cobblestone street behind. Leaning back, s
he eyed the vast windows, noting all of the curtains were open. What if he had changed his mind?
A click vibrated the large entrance door and it swung open. A thin, grey-haired man in livery peered out.
It was Bentley.
Jane tried to remain calm, even though she was overwhelmed. “Happy Christmas to you, Bentley.”
The old man’s blue eyes brightened. “And a Happy Christmas to you, my lady. What a glorious day it is. His lordship assured all the servants you would be visiting.”
She couldn’t believe she was home. At long last. She held out the small basket. “I brought these. Might you serve them? The rest can be set out into a bowl in the kitchen for yourself and the rest of the house.”
Bentley took the basket and smiled. “But of course. We thank you.” He pulled the door wider. “His lordship anxiously awaits.”
“Thank you.” She stepped into the large foyer.
The door closed, darkening the hallway. Several lit candles illuminated the silk-brocaded walls that clothed the expanse of the dim foyer. Nothing had changed. Even the sweet, subtle scent of the cigars her father smoked still lingered in the air. Her father had never been known for keeping his smoking in one room or from the eyes of others, which had scandalized certain ladies of the ton when they visited.
He had always been a bit of a rebel.
Perhaps that was where she got it from.
Bentley passed off the basket to a footman. “Have these plated and served in the receiving room. Whatever remains can be left in the kitchen.” Rounding her, Bentley effortlessly assisted in removing her cloak, shawl, gloves, and bonnet.
It had been so long since she had been tended to like this. “Thank you, Bentley.”
“Of course.” He gestured toward the drawing room. “If you please, I will inform his lordship of your arrival. He had a missive to tend to.” He hurried up the stairs.
Slowly walking into the brightly lit receiving room, filled with furnishings and large portraits and mirrors, Jane paused. Old Mrs. Granger was sitting in one of the upholstered chairs, wrapped in a stunningly large cashmere shawl that draped an equally stunning green velvet morning gown.
Jane’s eyes widened. “Mrs. Granger, you look magnificent. I didn’t know you would be here. Happy Christmas to you.”
The old woman smiled, her wrinkled face brightening. “Happy Christmas, dear.” She patted her shawl and gown. “As you can see, my nephew has officially tainted my simple tastes. I have ceased resisting in the name of peace.” She pointed twice to the chair beside her. “Sit.” She leaned forward and gathered up one of several porcelain cups from the table set before her. “Come. Share in some eggnog. Lord Chadwick will be with us shortly.”
The old woman took a dainty sip of her eggnog as if there was nothing left to do but drink. She hesitated and sipped again, her silvery brows rising toward her coif. “Either I’m getting old or the cooks these days are pouring far more than the usual amount of brandy into the eggnog.”
Jane walked toward the chair beside Mrs. Granger. Grazing her hand across the wood frame, she turned and slowly seated herself in it. Setting her hands onto her lap, she eased out a breath. “Will His Grace be joining us this Christmas?” It was so odd to be referring to Martin as “His Grace.”
Mrs. Granger lowered her cup and eyed her. “I am afraid not. His brother arrived unexpectedly into town early this morning to surprise him, only his horse slipped on some ice, tossed them both onto the road, and he broke his leg. He will be bedridden for weeks, I am sure.”
Jane gasped. “Martin broke his leg?”
Mrs. Granger tsked. “No, no. His brother, Christopher, did. The horse fell on him just down the street from the estate and hence the broken leg. Martin was quite upset with his brother for not taking a coach in this weather and is tending to the whole ordeal. He insisted I join you and your father instead.”
“How terrible. I shall have to visit him and his brother straightaway.”
“He insists you not bother or worry.”
“After supper tonight, I must and I will.”
“As I said, he insists you not bother or worry. He plans to call on you during the week.” She paused. “Did you go to church this morning?”
“I did.”
“Did you pray for anything?”
Jane bit back a smile. “I did.”
Those dark eyes brightened. “There is no need to say for what.” She leaned forward and gestured toward the locket. “Martin told me. Congratulations. I knew I was good for something, even at my brittle age. Be sure to name the first female babe after me.”
Jane lowered her chin. “I have yet to accept, you realize.”
“Ah, but you will. I know you will. For you are tired of being alone and the clock ticks.”
The clock on the mantelpiece behind them clicked a hand into place, sending it chiming eleven times.
Jane glanced toward it. “So it does.”
Steady footsteps echoed down the corridor, making her throat tighten. Her father. She stood.
A stout, white-haired, and white-bearded man dressed in a dark coat, red waistcoat, and wool trousers appeared and lingered in the doorway. There was no more blond left in his hair or beard. He had grown all white since she had last seen him.
She almost cried knowing it.
Green eyes that matched her own settled upon her. Emotion glistened in them as he rapidly blinked in an effort to tamp it aside. Scanning her appearance, the earl entered the room. “’Tis Christmas. You should be wearing something more cheerful. Not so dark and grey.” He said it as if they had just seen each other yesterday. “I still have some of your gowns in the wardrobe upstairs. You should change into one of them.”
Jane smiled, blinking back tears. “Merry Christmas to you, too, Papa.”
“Merry Christmas, Jane.” Entering the room, he awkwardly smoothed his beard and offered, “You look well for yourself. Very well.”
“Thank you. As do you.” She wanted to hurry to him and embrace him but knew he wasn’t that sort. He had never been that sort. He was a man who loved from a distance, as his own father had taught him. But despite that, he still loved deeply. The passing of her mother had proven that. He had never been the same since.
Lord Chadwick seated himself on the sofa and gestured to the space beside him. “Sit.”
She seated herself where he’d indicated.
He reached out and patted her hand as if she were a child of two. “We will speak no more of what has been. We will only speak of what is and what will be. Whoever so much as gossips about your days in the opera will no longer be welcome in this house or in my company. I wish you to know that.”
She grabbed his hand, kissed it, and squeezed it in disbelief. Whatever Martin had told him, it was obvious it had resulted in this. She had her father back. “Forgive me, Papa.”
“I know what singing meant to you.” He shook her hand in a way that showed his affection before pulling it away. “You must tell me how you intend to answer Somerset. He worries you might not feel the same. That marriage is not the path you wish to take with him.” He paused and gestured toward the locket. “Though I suppose that is the answer, as you are wearing the locket I insisted he take and give to you. I always wondered why you and Somerset, after spending so much time together, never fully embraced each other until now.”
Her heart squeezed. “I think we needed time to grow. Both of us in our own way. He needed to get older and I needed to get wiser. I’m still getting used to the idea of him and progressing toward courtship.”
He leaned in. “Will it be a short courtship?” he queried. “Or a long one? Surely not a long one. You have both known each other long enough. To wait would insinuate uncertainty and leave room for gossip.”
Apparently her father was quite smitten with the idea of her being a duchess. “He and I have not yet discussed the particulars.”
Mrs. Granger leaned forward in her chair. “Do make it short, dear. Because I would
like to attend the wedding.”
A laugh escaped Jane. “Yes, Mrs. Granger.”
A footman entered and placed a bowl of roasted chestnuts next to the eggnog.
The earl’s brows rose. “I thought I had already eaten all of the chestnuts we had.” He reached over and grabbed a handful from out of the bowl. “Shall we play cards?”
It was like she had never left. Chestnuts, cards, and all. Unable to resist, Jane leaned over and kissed her father’s cheek. It was so good to be home. “I would love to play cards. You wouldn’t mind if I changed into one of my old gowns first, though, would you?”
“Not at all.” He popped another chestnut into his mouth and chewed, wagging a finger toward her. “Because I will say, that gown doesn’t suit you. It’s decisively plain.”
She smoothed the grey calico dress against her knees. “I know.” She cringed knowing that Martin had seen her in it.
He chewed. “It won’t do.”
“No, I agree. It won’t.”
Still wagging a finger at her and chewing, he added, “Especially if you plan to call on Somerset with an answer. Which I know you will. Today, in fact. I insist. There is no need to dawdle. Now go put on a better gown. If you are to become a duchess, you must look like one.”
She was officially nervous.
…
Later that evening
The Somerset estate
Martin propped his hands behind his head, stretching out on the vast four-poster bed beside his brother. “You should have stayed in France,” he chided. “London isn’t safe for well-decorated soldiers like you.”
Christopher hit Martin with the robed arm closest to him, his dark head shifting toward him. “Enough talk. I need more laudanum. I’m beginning to feel the leg.”
Martin sighed and sat up. “I gave you some an hour ago. The doctor said you only get one dosage every so many hours.”
Christopher muttered something.
“What was that?” Martin leaned toward him. “Are you complaining? Since when do soldiers complain?”
Christopher swiped his face. “You shouldn’t be here. You should be with Jane. Not tending to me and my leg.”
Martin sat on the edge of the bed and scrubbed his head, glancing toward Archer who lay sleeping beside the hearth. If only he had been born a dog. Life would be less complicated. “I’m not about to chase her. I need to give her time.”
Merry Christmas, Mrs. Robinson Page 7
