by Jo Beverley
Mrs. Hawley shook her head. “Jane, what maggot has got into you? Lord Wraybourne made his choice after becoming acquainted with you. You have not deceived him as to your nature. Why should he suddenly decide you are unsuitable, merely because you are unaccustomed to Society?”
That, thought Jane, was depressingly true. She supposed it did not matter how tongue-tied she was, how many faux pas she committed. If she still had her money and her pedigree, the marriage would go forward.
She desperately wanted to marry the Earl of Wraybourne on any terms, but she really did not think she could bear it if he did not want as desperately to marry her.
3
THREE WEEKS LATER a carriage deposited Jane, her father, and a newly trained maid, Prudence Hawkins, at the pillared coach entrance of The Middlehouse, the country seat of Lord and Lady Harroving. Being close to Great Missenden, this was a convenient place to break the two-day journey to London. As Lord Wraybourne had agreed to meet his betrothed there, Sir Jeffrey did not need to escort his daughter all the way to Town. It was also suitable because Lady Harroving was to introduce Jane and Lady Sophie to Society in the coming weeks.
As Jane and her father entered the impressive Italianate entrance hall of The Middlehouse, she was very aware of the danger of showing her naivety and worked hard not to gape at the lightly clad deities who played in the clouds of the trompe l’oeil ceiling. As their hostess approached across the vast tiled hall, Jane could not help feeling Lady Harroving would have been at home if she had suddenly found herself transported to those painted Olympian heavens.
Lusciously plump and blond, she was obviously fighting the fact that she was in her thirties and a wife of many years. Her weapons were a daring style of dress and skillful, but not undetectable, use of cosmetics. There was marked contrast between her delightful expensive day dress of dusky pink muslin and her guests’ dark and serviceable travelling clothes.
Some unpleasant emotion seemed to flicker across her face when she set eyes on Jane. This reinforced Jane’s unhappy belief that she must present the very picture of dowdiness, but Lady Harroving’s manner was bright and welcoming as she arranged for their comfort.
“I am sure you must be exhausted! I dislike travelling above all things. Our other guests are out at the moment, but I’m sure that is a relief to you, my dear,” she said sweetly to Jane. “You do not want to be meeting Lord Wraybourne again in all your dirt. I will have tea sent to your rooms and you may rest before dinner tonight.”
Jane recognized the false tone of this welcome. In fact, her hostess scarcely bothered to hide it. The lady was doubtless put out by the arbitrary increasing of her responsibilities.
Still, any ungraciousness was not reflected in the room Jane was given. She sighed with contentment at the feel of a velvety carpet beneath her feet and breathed deeply the delicate aroma of the potpourri in a china bowl on the dressing table. She had no need to be politic as she admired the yellow sprigged wallpaper and the matching hangings on the bed.
Once Lady Harroving had left, Jane continued her exploration. Lavender sachets in the drawers, rose-scented soap in the dish and, in the grate, an enormous fire despite the fact that it was May and seasonably warm. Such luxury seemed a sign of better things to come. Jane surveyed her new domain with satisfaction, trying desperately to ignore the shadowy fears which troubled her mind. Lady Harroving’s reaction had made it very clear that Jane’s betrothed would think her an unfashionable, tongue-tied bumpkin. It was intolerable rather than reassuring that he would accept her because of her money, bloodlines, and upbringing even while he despised her appearance.
How she wished Mrs. Hawley was here with her. That lady would have shared Jane’s delight in the unaccustomed luxury, but she would also have been able to advise and support. Alas, Beth was to stay on at Carne to help with preparations for the wedding and then would leave to take up another position. Jane missed her dreadfully already. Tomorrow her father would leave to return home and she would be alone with strangers. For a moment she was afraid she would cry, but she never cried. She had prayed for years to be allowed to escape from her home, to learn something of the world beyond Carne. Now that the opportunity was granted her, tears were uncalled for.
Resolutely, she drank the tea and ate the delicious cake sent up for her refreshment, then let Prudence remove her outer clothes so that she might lie down upon the soft bed. Heaven, a feather mattress! In moments she was asleep.
Some hours later, when Jane was awakened by her maid, she felt disorientated but she recovered to realize that she was, in fact, well rested and able to face what could be a trying evening. She had longed for new experiences. Now she would enjoy them. If anyone looked down on her, she thought wryly, she would remember her fortune, her bloodlines, and her moral superiority. As for her betrothed, she could only try her hardest not to make him ashamed of her. Above all, she must not moon over him or cling to him. Her mother had given her another lecture before departure, warning expressly against such ill-bred behavior.
Jane knew she would have faced her first contact with fashionable Society with more composure if she had clothes with some pretense to à-la-modality. Her measurements had been sent weeks ago to a fashionable modiste who was to make her trousseau, but the garments were to be collected on arrival in London. This had not seemed to matter when they were merely to stay with Lord Wraybourne’s cousin in the country; but now, having seen the cousin, Jane knew she would be a figure of fun. She gazed at her only evening gown, a plain white silk with a neckline neither high nor low and no ornamentation whatsoever.
“Oh, how I wish I had my London wardrobe,” Jane sighed. “I will look like a pauper cousin in this dress.”
“There’s the pearls, Miss Jane,” offered Prudence Hawkins in consolation.
Jane took out the long, perfectly matched string and let it trickle through her fingers. She nodded thoughtfully.
“And I’ll try your hair in a new style, Miss. You can’t keep wearing it down your back or in braids round your head.”
“Very well.” Jane looked up at the maid. “Have you become acquainted with any of the servants here, Prudence?”
“Lady Sophie’s maid was quite kind to me, Miss Jane. Above me, of course, but she showed me a few things.”
“Could you go and ask whether she knows of any white silk flowers I could borrow?” Jane was a little pink. “I dislike having to ask, but better that than to appear so . . . plain.”
Enthusiastically, Prudence hurried off and returned in a little while with a box of trimmings and flowers.
“There’s any amount of folderols in the sewing room here!” she exclaimed. “Stuff is worn once and thrown aside. Tomorrow, if you wish, Miss Jane, I’ll see about trimming your other gowns a little.”
They worked together, and soon Jane decided that she presented a tolerable enough appearance. She made no attempt to be fashionable, for she had little idea what the fashion was. She suspected neither the frilly gowns worn by Squire Masham’s wife nor the heavily trimmed style favored by the wife of the vicar of Carne represented the latest style. Still, she was confident that the discreet use of trimming had disguised the poor cut of the dress. Small white rosebuds decorated the neckline of her gown and larger open blossoms were fixed in her hair, which was now gathered in a knot on the top of her head. With the pearls wrapped round her neck four times, she believed she could hold her head high.
Nonetheless, she felt the need of moral support when she received a message saying that her father had one of his sick headaches and would not be down that evening. On shaking legs and feeling very alone, Jane followed the footman to the drawing room, where her name was announced to what seemed to her a large and glittering company. She froze for a moment, but the dreaded first meeting with Lord Wraybourne passed easily. He appeared to her not so much a critical judge as a gallant rescuer and refuge. He might only see her as a fortune on well-bred legs, but at least he was a familiar face and inclined to be kind.
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br /> “You are looking very well, Jane.”
He was not so familiar after all. After so many weeks of absence, he was a stranger too.
Jane studied him as if for the first time. He was handsome, she supposed, and very elegant. She did not remember his clothes being quite so fine at Carne. Doubtless he chose them to suit the company. There, in the evening, he had worn knee breeches and dark colors like her father. Here he was dressed in a deep blue coat and buff pantaloons molded to his body. His cravat formed crisp, white folds around his face to emphasize his well-shaped features. She stiffened as she became aware of the direction of her thoughts. She mustn’t start mooning over him, even if he was extremely handsome.
“I will look even better,” she replied prosaically, “when the London modiste has done her work.”
Lord Wraybourne’s finely shaped lips twitched slightly. “I am sure of it. As with the hairdressers and perhaps even the cosmeticians. But they will be gilding the lily.”
Despite her determination to be cool and sophisticated, Jane was shocked. “Face paint is totally improper!” Then she saw the gleam in his eyes. “Are you teasing me, my lord?”
“One of my privileges, I believe,” he said with a smile, tucking her arm in his. “Come along and allow me to present you to your host and the rest of the company.”
Lord Harroving was a solid man with red face and a leering eye. Jane did not like the way he looked at her and was relieved when he did not seem to find her worthy of continuing interest. He was considerably older than his wife and spent most of the evening with the Sporting Pink, ignoring the company.
A very tall, muscular man in his thirties was introduced as Sir Marius Fletcher, a particular friend. Be that as it may, his greeting to her was less than warm, Jane felt, but perhaps such a chiselled face could not help being stony. Unlike Lord Wraybourne, Sir Marius’s evening clothes were almost casual. He was most certainly not a dandy. When she became more familiar with Society, she would realize he belonged to the sporting Corinthian set.
After two such daunting introductions Jane was relieved to be presented to a young woman of her own age. Lady Sophia Kyle, Lord Wraybourne’s sister, seemed reserved at first, then she suddenly smiled and embraced Jane warmly.
“I am pleased to meet you after all. I am going to like you very much, I think, and we will be the best of friends as we are to make our curtsy together. And soon, of course, we will be the best of sisters!”
While relieved at the offer of friendship, Jane couldn’t help but think that Lord Wraybourne’s sister was not quite as her mother had expected. Her blue silk dress with its foot of embroidered fringing round the hem and star tlingly low—at least in Jane’s experience—neckline could only be called dashing. Jane was hard put not to stare at Lady Sophie’s hair, which was cropped short and bounced in auburn curls very like her brother’s. Blue ribbons were threaded through it, their ends hanging down one side to her shoulder.
“I admire your hair style very much, Lady Sophia,” Jane said warmly and was rewarded by a squeak of delight.
“How wonderful of you. It is quite the thing! I have just had it cropped. My stuffy brother does not like it, but he cannot stick the hair back on.” Her stuffy brother merely grinned and tweaked one of her short curls as Jane tried to come to terms with this offhand approach to authority.
“It’s nothing to do with me, pest,” Lord Wraybourne remarked, apparently unalarmed. “Doubtless you’ll soon capture some poor unsuspecting male to run your rigs with.”
He directed Jane’s attention to his sister’s partner. “This, Jane, is Lord Randal Ashby. He cannot resist the urge to flirt with a beautiful woman, so be on your guard. As you see, he has been unfairly equipped by nature.”
Jane was cast into great confusion by both the casual compliment and the sight of the most handsome man imaginable. Only a poet could describe Lord Randal. Sadly, the few poets who had attempted the feat had given up under threats of violence from the young man, who found his spectacular good looks a trial. To say that he was tall, slim, and blond was insufficient. Every feature was perfect, and each enhanced the next. Even without striking a pose, his stance was elegant. Jane was to discover that it was, in fact, impossible for his body to arrange itself in unpleasing lines.
In response to his greeting, uttered, of course, in a mellow and musical voice, she could only murmur polite nothings for fear she would blurt out that he was the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen and she wished she could look at him forever.
Lord Wraybourne dragged her away, commenting good humoredly, “I see I will have to keep you out of Lord Randal’s orbit. Meanwhile, I would like you to meet the final member of our party, Mrs. Phoebe Danvers.”
This lady possessed a chilly kind of beauty, being tall and slender with pale skin and even paler blond hair.
“The Sandiford heiress!” she said with a slight smile. “How pleased I am to meet you. We have all been so anxious to know what qualities could capture our elusive David.”
Jane stiffened. Mrs. Danvers was surely implying what all the world knew, that Jane had been chosen for her ancestry and money. Her rare temper began to stir as she decided she did not like this woman at all.
“I was not aware Lord Wraybourne had been the victim of a hunt, Mrs. Danvers,” said Jane with an air of innocence. “Who was in the pack?”
The lady seemed to catch her breath. Her eyes narrowed, but she said calmly, “Every unwed lady in town, Miss Sandiford, and quite a few of the married ones.”
Jane would have dearly liked to ask whether the lady included herself in the latter group. An instinct as old as time told her it was so. Nonetheless, she was alarmed by her own impulsively sharp comment. This was no way to impress her betrothed with her sangfroid. Jane was further bewildered by the notion that Lord Wraybourne might have an interest in married women. She had assumed that, even if he was marrying her for her money, a husband chosen by her mother would be upright and faithful. Was that yet another instance of naivety? Had her mother been grossly deceived?
Such considerations were for later on, however. For the moment Jane must content herself with adding that she was pleased Lord Wraybourne would no longer have the uncomfortable role of quarry. Even so, Mrs. Danvers had the last word.
“I have always contended the hunt may not be so bad. The capture is the unpleasant part. I am speaking of the fox, of course.”
Lord Wraybourne led Jane quickly away, his lips twitching with amusement. “Why on earth have you got your claws into Phoebe Danvers? She has a sharp tongue.”
Jane looked up at him, intending to reply, but found herself suddenly arrested by his face so close to hers. When he became her husband he would expect more than a kiss on the cheek. Those finely shaped lips would be pressed to hers. Just as at Carne, she was unnervingly aware of her body’s reaction to his proximity.
This would never do. She glanced aside to hide her consternation. The pause had been too long, however, and he asked, with concern, if she was unwell or overtired. At least, he had not guessed the direction of her thoughts. She reassured him hastily, hoping that, as usual, her creamy skin would hide rather than reveal her embarrassment.
Meanwhile, Lord Wraybourne misunderstood the cause of her discomfort and said with a smile, “You would be wise not to cross swords with such as Mrs. Danvers until you have developed your guard.”
“You are probably correct,” Jane replied, recovering her wits. “And thank you for raising my status from peevish kitten to swordswoman.”
He raised her hand and touched it lightly with a kiss. Her second kiss ever, she thought, fighting to control her reaction. She would not become a tongue-tied ninny again.
“I see you perhaps as a little of each,” he murmured.
“A kitten with a sword between its teeth?” she replied breathlessly.
“A tiger cub more like. You have tiger eyes.”
Jane could feel her heart thudding in a most alarming way, which must surely be
visible.
“I am not sure I would wish to be such a ferocious beast. Especially when I have just been accused of hunting you down.”
His smile teased. She could hardly see his blue eyes beneath the heavy lids. “Ah, but you are only a baby tiger and what am I? I assure you I am no lamb.”
Feeling quite dizzy from this exchange of repartée Jane agreed. “Of that I am quite sure, Lord Wraybourne!”
What was she to do? He seemed to think it his duty to pay these intimate attentions to her. Perhaps it was proper behavior in this circumstance; but, in that case, what was the appropriate response? Her mother had given her no guidance in this.
Jane’s very acute mind was also making other observations and deductions. The company at The Middlehouse was completely different from anything she had known in her life. The color and laughter, the looks which flitted between ladies and gentlemen—all exuded an aura which Jane could only think of as licentious. She knew she was naive and supposed these people could not possibly be as wicked as they appeared to her. Some of them were quite old, after all. Yet, such behavior would definitely not have been permitted at Carne. Still, her betrothed seemed at his ease and undisturbed.
He had obviously not chosen his bride from Carne out of insistence on elevated principles. If Mrs. Danvers was to be believed—and, despite the fact that she could not take to the lady, Jane had no reason to doubt her veracity—there were dozens of well-bred, young debutantes desperate for the chance to wear his ring. So it could only be her money which had attracted him. She knew she was one of the greatest heiresses in the land. If Lord Wraybourne needed her money then it explained his desire to please her and lessened any chance that he would lightly break the engagement.
For the first time in her life Jane felt herself to be in a position of power. She still had no desire to be a figure of fun but she also no longer felt excessive fear of failure. In fact, from this new position of confidence, she regarded Lord Wraybourne’s attention with some skepticism. He was charming and skilled in social pleasantries, but she would be foolish to take him too seriously as yet. She did not intend to become doting-fond of a man who wanted only her fortune. In time, she hoped, a true regard would grow between them. Until then, she must keep a tight rein on her feelings.
