Jane Grey (The Brontë Brothers Book 1)

by Nina Mason

  Chapter Three

  At Mathilde’s wake, Matthew dutifully played the role he’d been assigned when first he moved to Cœur Brisé. For respectability’s sake, the countess had passed him off as a wealthy earl she’d met and married while on holiday in England.

  Since he’d been given life tenancy in the château, he could see no harm in allowing his neighbors to go on believing he was a count (the French equivalent of an earl) and that and Mathilde had been legally married. His being her widower also implied that her estate now belonged to him.

  Well, if any of them had him in mind for a future husband or son-in-law, the deception might do a small harm. And he could only presume, from the looks and questions he’d been getting all day, that many of them had indeed set their sights on him as a marriage prospect.

  The good news was that all of them were heiresses, since French estates, unlike those in England, were divided equally between daughters and sons. The bad news was that none of them would have him if they knew the truth about his circumstances.

  Still, he might amuse himself with one or two of them for a time before gently letting them down. One young lady in particular had captured his interest—a perfect rose begging to be plucked from the bush of maidenly innocence. Her heart-shaped face, framed by a profusion of golden ringlets, was a flawless canvas for delicate, well-arranged features. Long, sweeping lashes enlivened her emerald eyes, above which sat perfectly penciled eyebrows. And her lips…well, her lips were as plump and pouting as one of Botticelli’s cherubs (and infinitely more tempting).

  Ever so discreetly, he looked her way again and let his gaze roam over her youthful figure. She was dressed austerely in black taffeta, but the snugness of her bodice and fullness of her skirt displayed her ample bosoms and trim waistline to perfection.

  When his eyes returned to her face, he caught her admiring him from behind her black-lace fan. Their gazes locked for one smoldering moment before she strategically looked away, enchanting him all the more. For one so young, she was surprisingly well-versed in the art of seduction.

  He plucked a glass of wine from the tray of a passing servant, gulped it down, and set the empty goblet on a nearby table. Each time he looked her way, she batted her long lashes at him.

  Her flirting was making him hard and, damn his luck, his waistcoat was too short and his trousers too tight to hide the evidence. Turning on his heel, he threw open the French doors, stepped onto the veranda, and drew a deep breath of fresh air to cool his blood.

  It was a lovely, crisp day with a clear blue sky and a light breeze. When his gaze landed on the fabrique, he imagined taking the girl there for a moment before casting the idea from his mind. If he compromised her, he’d have to marry her before he was sure she suited him, and he wasn’t about to be trapped by another designing woman before the last one was even in her grave.

  Still, he was intrigued. Who was she? Who were her parents? Where did she live? Somewhere in the neighborhood, obviously, but to which estate might she belong? The only way to get the answers, of course, was to speak to her.

  Fortunately, he wouldn’t have to wait long for the opportunity—for here she came now under the shade of a black silk parasol. His pulse quickened at the sight of her strolling toward him. She was a bold one to come into the garden without a chaperone when she clearly knew he was out here alone.

  Brazen as can be, she walked right up to him and extended her hand. “How do you do? I am Lady Cécile Brousseau. The only daughter of Viscount Émile Brousseau of Château de Vouvray.”

  As he took the dainty offering, his heart beat faster—owing both to the contact and her mention of Vouvray, the neighboring property whose sprawling acres of grapevines, lavender, and sunflowers he’d long admired.

  He pressed a lingering kiss to the black kid leather protecting her hand. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Lady Cécile. A great pleasure indeed.”

  “The pleasure is mine, Lord Brontë.” She gave him a winsome smile. “For long have I desired a closer acquaintance with the man who haunts my dreams.”

  He licked his lips, both startled and titillated by her statement. “You have dreamed of me, Lady Cécile?”

  “I have, Lord Brontë.” She batted her eyes coquettishly. “Many times.”

  Did he dare inquire as to the nature of these dreams? Not if he wanted to keep his cock in his trousers, which he rather did. At least until he knew her better. Steering the conversation to safer ground, he asked, “Do you enjoy reading, Lady Cécile?”

  “I sometimes read novels when there’s nothing better to do.”

  A disheartening answer, but at least she read. “Have you perchance read Jane Eyre? I hear it’s all the rage at present in England.”

  She tilted her head in a most beguiling manner and tapped a finger against her lips. God, how he yearned to kiss that alluring pink mouth of hers. He must, however, resist the enticement, even if it killed him. And, at the moment, it felt as if it might.

  “Though I’ve not read the book myself,” she said, “I’ve heard it spoken of. Is it not the story of a governess who falls in love with a man who keeps his mad wife locked in the attics?”

  “More or less.” He was doing his best to appear composed. She was standing too close, thank God, to see the physical effect she was having on him.

  “My father has hired a new governess,” she said, steering the conversation to a subject that was perhaps more comfortable for her. “An English spinster who is expected today.”

  An English governess? His heartbeat accelerated. That she might be anything like Jane Eyre was probably too lofty a hope. He let his gaze rest upon Lady Cécile’s décolletage, which seemed to strain against her bodice the way a root-bound plant strained against its container. As desire rushed through him, hot and dangerous, he lifted his gaze to her face. “Are you not too old for a governess?”

  “My father doesn’t think so,” she said with a pout. “He finds me too flighty, I suppose, and hopes the new governess will teach me to hem in my natural vivacity.”

  He moistened his lips, tasting tart wine and brackish lust. “There is nothing wrong with vivacity.”

  “That is what I think as well.” She smiled and dipped her head to look up at him from under her lashes. “It pleases me greatly to know you don’t share Papa’s condemnation of my lively temperament.”

  Seeing only perfection before him, he swallowed and bit his lip. She stepped closer and set her hand upon the black armband encircling his bicep. The fragrance of her expensive perfume was making him dizzy. So was the surge of lust her intimate touch provoked. It had been a long time since a lovely young lady had flirted with him, and he rather liked the heady way it made him feel.

  Leaning very close, Lady Cécile squeezed his arm and, in a breathless whisper that further enflamed his blood, said, “What would you say if I asked you to show me more of your gardens? For I’ve wanted so long to see the grounds I’ve heard so highly praised.”

  The swell of pride her words activated in him was quickly deflated by concern. Would her father not think it improper to walk with a gentleman unchaperoned? At present, they were still visible from the house. If he took her into his garden—or the fabrique, if the wolf in him could not be tamed—what they got up to couldn’t be observed.

  Or was that her objective?

  If it was, he’d best remain on his guard, hard as that would be. For he wanted her rather desperately, damned deprived fool that he was. Even knowing she was trying to entrap him, he found her beauty irresistible to his artist’s eye.

  She took his arm and, as he led her along the gravel paths, he did his best to rein in his concupiscent urges, reminding himself of the greater goal. Yes, Lady Cécile was bewitching, but she wasn’t the sort of intelligent, soulful creature it would take to win his reluctant heart.

  “Tell me more about your new governess.” He was genuinely interested. “Is she young or old?”

  “Young, I believe, though of an old
er age than I.”

  “And what age would that be?”

  “I’m seventeen, Monsieur,” she replied. “But will turn eighteen in December. My father is throwing a grand ball to mark the occasion and launch me into society. I do hope you will attend—and even perhaps engage me for a dance?”

  “I would like nothing better,” he said, distracted by thoughts of the English governess. “What is your new tutor’s name? Do you know?”

  “Yes. She is called Jane Grey.” She laughed. “Is that not the dullest name imaginable? I sincerely hope she doesn’t turn out to be as uninteresting in person.”

  He was too stunned to comment. That her name should be Jane Grey—a marriage of two governess heroines in his cousins’ books—seemed almost preordained. Suddenly more fascinated by the governess coming than he was by his pretty companion, he stopped beside a bed of yellow roses.

  “Tell me something if you will, Lady Cécile.” He turned to face her. “What is your favorite of all the flowers?”

  Would her answer carry a hidden message? Perhaps, for she certainly seemed artful enough to be versed in the language of flowers.

  “Roses, I suppose.” She smiled at him in a way that rekindled his interest. “Though I’m not as fond of the thorns as I am of the blossoms and perfume.”

  He arched an eyebrow. Was she being sincere?—or simply telling him what she believed might please him to hear? The garden they’d been strolling through was bursting with roses, after all, so it wasn’t hard to guess he was partial to them.

  “Any particular color?” This preference, she couldn’t guess, because his beds displayed a variety of shades.

  “White, I think.”

  Her choice amused him. White roses symbolized innocence and purity, but also secrecy. Did Lady Cécile already have secrets? Given the precocious way she was flirting with him, he wouldn’t be surprised.

  Leading her into his love garden, he stopped under the shade of a tree to cool down. While the air was a tolerable temperature, the black wool of his coat, a sponge for the sun’s warmth, was making him sweat beneath his cambric shirt and silk waistcoat.

  He looked around him at the garden he’d toiled so hard to create. Would she remark upon it in some promising way? The egotistical part of him hoped she would while the pragmatist warned him against expecting too much from such a shameless seductress.

  “Do you enjoy poetry, Lady Cécile?”

  “I’ve enjoyed some of the poems I’ve read,” she ambiguously answered.

  “Pray, are you at all familiar with William Blake?”

  “I am, but must confess to finding his verse too highfalutin to comprehend.”

  “Because the symbolism eludes you?”

  Her gaze darted away from his. “Because I haven’t the slightest idea what he is talking about most of the time.”

  “Would you like me to explain, so that you will understand?”

  She tittered girlishly. “I didn’t come into the garden with you for a poetry lesson.”

  He reclaimed her arm and escorted her to the weeping willow at the end of the path. The curtain of lazy branches now obscured them from view almost as effectively as the fabrique would have done. Unsure what he intended to do, he turned to face her, set a finger beneath her chin, and lifted her gaze to his.

  “What, then, was your purpose in walking in the garden with me?”

  Desire smoldered in her catlike eyes. “I told you: to see the grounds I’ve heard so highly praised by my friends and neighbors.”

  He didn’t believe her. He could see through her pretense to the plot behind it. She was doing her best to reel him in. Well, let her bait her hook, for she would catch too small a fish to satisfy her appetites.

  “If I ask you something, will you answer me truthfully?”

  “Yes.” She looked every bit the cunning actress. “If it is in my power to do so.”

  “When you dream of me, what are we doing?”

  To her credit, her face colored. “If I answered you truthfully, you’d think me no lady.”

  Her answer confirmed his suspicions. The dreams were of a sexual nature, if she had indeed dreamed of him at all. It might well be part of her scheme to draw him in—and, if that were indeed the case, it was a highly effective trick. For what man could resist the charms of a woman who’d dreamt of him in such a way?—especially a beautiful heiress like Cécile Brousseau.

  Not him, he was sorry to say.

  “Tell me, Lady Cécile. I promise not to think less of you.”

  “I cannot.” Her cheeks grew redder. “For it would be too improper.”

  Tantalized by the game, he leaned closer, again catching the hypnotic scent of her perfume. “More improper than walking with me in the garden unchaperoned?”

  “Much more.”

  He moved his mouth mere inches from hers. “Do we kiss in these dreams of yours?”

  “I’m beginning to think you no gentleman, Lord Brontë,” she said, never taking her sparkling green gaze from his.

  He grinned wolfishly. “I never claimed to be.”

  He’d been wrong about her—in some respects, at least. This seduction wasn’t merely a game to snare him. The way she trembled under his gaze clearly signaled that she longed for him to kiss her. Not the chaste way a gentleman might kiss a lady, either; but in the way he’d kissed his cousin that day in the shed.

  The passion he’d not felt in years leapt to the fore, overriding his reason. Licking his lips, he hovered before her beckoning mouth. “Do you want me to kiss you?”

  “Yes,” she whispered. “Oh, yes.”

  He took the parasol from her and tossed it aside before walking her backward toward the trunk of the tree. Sandwiching her body between the bark and him, he bent and captured her mouth. Her eager response told him she’d been kissed before with equal fervor.

  Then, as if a spell had been lifted, he regained his senses and withdrew from her. “I should warn you before we go any further that if marriage is your goal, you will find nothing apart from a penniless painter beside you at the altar at the end of the day.”

  “What do you mean?” She blinked up at him. “You are a wealthy count, are you not?”

  “Only as long as I remain single.”

  The fire in her eyes became a blaze. “And you kissed me like…like that, knowing this—and my expectations?”

  “I own that I did.” He was as ashamed of himself as he was cross with her. “Consider it a lesson learned about trifling with the hearts of unsuspecting men. Would you really trap a stranger into marrying you just to gain his title and fortune? Have you never heard it said that money cannot buy happiness?”

  With spite in her eyes and tone, she said, “Fine words coming from you, who everyone knows married the countess for her money—and then, had the bad manners to treat her unkindly. Who could blame her for using her fortune to punish your cruelty?”

  Her indictment pierced his soul. He hadn’t been cruel to Mathilde, dammit, only coldly aloof to protect himself from her barbs. But, how could this scheming chit know anything about his relationship with his late patroness? Had the servants been gossiping?—or had the countess herself complained of his mistreatment to her friends? The idea that all around him knew the most intimate details of his relationship with Mathilde—and judged him on the basis of biased complaints—made him furious.

  “You know nothing about me.” At his sides, his gloved hands were clenched in rage.

  “I know enough.” She haughtily tossed her head. “Now take me back to the house before my father discovers us and forces me to marry you, for I’d sooner die than wed a scoundrel of the sort you’ve shown yourself to be.”

  In seething silence, he did as she asked. As soon as they returned to the house, she stalked off toward a group of girls and began to whisper. Deeply regretting his folly, Matthew took refuge in his library, just as he’d so often done when Mathilde was alive.

  What had possessed him to behave so roguishly toward
Lady Cécile? Grief? Resentment? Spite? Strong passions too long repressed? More than likely, his faux pas stemmed from a combination of all those feelings. Yes, Lady Cécile was beautiful, but also silly, selfish, artful, and would doubtless make him pay for his lapse in judgment.

  He’d have to bite the bullet and make amends, but it would have to wait a few days. Today, he only wanted to be left alone. And tomorrow, he planned to ride the new stallion he’d acquired while Mathilde was in Marseilles.

  She’d invited him to accompany her on the trip, but he’d declined, claiming he had a painting to finish, which, though accurate, was mostly an excuse. The real reason was that he couldn’t bear the thought of spending hour upon hour alone with her in the close confines of a carriage.

  What would they talk about when she took no interest in the subjects dear to his heart? And therein lay the fundamental problem between them. Had she shared his tastes, he might not have found her so tiresome. He was a painter, after all, and she might have made some effort to cultivate aesthetic interests for the sake of compatibility.

  When the old grievances began to embitter him, he reminded himself he had no one but himself to blame for his discontent. The arrangement hadn’t been forced upon him. He’d made his own bed—with a woman who, though exasperating, could not help her failings. She could perhaps have taken steps to amend her condescension and flagrant disregard for his feelings, but he could hardly expect her to correct flaws in her character she failed to perceive (or allowed anyone to bring to her attention).

  Any time he deigned to make mention of a failing—in the hope of making her company less insufferable—she would respond by reminding him where she’d found him, and that he was welcome to return to that squalor the moment he found her company too wearing.