Jane Grey (The Brontë Brothers Book 1)

by Nina Mason

  “That is kind of you to say—and relieving for me to know.” His mouth, full and rather wide, had been fixed in a straight line until now. His smile was dazzling—like a ray of sunshine breaking through the clouds on a bleak winter day. “Now, do you think you can handle leading him back to my castle while I continue to lean on you?”

  Her knees almost buckled as he settled his weight on her, but she managed to keep her footing. As they lumbered along the muddy road, her clutching her book in one hand and his horse’s reins in the other, she grew more and more curious about his reaction to Jane Eyre. ”May I ask you something, Lord Brontë?”

  “You are my savior Miss Grey, which has earned you the right to ask me any manner of question.”

  His use of her name startled her, but she decided to say nothing of it for now. “I was just curious to know why you reacted so strangely when I handed you Jane Eyre. Do you disapprove my choice of reading material?”

  “On the contrary,” he replied, “I approve your choice wholeheartedly.”

  “Then, why did you look so shocked?”

  “I’m not sure I can explain.”

  His answer disappointed her, but it would be impolitic to press him to elaborate. “Have you read Jane Eyre?”

  “I have indeed. More than once.”

  “Now it’s my turn to be surprised,” she said.

  “Is it? Why so?”

  “Because I didn’t expect a gentleman of your stature to be aware of such a novel—let alone to have read it more than once.”

  “Then prepare yourself for an even greater shock, Miss Grey, for I feel it only fair to tell you the author of Jane Eyre is a cousin to me.”

  Amazement sparkled through her. “Currer Bell is your cousin? How wonderful, not to mention, providential.”

  He turned to her with a blood-warming smile. “Isn’t it just?”

  “Indeed,” she replied, “for what are the chances I should be reading the very book your cousin wrote at the very spot where your horse just happened to fall? It is all too uncanny to be believed.”

  “Or to be purely chance, I daresay. Our meeting, therefore, must be fated.”

  Modesty warmed her face. “Are you teasing me, sir?”

  Leaning closer, he whispered, “I confess that I am, Miss Grey, and beg your pardon if I’ve made you uncomfortable.”

  “You haven’t,” she said too quickly.

  “Good, because I have no wish to repay your kindness with unease—or paint myself as a rogue in your eyes.”

  “You have nothing to fear on either score,” she assured him. “For my sensibilities aren’t so delicate that I can’t handle a bit of good-natured ribbing. Back home in Somerset, my sister Mary makes great sport of mocking me at every opportunity.”

  His smile softened and his eyes filled with compassion. “Why do I get the feeling your sister’s ribbing is not of the good-natured variety?”

  “She means no harm,” Jane said in Mary’s defense. Mostly, her sister delighted in calling her “Plain Jane,” which she wasn’t about to tell Lord Brontë.

  “But her words hurt all the same. Am I right?”

  Jane caught her breath. How could he know what was in her heart? Whatever the reason, he was becoming far too familiar.

  “Do tell me more about your cousin,” she said, steering the conversation away from herself. “He must be an extraordinarily intuitive and liberal-minded man, for he seems to understand exactly how the members of my sex think and feel. How could any man know, let alone write about, such secret feminine yearnings?”

  Mischief twinkled in his eyes. “You speak to me of secret feminine yearnings, Miss Grey? Now, I really do have reason to be shocked.”

  Jane’s face caught fire. “Sir, I promise you, I didn’t mean…”

  “I can see why your sister delights so in teasing you, for you make an excellent target.” He chuckled affably. “Now, with regard to my cousin, I agree with you. Jane Eyre does indeed demonstrate an astute understanding of the workings of the female heart and mind. Though not because my cousin is a man of remarkable insight.”

  “Why then?” She was more puzzled than ever. “Does he perhaps enjoy a special intimacy with his wife?”

  “My cousin is unmarried as yet.”

  He was clearly enjoying stumping her—and she couldn’t deny taking pleasure in the game as well. “Tell me the reason, or I shall leave you here to find your own way home.”

  He stopped walking. “You wouldn’t dare.”

  “Wouldn’t I? What makes you so certain?”

  “Because you’re too kind to leave a helpless man stranded on the road.”

  Still supporting his weight, she turned to look at him. “Even a gypsy like yourself couldn’t deduce from so short an acquaintance how kind or unkind I might be.”

  He spewed a laugh. “A gypsy? Me? Whatever made you leap to such an astounding conclusion?”

  “You have the darkly mesmeric eyes of a gypsy if ever a pair existed,” she told him. “I thought so when first I saw your painting—and the impression has only been confirmed by observing you in person.”

  His expression sobered. “As far as I am aware, Miss Grey, there are no gypsies hiding in my family tree. I’m the son of a country curate, if you want the truth—a very strict and very Protestant country curate.”

  She gaped at him in shock, for she couldn’t make out how the son of an English cleric could become a wealthy French count. But, having already crossed the line of propriety, she dared not venture any farther. Thus, the questions plaguing her mind would have to wait until she knew him better—or until he explained his background of his own volition. Assuming, of course, they ever chanced to meet again.

  “We should get along,” she said, starting to walk again. “For the Brousseaus will be home soon, and I must tidy my appearance if I hope to make a good impression.”

  * * *

  Leaning on Miss Grey for support, Matthew hobbled toward home with his top teeth embedded in his lower lip, his ankle hurting like the dickens. Every time he put weight on it, which he was forced to do with every unsteady step, a lightning bolt of pain shot straight up his leg to his groin. He could hardly rest the entirety of his weight upon his Good Samaritan, who was as tiny and delicate-boned as his cousin Charlotte.

  “This is very good of you, Miss Grey. You must allow me to repay your kindness by sending you home in my carriage.”

  “Much as I appreciate the offer, I couldn’t possibly accept it,” she said. “How would I ever explain to the Brousseaus how I came to be conveyed in an equipage from your stables?”

  “Tell them the truth.”

  “I fear that would raise more questions than it answered.”

  “Then, you must allow me to repay your kindness in some other way.”

  “No repayment is necessary,” she told him. “For I’m only doing what any good Christian would.”

  She was too modest. Few people who called themselves Christians would go out of their way to help a stranger. “Be that as it may, I must insist. Just give me a moment or two to come up with a suitable means of recompense.”

  Miss Grey went quiet. Had he somehow given offense? He hoped not, as it would be extremely inconvenient to be in the bad books of both Lady Cécile and her governess. He also liked Miss Grey, who was modest, kind, and clearly had courage.

  Had she been cowardly, she wouldn’t have attempted to get hold of his stallion, despite her obvious fear of the animal. If ever he got the chance, he would teach her how to manage a horse. Like dogs and children, they required firmness of purpose in a handler. Let them sense fear or timidity and they’d swiftly seize the upper hand.

  He just hoped she demonstrated more confidence with her pupils than she had with his stallion. Otherwise, she’d be no match for Lady Cécile. Speaking of whom, his plea for forgiveness would now have to wait until his injury knitted.

  Just as they started down the drive of his château, the perfect way to repay Miss Grey popp
ed into his head. “Do you draw, Miss Grey?”

  “I do.” Her countenance brightened noticeably. “Though not as well as I might.”

  “And why’s that?”

  “My mother lacked both the proficiency to teach me and the means to hire an instructor.”

  A better answer he couldn’t have asked for. “Good, then it’s settled. I shall discharge my debt to you through drawing lessons.”

  She faltered for a moment, but righted herself and kept going. “As tempted as I am to accept your kind offer, doing so is out of the question.”

  “May I ask why?”

  “Because I’m a governess whose time is not her own,” she replied. “The last family I worked for ran me off my feet and commandeered all my free time. I hardly had a moment to see to my mending, let alone sketch or read for my own enjoyment.” After a moment’s hesitation, she added, “And there’s also the matter of a chaperone to consider—unless your wife is prepared to fill that role while you instruct me.”

  He took the bait. “I have no wife, Miss Grey.”

  “In that case, calling upon you unchaperoned is outside the bounds of propriety.”

  She was right, of course. And very sensible. But he had an idea that might set aside her objections. “What if you were to bring Lady Cécile along? You could say the lessons are for her—part of your plan for her improvement—and I, in turn, will tutor the both of you. That way, you can chaperone each other, and the arrangement will be as proper as our queen across the channel.”

  “I confess, I would like nothing better than to improve my technique as an artist,” she said. “And what you propose would be excellent training for my pupil as well.”

  Now, he really must patch things up with Lady Cécile—for Miss Grey’s sake, as well as his own. “Then, you agree?”

  “It’s not up to me, Lord Brontë. It’s up to Lord Brousseau.”

  Oh, dear. If she broached the subject with the viscount before he made his amends, Lady Cécile might blacken his name to her. And that, he must take pains to prevent.

  “May I ask you something of a personal nature, Miss Grey?”

  “I suppose,” she replied guardedly, “provided it’s not too personal.”

  “It’s not,” he assured her. “I was merely going to ask what made you choose your profession.”

  “I chose it out of necessity,” she told him, “and also because I felt sure I’d enjoy being a governess, as I’ve always been fond of children. I also love gardening—and what are children, but seedlings in need of the proper mixture of sunshine, water, and fertilizer? I imagined myself training their young minds like a vine to a trellis, guiding their tender shoots along the lattice as they sprouted new leaves of knowledge and new buds of development. What a sense of accomplishment it would bring, I thought, to watch those little plants bloom into beautiful, mature flowers.”

  “How romantic.” He was genuinely impressed with the eloquence of her answer, as well as her obvious passion for gardening. “And well spoken.”

  “You are too kind, sir.” She blushed modestly.

  He tried to envision Lady Cécile as a vine being trained to a trellis, but couldn’t quite imagine it. “Tell me, Miss Grey, has your profession lived up to your expectations?”

  She let out a sigh. “I wish I could say that it had. But alas, my first pupil was more of an unruly hedge whose parents forbade me the tools required to trim him into a tolerable shape.”

  “I see,” he said, amused by her extension of the gardening metaphor. “And you’re hoping Lady Cécile will require less…pruning?”

  “I confess that I do,” she said, “for I refuse to believe all children are as atrocious as Rupert Massey.”

  “I’m sure you’re right,” he said, struggling to hide his amusement. “Not all of them are little monsters, though a good many are, I’m afraid.”

  “And what of Lady Cécile? How would you describe her character?”

  He took a moment to formulate his answer before saying, “To continue your metaphor, I would describe her as a rose. Beautiful to look at, but not without her thorns.”

  “I see—and also thank you for the caution.”

  “I only hope my observation proves useful to you in some way.”

  He couldn’t help admiring this tiny, fragile person. She was intelligent, interesting, easy to talk to, and took an interest in art, literature, and gardening—the subjects nearest and dearest to his heart. Her views on poetry, unfortunately, would have to wait until their next meeting, for they had reached the gates of Cœur Brisé.

  They passed through with some effort and, as they hobbled down the drive toward the castle, his thoughts looped back to where the conversation started: with his offer of drawing lessons and how to go about getting Lord Brousseau to allow her to accept his repayment for her kindness.

  “Perhaps it would be more prudent if I myself approached the viscount about the lessons,” he suggested. “That way, you wouldn’t have to explain how the plan came about…or risk any censure.”

  “That’s very good of you.” She offered him a heart-warming smile. “And you making the proposal will surely improve the odds of his giving his consent.”

  It would indeed. Given yesterday’s exchange, Lord Brousseau would likely jump at the chance to throw Lady Cécile in his path on a regular basis.

  “It’s settled, then.” He winced at the pain in his ankle. “I shall call at Vouvray just as soon as I’m able to walk without grimacing.”

  Chapter Five

  Any hope Jane might have entertained about attracting her charming new neighbor’s interest fled her heart the moment she met her new charge. For what man on earth would take note of Plain Jane Grey when the bedazzling Cécile Brousseau was near? None she could imagine, especially one equal to the girl in station and good looks.

  For the past two weeks, Jane had done her best to put Lord Brontë—and his seemingly empty promise of drawing lessons—out of her mind, focusing instead on assessing her pupil’s strengths and weaknesses. Most of the latter seemed to stem from the failure on the parts of her father and previous governesses to instill proper discipline and principles. She’d never learned, for example, how to moderate her desires, control her temper, tether her will, or set aside her own pleasure in consideration of others. Worse still, she didn’t seem to comprehend the difference between right and wrong. She simply did whatever amused her, however it might disserve others.

  When Jane relayed these observations to Lord Brousseau one afternoon, he patiently waited for her to finish before saying, “Well, if they are only bad habits, you need only correct her each time she errs, and she will mend her ways in no time.”

  If only it were that simple! But Lady Cécile was no Cinderella who could be turned into a refined princess with the flick of a wand. If anything, she was one of the wicked stepsisters, whose only real interest lay in charming the opposite sex with no thought to the harm her flirting might do.

  Day after day after her lessons, the thoughtless girl prattled on about every eligible beau within a twenty-mile radius—every beau, that was, except Matthew Brontë.

  Wanting to get at the root of her omission, Jane asked, “What about Lord Brontë? Does he hold no interest for you?”

  Lady Cécile looked at her askance. “How have you come to know of Lord Brontë?”

  Jane, caught off guard by the question, decided telling the truth was probably the best course to follow—with a few modifications, of course. “We met one day while I was out walking.”

  A gleam Jane didn’t care for came into the girl’s green eyes. “And did you think him handsome?”

  “I can’t imagine a woman who wouldn’t.”

  “Nor can I, but I must warn you, Miss Grey, beneath his good looks beats the heart of a beast.”

  “A beast?” Jane was taken aback. “He didn’t strike me as such.”

  “I daresay you’d feel differently if he’d done to you what he did to me.”

 
The worm was too juicy to leave dangling on the hook, so Jane struck against her better sense. “What did he do?”

  A sly smile bowed Lady Cécile’s lips and a gleam came into her eyes. “In the interest of discretion, I will only say this: he certainly knows how to kiss.”

  Jane’s heart lurched and her hand flew to her chest. “He has kissed you?”

  Lady Cécile only laughed. “Oh, Miss Grey, how shocked you look. I’m so glad.”

  Jane, appalled the wicked creature should take delight in scandalizing her, endeavored to point out that kissing a man who’d not declared his intentions wasn’t only improper; it also was a dangerous practice. “Please tell me you’ve not let other men kiss you.”

  “Don’t be so provincial, Miss Grey.” The rebuke was delivered with downcast eyes and a cunning smile. “How else am I to decide which I like best?”

  Jane fingered the buttons on her high-collared black frock. “Kissing, I daresay, is not the best way to judge a man’s worth and suitability.”

  “No? Well, perhaps you’re right.” Lady Cécile heaved a sigh and lifted her gaze to Jane’s. “But it’s more enjoyable than polite conversation, is it not? Or have you never been kissed so violently your toes curled in your slippers?”

  “I most certainly have not!”

  Beneath Jane’s shocked expression beat a heart aflame with jealousy, for she longed so dearly to experience such an ecstasy for herself, preferably with the same skillful mouth.

  Tamping down her longings, she reminded herself she’d been hired to moderate the girl’s flightiness. “Are you not afraid all this kissing will ruin your reputation?—or rub off your bloom before you’ve even been presented?”

  “Oh, my ball!” Lady Cécile’s animated exclamation left the question unanswered. “I’m so thrilled you brought it up. Are you not excited? Oh, Miss Grey. If you aren’t in a sweat, you ought to be—and, if you are, you cannot be half as excited as I am.”

  Lady Cécile, who would turn eighteen on Christmas Eve, was to make her debut on the second of January, at a magnificent ball to which her father was inviting all the families of rank in the region, as well as a few choice families from Paris and Marseilles.