Jane Grey (The Brontë Brothers Book 1)

by Nina Mason

  It was now mid-September, giving Jane only a scant three months to turn her rough sow’s ear into a polished silk reticule.

  After Lady Cécile went off to her lesson with the dancing master, Jane retired to the library, where she pored over every book on genteel etiquette she could find. One offered this general advice, with which Jane heartily agreed:

  The first rule of etiquette is this: “Do unto others as you would have others do to you.” You can never be ill-mannered if you bear the rule always in mind, for what person enjoys being the recipient of rudeness? True politeness will always be the result of an unselfish regard for the feelings of others, and though you may err in the finer points of protocol, you will never be impolite.

  Skimming the table of contents, she found one chapter heading in particular she thought might prove useful in her efforts with Lady Cécile: On a Young Lady’s Conduct When Contemplating Marriage.

  After making copious notes from the book and jotting down several ideas for lessons, she went up to the servant’s parlor to have her tea with Madame DuBois, who, over a plate of cold pigeon pie, asked why Jane had chosen governessing over wedlock.

  “I would have gladly married,” she told the housekeeper as she ate, “had I met a man who measured up to my standards.”

  “Oh, oui?” Madame DuBois, looking genuinely interested, met her gaze across the table. “And what standards might those be, my dear?”

  So well did Jane know the answer, she didn’t give it a moment’s thought. “First and foremost, he must have an income sufficient to support me and any children that may result from our union, as well as my mother and sister back in England. For I must look after their welfare and, if I marry, my husband must take on that responsibility.” Jane took a sip of her tea to moisten her mouth. “Beyond that, he must possess intelligence, charm, and honor sufficient to win my heart—an impossibly tall order in light of my charms, I know, but I’d much rather live out my days as a spinster than bear the heavier yoke of being married to someone I neither love nor respect.”

  Madame DuBois smiled at her warmly. “Do not think of yourself so meanly, my dear, for your charms are more considerable than you realize.”

  Jane smiled at the housekeeper’s kindness, but knew very well she’d have little chance of attracting a husband at her age, even were she as fair of face as Lady Cécile, which she certainly wasn’t.

  As they resumed eating, Jane’s thoughts turned to Lord Brontë. Well, to be truthful, they didn’t so much turn as they simply rose again to the top of her mind, where they’d set up house since she first saw his self-portrait. The fact that he was so far above her didn’t make her disappointment any less painful.

  She just hoped his failure to call upon Lord Broussard wasn’t because, like her father, he thought nothing of breaking his word.

  * * *

  Matthew snipped the stem of the next white rose and, favoring his bad leg, added the fragrant bloom to the growing pile in the trug he’d set on a nearby bench. Because his ankle had not mended as quickly as expected, his visit to Vouvray was now shamelessly overdue. Though he still had trouble getting about without the aid of a cane, he couldn’t, in good conscience, delay calling on the Brousseaus any longer.

  His behavior toward Lady Cécile had been unpardonable. While meditating upon the matter over the last fortnight, he’d come to see that, had he not been in such distress over the death of Mathilde—and the shock of her changed bequest—he would never have behaved so caddishly.

  Leaning on his walking stick, he set down his pruning snips and took off his garden gloves before hobbling over to retrieve his frockcoat, which he’d thrown over a hedge. After pulling it on, he limped back to the bench and collected the trug, now overflowing with the twenty-four long-stemmed white roses he’d harvested from the quadrant dedicated to tender love. Though the pink ones symbolizing flighty love seemed more apropos in this case, white roses were her favorite—and, to win her forgiveness, he must demonstrate thoughtfulness as well as contrition.

  Would he see Miss Grey when he called at Vouvray? Were his circumstances different, he would have thought seriously of courting her. In many respects, she reminded him of Charlotte. Did she also have his cousin’s passionate heart beneath that severe black frock she wore?

  A cacophony of jangling harnesses, hoofbeats, and grinding gravel pulled him from his contemplations. Though the distance was short, his lameness prevented him from either riding or walking, so he’d ordered the coachman to ready a carriage to convey him to Vouvray. Fortunately, the extravagance would be mitigated by a subsequent trip into Tours. Now that he could get about reasonably well, he’d given Mathilde’s solicitor the go-ahead to schedule the postponed reading of her will.

  While he expected no surprises, he dreaded Phillippe’s reaction and hoped the high-strung young man would have the civility to keep his temper under control. Assuming, of course, he had decency enough to keep the appointment in the first place. The solicitor had dispatched a note to Phillippe’s address in Monaco, but, as of yesterday, had received no reply.

  With some difficulty, Matthew made his way to the carriage and, with the help of his driver, ascended the steps and situated himself on the tufted damask seat inside. As they rolled toward Vouvray, he arranged the roses and tied their stems with the silk ribbon he’d brought along for that purpose. Green, to match the color of her eyes.

  Surely, the care he’d put into his peace offering wouldn’t be lost on one as vain as Cécile Brousseau.

  As the carriage creaked and bounced along the now-dry road, he rehearsed what he would say, first to her, and then to her father. He’d sent a note ahead, so they’d be expecting him, but he’d not been explicit about his reasons for calling. To say the things he must to restore himself to Lady Cécile’s good graces would require speaking to her alone. Would her father allow it?—and not presume, heaven forbid, he sought a private audience with the girl for another purpose. Well, he’d just have to be clear on that score. Tell Lord Brousseau in no uncertain terms he needed a moment alone with his daughter, but not for the purpose of proposing marriage. That way, there could be no mistaking his intentions.

  The carriage came to a halt outside the front entrance to Château de Vouvray. The house was a very respectable one, though inferior to Cœur Brisé in age, size, and grandeur. Still, the castle and grounds were not without their virtues.

  As the coachman climbed down from his perch, the front door opened, expelling the unaccompanied butler. With great care, Matthew descended the steps the driver had unfolded to facilitate his exit.

  “Bienvenue, Monsieur le Comte.” The butler, a large-nosed Frenchman with thinning dark hair, bowed deeply. “If you will be good enough to follow me, His Lordship will receive you in the withdrawing room.”

  Matthew trailed the manservant down the long entry hall, struggling to keep hold of the roses while negotiating the uneven terra-cotta tiles. Thankfully, he made it all the way to the door without dropping the flowers or losing his footing.

  Despite being expected, he was made to wait while the butler announced him. When he was finally admitted, he found the viscount on his feet and his daughter seated upon a settee with a pout on her lips and her nose in the air.

  The room was tastefully decorated in the empire style with a large leaded window overlooking a pond. A small herd of deer grazed nearby—a very pretty prospect that made him sorry Lady Cécile wasn’t a more agreeable choice for a bride.

  “Do come in, Lord Brontë.” Lord Brousseau’s welcoming tone and expression radiated affability. “What a pleasure it is to see you. I was sorry to hear of your accident. Please, have a seat and give your poor ankle a rest. May I offer you some refreshment? A glass of wine, perhaps?”

  “Thank you, but I must decline.” Matthew hobbled toward the divan where Lady Cécile was perched as stiffly as a doll. While he’d not expected to find Miss Grey in the room, her absence nevertheless provoked a twinge of disappointment behind his breastb
one. Sloughing it off as misplaced anxiety, he held out the flowers.

  “These are for you, my lady. Two dozen white roses cut from my garden. If memory serves, they are your favorite flower.”

  Though Lord Brousseau had greeted him with all the warmth and kindness befitting a neighbor of superior station, the same could not be said for his daughter. Her reception could best be described as taciturn and haughty. She did, however, regard the flowers with purse-lipped interest.

  “What are those for?” She made no eye contact or any attempt to take them from him.

  He turned back to her father—no small feat, given that he was juggling a cane and a sizeable bouquet of thorny blooms. “May I beg a moment alone with your daughter, sir? There is something I wish to say to her in private.”

  “If you wish to propose, you can save your breath,” the lady returned with a toss of her head. “For I would not marry you if you were the last man in existence.”

  “Cécile!” Lord Brousseau’s face turned as purple as the cabernet grapes in his vineyard. “Are you out of your senses? I insist you apologize to the count at once.”

  “There’s no need,” Matthew said. “I daresay, her contempt is warranted. I do, however, hope she’ll feel differently once she’s heard me out.”

  “Warranted?” The viscount was all abluster. “What do you mean? What has happened between you?”

  “Please, sir,” Matthew said. “The fault for our falling out is entirely mine. If you’ll only grant me a few moments with your daughter in private, I shall do all I can to repair the damage I’ve done.”

  Regaining his composure, Lord Brousseau made a small bow. “But of course.”

  After the viscount quit the room, closing the door behind him, Matthew cautiously drew closer to Lady Cécile and set the roses on the cushion beside her. “I don’t blame you for being cross with me—and, to add insult to injury, my apology is long overdue. I would have come sooner had my injury not made travel impossible. But here I am now, ready to get down on my knees, if I must, to beg your forgiveness. I behaved abominably to you when last we met and, to make restitution, I humbly offer these roses along with my heartfelt regrets.”

  A wicked smile played on her lips as she looked up at him from under her lashes. “Is that the best you can do?”

  Distrust prickled under his skin. “What more do you require? You need but name your price and I shall pay it most readily.”

  Still wearing the smile of a vixen, she turned from him, drew the roses onto her lap, and patted the spot beside her. “Do have a seat, Lord Brontë, for you cannot give me what I desire while standing there like a soldier at attention.”

  He hesitated and swallowed hard, feeling like a fly caught in a spider’s web. “And what is it you desire, Lady Cécile?”

  “You needn’t look so worried,” she said with a smirk. “I meant it when I told my father I wouldn’t marry you if you were the last man alive. Not that you’re entirely without a certain roguish appeal. I simply want you to kiss me again…in exchange for my pardon, as well as my continued silence regarding the terms of your legacy.”

  Though he’d rather not submit, kissing her seemed a small price to pay for saving face with his neighbors. Stepping to the side, he used his walking stick to ease himself into the space at her side. “What if your father should come back into the room and catch us?”

  “You’d better pray he doesn’t,” she said archly, “or we’ll both find ourselves in an unwanted marriage.”

  At least she appeared to understand the consequences of her actions this time. He threw an anxious glance toward the door, which was firmly shut, then back at her. “And what assurances can you give me you’ll not carry on blackmailing me with ever-greater demands?”

  She smiled like a pampered housecat. “I should imagine you could ruin my reputation by indiscreet disclosure as easily as I could ruin yours.”

  Indeed he could. For a lady’s reputation, like a teacup, could be spoiled by the slightest of chips. If the truth of his circumstances ever came to light, his honor might suffer a few slings and arrows, but would recover with time. If, however, word got out that she’d been compromised, her good name and high value on the marriage market would be irretrievable.

  He leaned in and puckered up. Just as their lips touched, the door opened. Startled and afeared it was her father, he jerked back and threw a glance toward the interloper. It wasn’t Lord Brousseau, but only Miss Grey. He should have been vastly relieved to see her standing there, despite her shocked expression, so why did he feel quite the opposite?

  Chapter Six

  Sudden coldness took root in Jane’s core and spread its icy branches outward. Breathless, weak-limbed, and sick to her stomach, she clutched at her bosom to stop herself from swooning. What a fickle creature was Lady Cécile! Only yesterday, she’d decried Lord Brontë as an unworthy beast, and now, here she was, kissing the man!

  “Have you never heard of knocking before you enter a room, Miss Grey?”

  Lady Cécile’s impertinent question further enflamed Jane’s blood. What incredible impudence the girl had to take her to task when she was only doing her job.

  Fuming inside, Jane bit her tongue to avoid uttering something spiteful in riposte. While it was wrong of Lady Cécile to carry on like a common strumpet, Jane must keep her roles as governess and imagined rival untwined. The plain truth was, any hopes she had where Lord Bronte was concerned were naught but delusions. He obviously preferred Lady Cécile, which was hardly surprising, given her superiority in birth and beauty.

  Only then did Jane see the flowers. White roses. More than a dozen of them. Clearly, he intended to court Lady Cécile. And, by kissing him, she’d let him know she welcomed his suit—or, heaven forbid, he’d already proposed and she had accepted him!

  As the tiny flame of hope in Jane’s heart went out, tears clouded her eyes. To hide them, she looked down at the oriental carpet covering the parlor’s travertine floor. “Please forgive the interruption. Had I known the nature of your intercourse, I would never have presumed to intrude.”

  “Oh, Miss Grey,” Lady Cécile said with a laugh. “What a silly creature you are. Don’t tell me you believe Lord Brontë has made me an offer of marriage—or that I would be rash enough to accept him! For there is still my ball to look forward to, and the prospect of many new conquests to dazzle with my charms.”

  Jane drew a sharp breath through her nose and lifted her gaze to her errant pupil’s. “That you were engaged seemed a plausible supposition, given the intimacy I observed upon entering the room.”

  Lord Brontë looked as if he wanted to say something, but Lady Cécile’s reply prevented him from getting a word in edgewise. “I know you think me a shocking, vain, and frivolous girl, but do give me credit for knowing my own mind. Lord Brontë called upon me to beg my pardon—for an infraction he committed at his wife’s wake. I happened to mention at the time, in passing, that white roses were my favorite flowers, so he was kind enough to bring me these in apology. And the kiss was just my way of telling him all was forgiven.”

  Jane—realizing only then that Lord Brontë was the neighbor whose wife had died—turned her wounded gaze on him. He wore a fitted black coat with the wide lapels fashionable at present, a double-breasted waistcoat that once again displayed his broad chest admirably, and trousers that hugged his anatomy in a manner that confirmed the kiss hadn’t been overly passionate. All in all—curse his black soul—he looked even better clean and pressed than he had covered in mud.

  Doing her best to maintain a condemning scowl, she said to him, “Is that a true account of what transpired?”

  “It is indeed, Miss Grey. The kiss we shared was but brief—and completely platonic—as is any regard I might have for Lady Cécile.”

  Though his words sounded sincere, Jane remained skeptical. His voice had cracked, for one thing, and he wouldn’t look her in the eye—two clear signs of falsehood or omission. Her only consolation was in knowing that
, though he discerned it not, she was more deserving of his love than someone like Lady Cécile could ever hope to be. That spoiled, selfish girl would think nothing of destroying his happiness for the momentary gratification of her own vanity. Oh, if he could but see what a wicked enchantress she was! But he couldn’t, could he? Because men couldn’t help being hypnotized by a pretty face and voluptuous figure.

  Not that her own sex was any better. For had not countless virtuous ladies been led astray by scoundrels with handsome features and pleasing manners? Yes, they had. And were novels and poetry not full of such charming predators? Mr. Wickham in Pride and Prejudice, Mr. Willoughby from Sense and Sensibility, Viscomte de Valmont in Dangerous Liaisons, and Sir Lancelot in The Lady of Shallot, to name but a very few.

  All the women they’d beguiled were blinded to their inner faults by their outward appearances. It was shocking, really, how easily they abandoned their good sense. And she was no better—she who’d been bewitched by a pair of gypsy eyes into casting her good judgment to the wind.

  Well, no more. No more! Her eyes had been opened. But oh, how her charitable heart did fight to justify his actions. Even having caught them in the act, she wanted to believe his claims that the kiss meant nothing.

  When, with the help of a gold-handled walking stick, Lord Brontë hoisted himself off the settee, disappointment pinched Jane’s heart. “Are you going so soon?”

  “No, Miss Grey.” The charming smile he gave her had a cooling effect on her temper. “First, I must go and find Lord Brousseau, for there is a particular matter I wish to discuss with him.”

  “I will go and fetch him,” Lady Cécile volunteered, surprising Jane with her uncharacteristic generosity. As she rose from the settee, she held out the roses. “Here, Miss Grey, do be good enough to have one of the maids deliver these to my boudoir.”