Jane Grey (The Brontë Brothers Book 1)

by Nina Mason

  Obediently but begrudgingly, Jane took the flowers from her, being mindful of the thorns, but remained in the room, hoping to steal a moment alone with Lord Brontë. The spicy fragrance wafting from the roses let her know they were from the garden and not the hothouse. This knowledge, for some reason, prompted a searing stab of jealousy. Would a man ever bring her flowers as lovely as these? Would the man in front of her?

  Of course he won’t, you silly fool. He’s a count and you’re a governess, in case you’ve forgotten.

  When Lady Cécile, quit the room without further comment, Lord Brontë limped closer to where Jane stood. “Forgive me, Miss Grey, for failing to keep my word in a timely manner. But, as you can see, my ankle is taking longer to knit than expected. Please believe me when I tell you I came as soon as I was physically able. And, now that I’ve repaired things with your charge, I’m at liberty to speak to her father about those drawing lessons I promised you.”

  Standing there with her arms full of fragrant white roses, she felt like Jane Eyre at the church, ready to marry Mr. Rochester, only to have her happiness destroyed by the news the first Mrs. Rochester was still alive. “My condolences—on the recent passing of your wife,” she said stiffly. “I didn’t realize when you said you were unmarried that you were a widower.”

  “I didn’t mean to give a wrong impression,” he said, holding her gaze with those eyes of his.

  “Does my opinion of you really matter?”

  “Yes,” he said, stepping closer. “I only hope you still think well of me after what you’ve just witnessed.”

  “You’ve kissed her before,” she said, aching inside. “She told me. At your wife’s funeral, I understand, which strikes me as rather disrespectful.”

  “It was—and I came here today to beg her forgiveness.”

  Jane arched a dubious eyebrow at him. “By kissing her a second time?”

  He coughed into his fisted free hand. “Yes, I can see how irrational that must look to you—but the kiss was her idea, not mine.”

  “I can believe that,” Jane told him, giving way a little. “But you should have shown more restraint.”

  “You’re right, Miss Grey, and I’m heartily ashamed of myself.”

  “As you should be,” she said missishly.

  “Should I not bother asking Lord Brousseau about the drawing lessons?”

  Her heart cried out in protest. “No, do.”

  He stepped still closer, inciting in her the same sinful stirrings and flutterings she’d felt the day they first met. “Because you greatly desire drawing lessons?—or because you wish to see me again?”

  Her cheeks flamed and her mouth went dry. “Well, both, I suppose, Lord Brontë.”

  “Please…call me Matthew.”

  “I can’t.” She looked away from his piercing gaze. “Because to do so would stigmatize me as overly familiar, designing, and impertinent.”

  “Then, will you at least consent to calling me by my given name when we’re alone?”

  She moistened her lips, yearning for a kiss despite her distrust of him. “We will never be alone.”

  “No?” He looked around in an affected manner. “I see no one else in the room at present.”

  “Yes, but…the Brousseaus will return any moment.”

  “It’s been said our lives can change forever in a moment, Miss Grey,” he said with quiet intensity. “Do you believe that?”

  Jane swallowed and again licked her lips. “I believe it for some, but not for myself.”

  “Why so, dear creature?” His eyes shimmered with compassion—or was it pity?

  “Because I’m ordinary,” she said, looking away from his disquieting gaze. “And extraordinary things rarely happen to people like me.”

  “I beg to differ, Miss Grey.” He sounded touchingly sincere. “For I find you anything but ordinary.”

  His words made her heart beat faster. Was he making love to her or merely being kind? Or, was he a scoundrel who seduced random women for sport? Emboldened by her suspicions, she asked, “What did you do to offend Lady Cécile?”

  His tongue darted out to wet his lips, sending a thrilling shiver through her. “I let her play with me, and then turned the tables on her.”

  “She said you kissed her in a way that made her toes curl in her slippers.”

  “Did she?” He laughed. “Well, bless my soul. I had no idea my kiss had quite that effect on her.”

  They were inches apart and Jane was trembling all over. “Would it surprise you to know I’ve never been kissed?”

  “No, Miss Grey.” His dark eyes drew her in as he held her gaze. “But the knowledge would please me.”

  Her heart was pounding and her bones felt as if they were melting inside her skin. “May I ask why?”

  Leaning even closer, he whispered, “Because I should like to be the first man to do so.”

  “Would you?” Suddenly, she cared not a jot if he was a scoundrel. In fact, she rather hoped he was.

  “Yes.” He ran his gloved fingers down the side of her upturned face. “But not until your good opinion of me is secure.”

  The disappointment that gusted through her quickly calmed to a gentle breeze. As gratifying as kissing him now would be, waiting until she was sure of his intentions would be all the more glorious—and far less dangerous to her heart and reputation.

  Hearing the Brousseaus coming along the outer corridor, she turned to quit the room. Before she could escape, he caught her by the arm and brought her back to him. “Before you go, I want to give you something. I wasn’t sure I would see you today, but brought it along just in case I did.”

  Reaching into the inside breast pocket of his coat, he withdrew a folded sheet of paper and slipped it into the pocket of her tucker.

  Eager to read what he’d written, she exited the parlor, passing the Brousseaus without a word as she hurried toward the kitchen. Finding a maid within, she surrendered the flowers, relayed Lady Cécile’s instructions, and went in search of a quiet nook. An out-of-the-way window seat caught her eye. Hastening toward it, she sat and, with trembling fingers, withdrew the note.

  To women who please me only by their faces, I am the very devil when I find out they have neither souls nor hearts—when they open to me a perspective of flatness, triviality, and perhaps imbecility, coarseness, and ill-temper: but to the clear eye and eloquent tongue, to the soul made of fire, and the character that bends but does not break—at once supple and stable, tractable and consistent—I am ever tender and true.

  It was a passage from Jane Eyre; something Mr. Rochester had said—but Jane couldn’t help believing it was so much more than a quotation. Lord Brontë, it would seem, wanted her to know he valued character above comeliness. Was it also meant to signal his interest?—or was he merely being ironic? Only time would tell, she supposed, but oh!—how wonderful it would be if he truly did care for her. Because, rake or not, she unquestionably cared for him.

  * * *

  Having obtained Lord Brousseau’s permission to provide the ladies with drawing lessons, Matthew climbed into his carriage and rapped on the ceiling with his cane.

  The whip cracked and the coach lurched forward, throwing him against the seatback. Recovering his balance, he straightened his posture and smoothed his clothing. Apprehension lay in his chest like a brick. The greater share of the heaviness wasn’t to do with the reading of Mathilde’s will; it had to do with Miss Grey.

  To most, she might appear to be a drab little flower, but to him, she was a bud that wanted only the sunlight of affection to help her bloom into a beautiful flower.

  Lady Cécile, on the other hand…well, he’d misspoken when he’d described the chit as a rose. More accurately, she was a Morning Glory vine, a showy, intrusive plant that would climb over everything in its path. She was a tease, plain and simple, who cared not who she hurt with her shameless coquetry.

  Biting his lip, he drummed his fingers on the tufted upholstery beside him. What had possessed him
to toy with such a pernicious soul? He could, of course, diffuse her power over him simply by owning up about the terms of Mathilde’s will. He’d not set out to deceive anyone; he’d simply gone along with Mathilde’s charade for the sake of his peace of mind. Not that he’d enjoyed much of that as a result. He was convinced, however, that life with her would have been even more unbearable if he’d openly defied her.

  Yes, he could tell the truth and continue to live in Tours under a cloud for however long it might take for the scandal to blow over…or he could refuse the bequest and return to Paris…or he could even go back to England and look into joining the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood. In her last letter, his mother had sent him a copy of The Germ, the bulletin promoting the Brotherhood’s ideals, rightfully believing he’d embrace their revisionist philosophies.

  Doing any of those things would likely save him substantial grief in the long run. So why did his heart balk at the idea? Only one answer came to mind.

  Jane Grey.

  Would she ever grow to love him? Would he ever grow to love her? It seemed possible, given how much his heart had thawed since making her acquaintance. Something in his gut told him he could love her, given enough time, and that she was the sort of woman who could love him, too, faults and all.

  And yet, marriage was closed to him. If they grew attached to each other, he could do no more than make her his mistress—a role he doubted someone so prim and proper would be willing to play. Perhaps if he took care to highlight the advantages of such an arrangement. He had the resources to support her in style. She could give up governessing and live with him at the château, or have her own house in Tours, if she’d rather.

  There wasn’t the same stigma attached to being a concubine here in France as there was in England, where moral standards had tightened under the reign of Queen Victoria. Here, nobody looked down their nose at the mistress of a wealthy gentleman, because most men of means had at least one lady on the side.

  On the other hand, Miss Grey might not need convincing, for there was great passion smoldering in those gentle depths—passion he wanted to breathe into life. He’d rather do the honorable thing and marry her, of course—assuming things between them matured to that point. But alas, he couldn’t afford to keep her without the income provided by Mathilde’s bequest.

  Feeling discontented, he slid toward the window and looked out at the verdant countryside before pulling the book he’d brought along from the pocket on the door. Lily of the Valley by Honoré de Balzac, an acquaintance here in Tours.

  Matthew opened the book and struggled through a few pages before giving up. The ride was too jarring to make reading enjoyable and, if he persisted, he’d soon have a headache to go with the churning in his stomach.

  Closing the book, he leaned back and closed his eyes. A few minutes later, the change in the sound and vibration of the wheels told him they’d reached the cobbled streets of Tours. Opening his eyes, he looked out at the cheerful shops of the small city. With its timbered buildings and Gothic cathedrals, the capital of the Loire Valley was bursting with old-world charm.

  They drew up in front of the solicitor’s office just as a hackney was pulling away. The weight in Matthew’s chest grew more oppressive when he spotted Phillippe standing on the sidewalk.

  To his surprise, the young man’s once-handsome face was sallow and gaunt and his eyes were sunken. His clothes were stylish, but also rumpled, as if they’d been slept in more than one night. Altogether, he looked like a man with one foot in the grave.

  As the carriage clattered to a stop, Phillippe turned toward the conveyance, seeking its occupant’s identity. Matthew, avoiding his gaze, waited until the coachman offered assistance before retrieving his cane and topper. As he descended the stairs with the aid of his stick and the driver’s arm, Phillippe rushed up to him and bowed.

  Rising, he met Matthew’s gaze head-on. “How good it is to see you looking so well, my dear uncle. I regret that I could not be there to pay my last respects to poor Aunt Mathilde, but my engagements in Monaco made the journey impossible.”

  “It’s good to see you as well,” Matthew returned half-heartedly. “Have you been waiting long?”

  “No, I’ve only just arrived.”

  “Where are you staying?”

  “At an inexpensive inn,” he answered with a twitching smile. “But I plan to move to more elegant lodgings once we’ve concluded our business here.”

  “I would not build my hopes too high, if I were you.” Matthew felt it only right to advise the lad to scale back his expectations.

  Concern narrowed Phillippe’s blood-shot eyes. “Whatever do you mean?”

  With the aid of his cane, Matthew maneuvered past him toward the door. “Shall we go in? Soon enough, you’ll know it all.”

  An hour later, both gentlemen re-emerged from the lawyer’s office in very different states of mind. Matthew, having known what was coming, was calm and collected, while Phillippe, having been blindsided, was even more pale and drawn than when he’d arrived.

  “But…I spent my last franc getting here,” he complained. “Can you not help me out?”

  “What about your allowance?” Mathilde had left her nephew a monthly stipend to help with his living expenses until he came into his full inheritance after Matthew surrendered his, be it by death or forfeiture.

  “I spent it all, believing I would receive the whole of my aunt’s estate.”

  Resentment simmered in Matthew’s blood. “The same aunt you couldn’t tear yourself away from your gambling hells long enough to visit in her dying hours?—or pay your last respects to before her body was interred?”

  “I tried to come, truly I did, but could not raise the fare to save my life—nor have I enough coin in my pocket to pay for another night’s lodgings—let alone to fund the trip back to Monaco. You must help me, uncle, I beseech you.”

  “And just how do you propose I administer this charity?”

  Phillippe peered at Matthew from under shaggy brows. “Provide me with an advance on my allowance.”

  Matthew compressed his lips. “So you can gamble and drink it away in the blink of an eye? I may be many things, sir, but I flatter myself a soft-touch isn’t one of them.”

  “Please don’t abrade me, sir,” the rascal implored. “For I am a desperate man with nowhere else to turn.”

  Matthew looked at him askance. “Have you made no friends in all the drinking and gambling establishments you’ve frequented over the years?”

  Phillippe lowered his gaze. “None I’ve not already wrung dry.”

  Matthew shook his head. “Why does that not surprise me?”

  “Please, uncle. Take pity on me, I beg of you. If you won’t give me money, then at least give me lodgings until I get back on my feet.”

  Matthew heaved a sigh. Much as he loathed the idea of having Phillippe underfoot at the château, he couldn’t in good conscience put Mathilde’s only relation out in the cold.

  “Very well,” he said begrudgingly. “But, come what may, you must be out by New Year’s Day. Is that understood?”

  Relief softened Phillippe’s features. “Yes, and thank you. From the bottom of my heart. You are a life-preserver. And, I promise you, I will mend my ways and pay off my creditors as soon as I’m able.”

  “Just be grateful you’re not in England,” Matthew replied, “where we throw those who cannot pay their debts in the Marshalsea, and leave them there to rot.”

  Chapter Seven

  “Pray, what were you and Lord Brontë talking about, Miss Grey, when I returned to the drawing room yesterday with my father?”

  Compressing her lips, Jane looked away from Lady Cécile’s probing gaze. Had she been able to walk away, she would have. But, as they were in the Brousseau’s carriage at present, she was forced to endure her charge’s interrogation—at least until they reached Cœur Brisé, where their first drawing lesson would soon commence.

  Fighting to keep the emotion out of her voice, Ja
ne replied, “Nothing of consequence, I assure you.”

  “Are you certain? Because I was sure you were flushed when you ran from the room.”

  Jane took a breath before answering. “If indeed I was flushed, which I doubt, the temperature of the room was to blame.”

  The vain girl, Jane observed with disgust, was admiring her reflection in the window as she spoke. “And is he not the ugly, wild-eyed beast I described?”

  Ugly? Was the girl blind as well as nosy? “I found him to be quite the opposite,” Jane replied primly. “And I can’t imagine, given how fond you seem to be of kissing him, that you find him half as unappealing as you claim.”

  Lady Cécile turned to Jane, her eyes twinkling with mischief. “Tell me the truth, Miss. Grey. Did he kiss you?”

  Stung by the question, Jane colored. “Of course he didn’t.”

  “But you do like him, don’t you? And don’t bother trying to deny it, either—because I saw your expression when you came into the room and caught us with our lips together. I’m quite sure it was more than disapproval I detected in your eyes.” Bringing her gloved hands together, the chit added with audible delight, “You were positively green with jealousy!”

  “I was no such thing.” Jane did her best to sound resolute despite the burning in her face. “I was simply shocked to find you kissing him, especially after you’d characterized him as a beast and a scoundrel.”

  Laughing gaily, Lady Cécile tossed her hair. “All men are beasts and scoundrels, Miss Grey. That’s why I take such delight in tormenting them.”

  As the carriage turned down the drive leading to Lord Brontë’s château, Jane decided to conceal the fact that she’d been there before. “Well, isn’t this a pretty place!”

  “I don’t find it anything out of the ordinary way,” her pupil countered, “but I will allow the gardens here are impressive. Be sure to have Lord Brontë give you a tour when we’ve completed our lesson. Normally, I don’t take much interest in gardens, apart from their prospects as trysting places, but even I must admit Cœur Brisé’s are beyond compare.”