Jane Grey (The Brontë Brothers Book 1)

by Nina Mason

  “At least my intentions toward Lady Cécile are honorable.” Phillippe’s gaze was heated and his tone challenging. “Can you make the same claim with regard to yours toward Miss Grey?”

  He knew what Phillippe meant to imply: that his intentions must be dishonorable because he couldn’t marry Miss Grey without relinquishing his inheritance. Throbbing with annoyance, Matthew said, “As I told you, we were only walking and talking of gardening and books—not that our private discussions are any of your affair.”

  With an indignant harrumph, he pulled Miss Grey up the walk, bypassing the wicked pair. As they proceeded apace toward the house, his thoughts turned down a darker road. What might Cécile and Phillippe have been talking of so familiarly when their paths crossed just now? Whatever scheme the two were hatching, he’d be willing to wager a sizeable sum, would profit none but themselves.

  Chapter Eight

  Matthew dipped his brush in the blob of flesh-tone paint on his palette and dabbed the face staring out at him from his canvas—a new work he’d started a week ago. For the first time in ages, he was pleased with how well the painting was progressing. He was equally delighted by his level of absorption, though it was impossible to maintain his focus much longer. For Miss Grey and Lady Cécile were due any moment for their weekly drawing lesson.

  Over the past four weeks, they had sketched apples and cheese ad nauseam. The time had come to promote them to the human figure. Frustratingly, the model he’d hired had yet to turn up, and seemed unlikely to before his pupils arrived. Even now, he could hear the Brousseau’s carriage thundering in the distance.

  Without his model, he would have to rethink today’s lesson—or quickly persuade someone else to pose. But who? It seemed untoward to ask one of the footmen to stand in, as it was to be a nude study. Likewise with Phillippe. But since he’d gone into Tours on an unspecified errand, the point was moot. That left only him to model, but exposing all of his attributes to two innocent young ladies hardly seemed a good idea.

  Posing shirtless, however, wasn’t out of the question. Plus, it would provide him with the added bonus of clocking Miss Grey’s reaction to the sight of his bare chest. If she seemed pleased rather than offended, he might be able to persuade her to consider the arrangement he had in mind.

  The sudden quiet told him the carriage had stopped out front. He put down his palette, covered the canvas with a cloth, and crossed to the pitcher and basin to clean his brushes and hands. Let the butler show them in while he made a few last-minute preparations. Though he’d already set up their easels and moved the chaise into position, he still needed to sharpen a bundle of pencils. For in addition to her other failings as an artist, Lady Cécile had the bad habit of breaking her lead by pressing too hard.

  * * *

  “Now, don’t forget our agreement,” Lady Cécile said to Jane as they exited the carriage in the circular drive outside Cœur Brisé.

  Jane blinked at her in confusion. “What agreement do you mean?”

  Annoyance pinched Lady Cécile’s pretty features. “How can you have forgotten? We agreed to secure Lord Brontë as your primary dancing partner at my ball—a scheme that may require me to bend the truth a wee bit. So, you mustn’t contradict me, however much you reprove my methods. For men, who know nothing of their own hearts, must be led by their noses like oxen.”

  Jane just blinked at the girl, astonished by her contradictory nature. On the one hand, she thought of nothing but beguiling as many members of the opposite sex as possible; on the other, she held them no higher in esteem than beasts of burden. If Jane thought as little of men as Lady Cécile professed to, she’d avoid them like typhus, not strive to turn their heads at every opportunity.

  “I’ll go along with the scheme as long as the lies you tell are only white ones—and provided you don’t mistake my complicity for endorsement,” Jane carefully explained. “For, as you know, speaking falsely—however noble the reason—is a direct violation of our Lord’s commandments.”

  “You are wrong, Miss Grey.” Cécile lifted her chin defiantly. “For, as I understand it, the Ninth Commandment forbids the bearing of false witness against one’s neighbor, not telling white lies that will only lead to other people’s happiness. And, in my own defense, I’ve kept Lord Brontë’s secret rather than using it to blacken his good name.” With a prideful smirk, she added, “You see, Miss Grey, I’m not quite as wicked as you like to believe.”

  Jane, nettled by her remark, could not contain her curiosity. “Pray, what secret are you keeping about Lord Bronte?”

  “Now, Miss Grey,” said Lady Cécile in a scolding tone. “It wouldn’t be much of a secret if I shared it with everyone who asked, now would it?”

  She was right, of course. And to encourage her to break a confidence would be wrong, however dearly Jane wanted to learn what she knew about Lord Brontë. So, instead of pressing her further, Jane simply followed her to where the butler stood waiting.

  As the manservant led them through the castle’s art-lined corridors, she felt trapped in a vicious circle. She couldn’t allow herself to become further enamored of Matthew Brontë without knowing his secret, and she couldn’t pressure Lady Cécile into giving it up without betraying her obligations as the girl’s governess.

  Thus, her only alternatives, insofar as she could see, were to ask Matthew directly or to snoop behind his back. As uncomfortable as she was with doing either, it behooved her to ensure she wasn’t giving her heart undeservingly.

  In the studio, they found their teacher sharpening pencils with a paring knife over a tin bucket. As they came in, he looked up from his task and gave Jane a smile, which she returned amidst a flood of guilt.

  Proceeding to the armoire, she took note of the changes in her surroundings since her last visit. The chaise that ordinarily stood near the window was now in the center of the room, and the covered canvas on his easel was larger than the one he’d been working on in previous weeks. She scanned the propped canvases, hoping to spot the painting he’d just completed among them, but, as usual, all faced the wall.

  “Good morning, ladies.” Lord Brontë’s greeting drew her attention back to him. “Today, instead of sketching yet another still life, I thought we’d move on to a more challenging subject: the human figure. And, since the artist’s model I hired has failed to appear, I shall take his place until other arrangements can be made.”

  “We are to draw you?” Lady Cécile sounded surprised, though not displeased.

  “That’s the idea, yes,” he returned. “My original intention was for you to draw the nude form, but under the circumstances, I think it best if I keep my trousers on.”

  “Why?” Lady Cécile asked with shocking impertinence. “Do you fear our scrutiny?”

  “On the contrary,” he told her. “I fear naught but your corruption, Lady Cécile.”

  “As Miss Grey will attest, I welcome the stripping away of my innocence—within limits, of course. Limits, I might add, that include my total ignorance of the male anatomy. For, at present, I must rely upon my imagination to prepare me for what to expect on my wedding night. Would you not, as my drawing master, friend, and good neighbor, do me the service of opening my eyes with regard to what a gentleman conceals beneath his britches?”

  Strong feelings warred within Jane as she bore witness to their provocative exchange. On the one hand, she would like very much to observe the hidden parts of Lord Brontë’s anatomy—though not particularly in the company of Lady Cécile (or anyone else, for that matter). On the other, she couldn’t imagine attempting to draw him in a state of complete undress without blushing the duration of the industry.

  To his credit and Jane’s enormous relief, he calmly replied, “As your drawing master, I will reveal to you the secrets of the male figure, Lady Cécile. Have no fear on that score. But the unveiling won’t take place today—nor will it ever involve my own attributes.”

  “Very well.” Lady Cécile’s posture slumped as she expelled a disa
ppointed sigh. “If you insist upon keeping your trousers on, I must content myself with drawing only your torso.”

  The matter now settled, the ladies took their places before their easels while Lord Brontë went to the armoire and began to disrobe. Jane, pretending to examine her pencil, stole occasional glances as, with his back to her, he removed first his waistcoat, then his neckcloth, and finally, his shirt, which he pulled off over his head.

  Longing threaded through her as her gaze traced the sculptural contours of his broad shoulders, lean back, and trim waist.

  After hanging each item in the armoire, he closed the mirrored door and turned round. Confronted with the sight of his bare chest, Jane’s womb pulsed with primitive need. Yes, she’d seen men’s naked chests before, but none had belonged to a man she desired. Her eyes followed him as he walked to the chaise. When he reclined and struck a pose, she squeezed her thighs together to stem her onrushing desire.

  By some miracle of God’s grace, she managed to complete the assignment. In fact, so engrossed did she become in the task, she lost all track of time. A backward glance at the clock on the mantle revealed the lesson was nearly over.

  Bringing her gaze forward again, she snuck a peek at Lady Cécile’s drawing, which, to Jane’s great surprise, more closely resembled an ape-man than the model of masculine beauty on display before them.

  As Matthew returned to the armoire to dress, Lady Cécile said, “May I ask, Lord Brontë, if you’ve yet received your invitation to my presentation ball?”

  “I have, Lady Cécile. It arrived a few days ago.”

  “And will you be attending?”

  “I wouldn’t dream of missing such an important affair.”

  “I’m so glad.” She shot a pointed glance in Jane’s direction. “And you are right about it being an important affair, though Miss Grey has no scruple about missing it. For she intends to spend the evening sequestered in her chamber reading one of her dull tomes, despite my assurances the ball will be far more amusing than any stupid book could ever be.” Turning again to Jane, she added, “You positively must give way and promise to come.”

  Lady Cécile looked back and forth between drawing master and governess with a worrisome gleam in her eye. Then, fixing her gaze on Lord Brontë’s back, she said, “She claims not to like parties, but I believe the real reason she won’t come is that she’s afraid no one will dance with her. But she’s mistaken, I’m sure. Because you are too much of a gentleman and friend to leave her stranded all evening among the spinsters and wallflowers. Is that not so?”

  “Indeed.” Lord Brontë threw a quick, backward glance at Jane. “I would be honored to stand up with you, Miss Grey.”

  Turning back to Jane, Lady Cécile fixed her with a triumphant smirk. “You see? There is one name on your dance card already—with the ball still several weeks away, no less. And once you are dressed in one of my remade gowns with your hair curled and pinned up prettily, you’re sure to attract the attention of many more beaus.”

  Spinning around abruptly, Lord Brontë met Jane’s gaze with a touch of green in his deep-brown eyes. “Do you desire to be courted by many suitors, Miss Grey?”

  “No.” Jane’s face heated under his piercing stare. “I desire no such thing.”

  Oh, if only she knew his secret! Then, she might be able to let her feelings off the leash and encourage his interest. But she couldn’t. She just couldn’t.

  Sliding off her stool, she hurried to the armoire to dispose of her smock. Lady Cécile soon joined her and, when they were ready to venture out of doors, the girl said, “I have a sudden headache and think I’ll skip our walk today.”

  Matthew looked from her to Jane and back again. “Do you wish to go home then?”

  “No, no,” she said, to Jane’s great relief. “You two go ahead. I’m only in need of a strong cup of tea to set me to rights.”

  Only at her continued insistence did Lord Brontë agree to leave her behind and venture into the garden. As he escorted Jane along the path intersecting his love garden, she was grateful for the support of his arm. For she was still discomposed by the improper thoughts and feelings the sight of his bare chest had provoked in her.

  “What part of England are you from Miss Grey?”

  “Somerset.” She flicked a glance his way, still picturing him shirtless. “And you?”

  “Derbyshire.”

  “Like Mr. Darcy,” she remarked with a smile.

  He laughed. “Yes, though my family home is nothing to Pemberley, I can assure you.”

  “No? Then, what is it like?”

  “Like any other humble vicarage, I should imagine.”

  “That’s right,” she said, smiling. “You mentioned your father was a curate, which, I must tell you, mirrors my own parentage to a remarkable degree. For my father, too, was a man of the cloth.”

  “You speak of your father in the past tense,” he observed with a troubled expression “Is he no longer of this world?”

  “He is,” she said, slumping. “But he is no longer of my world.”

  Brow furrowed, he blinked at her. “I don’t understand.”

  She released a sigh. “Perhaps I should explain more fully.”

  “Perhaps you should.”

  “When my parents met, my father was the curate of a small parish,” she began, endeavoring to hide the pain talking of her father always brought to the fore. “When my mother engaged herself to him, her friends and family didn’t approve of her choice. Though they warned her he wasn’t the man she believed him to be, she was too smitten to see the truth or listen to sense. Unfortunately, she paid a heavy price for her blindness.”

  “Did she? How so?”

  “By marrying a man whom her parents disapproved, she forfeited her share of my grandfather’s fortune, which was to be divided between her and my aunts.”

  “Who I presume made marriages for reasons other than love?”

  “Yes, and, like most men of their rank, my uncles kept women on the side. They did not, however, run off with their mistresses, leaving their wives and children with no means of support.”

  Matthew pulled up short and turned to her with concern in his eyes. “Good God, Jane. Is that what your father did?”

  Tears welled in her eyes. “Yes—with a barmaid not much older than myself.”

  “I’m so sorry. That must have been quite a trial for you and your mother.”

  “It was indeed, but that’s not even the worst of it.”

  His eyebrows shot up. “Isn’t it?”

  Her feelings were so raw now, she couldn’t bear to look at him, so she fixed her gaze on a wilting flower edging the path.

  “After my grandfather learned we’d been abandoned”—she struggled to keep her voice steady—“he wrote to my mother for the first time since her marriage to my father. In the letter, he offered to reinstate her inheritance if she would only apologize to him and admit he was right to oppose her choice.”

  After a prolonged silence, he asked, “And did she do as he bade?”

  “No. As desperate as we were for money, she refused to swallow her pride.”

  Mathew looked at her for a long moment, his eyes shimmering with compassion. “I can certainly understand her feeling that way—but she had more than herself to consider.”

  “She did,” Jane said, making her way to a nearby bench. “And I thought she ought to humble herself for our sake, but she wouldn’t. So, as the eldest, it fell to me to go to work as a governess.”

  He came and sat beside her, but didn’t touch her. “That was very selfless of you, Jane—and I hope you’ll pardon me for speaking so freely—but shame on your mother for putting her vanity ahead of your welfare. And double shame on your father for abandoning his responsibilities in favor of his lusts.”

  Until then, Jane had managed to maintain control, but what he’d said shattered her restraint. She turned away, biting back her tears.

  “Jane,” he said, his voice quavering. “You dear
, sweet, unassuming angel. Do you believe in the power of love to redeem our souls and make us happier than anything else in the world?”

  The tears she’d been fighting pricked her eyes as she considered how to answer him. Finally, when she felt able, she said, “Yes, Matthew. I don’t, however, believe all of us are destined to find deliverance through love. And we unfortunate souls must content ourselves with the lesser ecstasies obtainable through poetry, art, and religion.”

  He put his hand on her back. “Please tell me you don’t count yourself among the latter.”

  Her lower lip trembled and tears pooled in her eyes. “How can I not? I’m a governess of few attractions and fewer prospects.”

  “There are many attractions beyond fortune and beauty, Jane,” he said with heart-wrenching tenderness. “Intelligence, modesty, compassion, and aesthetic taste, for example. And you possess all of those qualities in abundance.”

  Emotionally overwhelmed, she bit her lip. “You flatter me, sir.”

  “I assure you, my compliments are sincere.”

  “You are kind. But I’m little more than a common governess.”

  “A governess you may be, but common you most certainly aren’t.”

  She turned to him then, her eyes still teary. “To be truthful, I sometimes feel myself degraded by the life I lead, and ashamed of submitting to so many indignities; and sometimes I think myself a fool for caring so much about them, and fear I must be sadly lacking in Christian humility, charity, and endurance.”

  He gave her a heartening smile. “You, Jane, are as close to a paragon of virtue as they come—my dear mother notwithstanding. And, if you will pardon my bluntness, Lady Cécile could try the patience of a saint.”