Jane Grey (The Brontë Brothers Book 1)

by Nina Mason

  His statement struck a dissonant chord within her. “Did you know Lord Brousseau has you in mind for Lady Cécile’s husband?”

  “I suspected as much.”

  Despite her great fear of the answer, she asked, “Is there any chance he’ll get his wish?”

  “Not if she marries me, he won’t.”

  Puzzled by his answer, she turned to face him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  He walked to the window and looked out at his garden, hands clasped behind his back. After a painful few moments of silence, he said, “There’s something I haven’t told you…because I was afraid if you knew, you wouldn’t want me.”

  Fear swelled within Jane. It was the secret to which he referred. It had to be. Pulse racing, mouth dry, she said, “Well, don’t leave me dangling in the wind, Matthew. What is it you haven’t told me?”

  Rather than give her an answer, he asked a question. “Why did you become a governess?”

  “To help support my family.”

  “Why did you not marry instead?”

  “Because I despaired of ever meeting a man who would satisfy all my requirements.”

  “Which are…?”

  “Strong mutual affection, obviously.”

  “Of course,” he said quickly, almost dismissively, “but what else?”

  She shifted her weight, suddenly queasy and clammy. “You needn’t worry, Matthew. You fit the bill perfectly.”

  “Do I? We shall see.”

  His answer sent a chill through her. “Good God, Matthew. Tell me what it is before I run mad.”

  After an unbearable silence, he asked, “How important is wealth to you in a prospective husband?”

  “Well, it’s essential—but if you fear that’s…” She almost said “why I want to marry you,” but stopped herself in time.

  “And if you fell in love with a poor man, what would you do?”

  “Despair, probably.”

  “Because you couldn’t marry him?”

  “Because I’d be forced to choose between my duty to my family and marrying the man I loved.”

  “Which would you choose, Jane? Given that very quandary, which would you choose? Money or love?”

  “It’s not that simple.” All of his questions were making her more frightened and frustrated by the moment. “It would depend upon the circumstances.”

  “All right,” he said, still facing the window. “Here’s a circumstance for you. The man you love has plenty of money, but must give up his fortune if he marries. What would you do then?”

  His voice was calm, but not without tension. “Why would he have to give up his money?”

  “Because the woman who left it to him decreed that he’d lose his legacy if ever he married.”

  It was evident to her now that he was speaking of his own situation, though how a wife could cut off her husband didn’t make sense to her. For, as far as she knew, it was the man who had all the legal and property rights, not the woman. That was the way it was in England, at least. “Don’t you mean remarry? We are talking about you, are we not?”

  “Clever girl,” he said with an edge to his voice. “I knew you’d catch on. And no, I don’t mean remarry because I’ve never been married. Mathilde only kept up that pretense to maintain her good name.”

  The shock of his confession tore Jane in two. “So, you lived in sin with her?”

  “Yes. She offered to support me while I painted if I’d come to her bed when she wanted me there.”

  Jane felt weak-limbed and was finding it hard to breathe. “So, for all intents and purposes, you were the male equivalent of a mistress.”

  “Yes. That’s exactly what I was, and I expected to be left with nothing when she died, but she changed her will, unbeknownst to me, a few hours before she breathed her last.”

  “And this is the secret Lady Cécile is holding over your head?”

  “Yes. Well, for the most part. She knew that I would lose my legacy if I married, but not that Mathilde and I hadn’t legally married.”

  Fury raged inside Jane. All this while, that wicked girl had known this!—and yet, in spite of this knowledge, had encouraged her attachment to Matthew. Why? Well, the answer was obvious now that Jane’s eyes had been opened. The selfish, conniving little bitch wanted Matthew to marry again so she and Lord L’Hiver could have his fortune and Cœur Brisé. And seeing he favored her governess, Cécile encouraged the attachment—without the least care how deeply Jane might be hurt by her subterfuge.

  Just as Jane opened her mouth to abrade him for deceiving her, Lady Cécile burst into the fabrique. “There you are, Miss Grey! For heaven’s sake, I’ve been looking for you everywhere. Have you forgotten me completely—and our meeting with the dressmaker?”

  As resentment and frustration overpowered Jane, she fingered the pearls at her throat. The appointment had completely slipped her mind. Lady Cécile was having one of her old gowns remade for Jane to wear to her presentation ball.

  Jane didn’t want to go—to the dressmaker’s or the ball. She wanted to stay and talk things over with Matthew. She also wanted to weep. A moment ago, she was the happiest woman on earth and now, she’d been cast into the pit of despair.

  “Come on, Miss Grey.” Lady Cécile, indifferent to what she’d interrupted, raced toward Jane, took hold of her arm, and pulled her toward the door. “We must not keep Madame Vuitton waiting.”

  Jane freed herself from the girl’s grip and hurried to where Matthew still stood at the window, looking the picture of misery. Rising up on her tiptoes, she kissed his cheek and whispered, “I should hate you, but I don’t.”

  Then, putting on the hard shell of obliging indifference servitude required, she returned to Cécile. When they reached the door, she turned back to find Matthew with his face in his hands. The sight of him in such anguish tied her in knots. Evidently, his confession had upset him as much as it had her.

  On the carriage ride to the dressmaker’s shop in Tours, Jane sat opposite Lady Cécile in uncomfortable silence. Much as she yearned to abrade the scheming little chit about what she’d just learned, she kept her lips sealed. Confronting her might result in her dismissal, and she could ill-afford to lose her situation with her nerves so jangled and her future so uncertain.

  Until she and Matthew could work things out between them, she’d have to do her best to keep a stiff upper lip and not dwell overmuch on the matter.

  The etiquette book she’d given Lady Cécile offered this sound advice to ladies with disappointed hopes: “When the overburdened heart cannot be comforted, or its thoughts diverted, instead of wallowing in unhappiness, turn your focus to something or someone outside yourself.”

  The book recommended visiting the poor and aged, or spending time with children, “whose freshness, joyful unconsciousness, and elasticity of spirit, would sustain and draw you from yourself.”

  Jane desperately needed just such a distraction. She felt as forlorn as a lonely canyon with a cold wind blowing through it—except that a canyon couldn’t feel its pain and she felt hers acutely.

  She touched the pearls encircling her throat before raising her fingers to her lips, which were still swollen from his kisses. She still loved him, still wanted to be his wife, his lover, his companion in life. More than anything in the world—and ten-thousand times more than she wanted to go on being a lowly, lonely governess.

  But she mustn’t reflect too much on her disappointment, as the book so soundly advised. She must find something else to occupy her thoughts. And what better way to take her mind off her problems than by helping Cécile prepare for the ball? Not just by continuing her efforts to improve the girl’s comportment, but in everything, from recording RSVPs to hanging decorations. True, it wasn’t the ideal diversion, given Cécile’s treachery, but it was the best she could come up under the circumstances.

  They drove on in uncomfortable silence until Jane remembered what Matthew had told her about Lord L’Hiver. Preparing to warn her charge,
Jane cleared her throat to draw her from her daydreams. “Dearest, I have something to relay which I fear you won’t wish to hear,” Jane tentatively began. “About Lord L’Hiver. I, nevertheless, feel duty-bound to share what I know. Whether or not you hear me is your own affair.”

  The girl looked her way, eyes shimmering with interest. “Go on. I’m listening.”

  Jane took a moment to choose her words before telling the chit about the theft of the jewels and Lord L’Hiver’s apparent guilt.

  When she’d said all there was to say, Lady Cécile’s gaze dropped to Jane’s neck and turned cold. “Where did you get those pearls, Miss Grey?”

  A blush scorched Jane’s cheeks as her fingers flew to the necklace. “They were a gift… from Lord Brontë.”

  “Then it’s he who is the thief.” Lady Cécile’s eyes narrowed to accusing slits. “Because the jewels—and everything else to do with Cœur Brisé—should belong to Phillippe. Your precious count—who is not a count, by the way, and never was—managed somehow to persuade the countess in her final hours to deprive her only remaining blood relation of his rightful inheritance.”

  Jane, infuriated by the girl’s remarks, felt the need to defend Matthew’s honor. “I don’t believe Lord Brontë would do anything dishonorable.”

  “Do you not?” Lady Cécile laughed. “Well, we shall see if you change your mind when you learn how dishonorable his intentions toward you have been.”

  The remark was like a slap across the face. “Dishonorable? How so?”

  “He’s playing with you, Miss Grey.”

  Jane, heartsick, bit her lip and waited for the girl to go on. After several excruciating moments of silence, she asked in exasperation, “And just how is he playing with me?”

  The girl pursed her lips and tossed her curls. “He means to make you his whore, you silly thing, not his wife.”

  A firestorm of outrage swept through Jane. She felt utterly betrayed, devastated, and friendless. She was that anchorless boat again, being tossed by the whitecaps of an angry sea. Hands fisted, chest tight, she turned to Lady Cécile, unable to swallow her feelings any longer. “How could you? How could you encourage my affection knowing my heart would be broken in the end? Do you really have so little sympathy for the feelings of others? Do you really feel so little friendship toward me?”

  “I know you think me beyond redemption,” the girl returned with vitriol. “You have made that clear from the moment we met. But I’m not so unfeeling as you think. I did what I did not to hurt you, but to please my father. He insisted I marry Lord Brontë, which I had every intention of doing until…”

  “Go on,” Jane prodded.

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  Jane licked her lips, tasting bitterness. “Will you at least tell me how you know his intentions toward me are dishonorable?”

  “He told Phillippe.”

  “What exactly did he say?”

  Lady Cécile looked away from Jane’s burning gaze. “You won’t like it.”

  “I should still like to know what he said.”

  Cécile met her gaze head-on. “Well, if you must know, he told Phillippe if he made you his mistress instead of marrying you, he could more or less have his cake and eat it too.”

  Her words were a dagger to Jane’s heart. She could not bring herself to believe them. “That cannot be true.”

  “And yet, it is. I swear to you, it is. I know you think me wicked, but I did warn you he was a beast, did I not?”

  The tears Jane had been holding back began to roll down her cheeks. Lady Cécile, seeing this, picked up her skirts and, in a swish of silk, moved to the seat beside Jane.

  “Oh, Miss Grey, dear thing. Don’t despair. For I believe he would marry you if he could. Has he told you he loves you?”

  Too emotionally overcome to speak, Jane only nodded.

  “Do you return his love?”

  Jane pulled out her handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes. “I wish I could say I didn’t, but I do.”

  Lady Cécile put her hand on Jane’s arm. “I never meant to hurt you, my dearest friend. You must believe me.”

  “I do believe you,” Jane said with an acid tongue. “I’m quite sure you never gave the least thought to my feelings. You thought only of yourself, just as you always do…and, I suspect, always will.”

  Cécile withdrew her hand and scooted away. “That is untrue, Miss Grey. I thought of Papa, who must have Cœur Brisé to expand his vineyard.”

  Jane sniffed back her tears and looked at the girl. “Even at the cost of marrying you off to a man you dislike?”

  “What does he care what I want? As long as he gets what he wants, he will be well pleased. And I don’t object to Lord Brontë as much as I say. Yes, he’s a beast, but so are all men. Few of them, however, are as easy on the eyes. Oh, Miss Grey, just think what beautiful children we might have had together!”

  Jane was astonished by her insensitivity. Was it possible for anybody to be so utterly oblivious to the feelings of another? “Did you not tell me not so long ago how unappealing you found Lord Brontë?”

  A sly smile stole across Lady Cécile’s mouth. “Dear Miss Grey. You silly old thing. How could any woman find him so? He is far and away the finest looking gentleman in the county. I only stated otherwise to put you at ease about having me as a rival for his affections.” With a puffed-up air, she added, “I mean, do be serious. What man with eyes would choose someone with your looks over someone with mine?”

  A man of sense, perhaps.

  Jane, utterly disgusted with the girl’s selfishness and conceit, thought back on the quotation Matthew had given her. He was right; all the beauty Lady Cécile possessed was but skin deep. Underneath her pretty mask, she was ugly to the bone.

  They had arrived at the dressmaker’s. Jane, feeling eviscerated, tightened her grip on the string of pearls. She no longer cared about the necklace, the gown, or the ball. She no longer wanted to be Lady Cécile’s governess or remain in France. She only wanted to go home to her mother and Mary and forget all about the wicked people who’d conspired to break her heart. Not that she ever could forget Matthew. But she should like to try. And remaining here, where their paths might cross at any time, would render the exertion fruitless.

  And yet, she could not just quit and go home. Not when her mother and sister were depending on her wages. The fault for her unhappiness was not theirs, and she mustn’t let her folly bring added hardship upon her family. She allowed her feelings for Lord Brontë to develop when she knew he wasn’t what he appeared to be, so the fault for her misery rested solely upon her own shoulders.

  Yes, Lady Cécile had manipulated her, but Jane had known well enough the girl’s character left much to be desired. And yet, she still allowed herself to be taken in. Because she coveted more than was her due. Did she really think a man with Matthew’s looks would make a Plain Jane like her his wife?—or, even more absurdly, give up his fortune for her? How vain and stupid she was to have indulged such fancies!

  Evidently, she’d been operating under a severe misapprehension where he was concerned. She believed he understood and valued her character when clearly he only desired to corrupt her. How could she have been so mistaken in him? How could he have been so mistaken in her? Did he honestly believe she would agree to be his mistress?

  When the coachman opened the door, Lady Cécile got out and Jane, swallowing her misery, followed. Like it or not, she was still the girl’s governess and had a ball to prepare for. Women like her didn’t enjoy the luxury of running from their mistakes. She must, therefore, temper her regrets and carry on as best she could.

  Chapter Twelve

  Matthew emptied his glass of whisky in one swallow and poured another. The alcohol burned a fuse from the tip of his tongue to the pit of his stomach. Good. He needed to sear away the lunacy clouding his vision. For only a madman could not have seen that wooing her as a wealthy count when he was nothing of the kind would only lead to heartbreak for them bo
th.

  I should hate you, but I don’t.

  Yes, well. He hated himself enough for the both of them. What had possessed him to think making her his mistress was a good idea? Well, whatever it was, thank God he’d come to his senses before he’d ruined everything. He just hoped she would be willing to forgive him—and to hear him out.

  He downed the whisky, refilled his glass from the half-empty bottle on the table beside him, and went to the window. He was still in the fabrique and, in the fading light, his love garden looked like an intricate maze in which one could easily become lost. He certainly had, and would be even now if Jane hadn’t come into his life when she did.

  He stretched his gaze across the four quadrants, now more gray than color. In which did he and Jane belong? Flighty? Certainly not. They were both too serious-minded for this to be a dalliance. Tragic? Maybe, but he certainly hoped not. Passionate? Absolutely. He burned for her to the core of his being—and believed she burned for him in equal measure. And yet, there also existed great tenderness and caring between them.

  The painting he’d been working on rested on the easel behind him. It was easily his best work to date and, when it was finished, he’d start another and then another. He would dedicate himself to achieving his goal of taking the Paris art scene by storm. Then, when he’d earned enough as an artist to support Jane and her dependent relations, he would give up Cœur Brisé and marry her.

  And, in the process, he’d show his father how wrong he’d been. The thought triggered an unpleasant memory. As the scene took shape in his mind, Matthew gulped his drink. He’d been in his old room, packing for Paris, when his father came in to tell him for the umpteenth time how disappointed he was in his choice of profession.

  “It’s not too late to change your course,” he’d said. “You can still forget this nonsense about painting and join the church.”

  “You seem to forget that I don’t believe in God—not your version of God, at any rate.”

  His father’s face reddened. “I will not have you uttering such blasphemies. Not in my house with the Good Lord listening in. You’ll burn in hell one day, Matthew, mark my words.”