by Nina Mason
He clamped her waist with both hand and tried to lift her off, but she dug in. He made to stand, ready to drop her on the floor, but just as he got his feet under him, in walked the one person he least wanted to catch him in so condemning a position.
Miss Grey, for whom he stood ready to give up everything.
She mustn’t have realized who Lady Cécile had trapped in her snare because she said, clearly flustered, “Oh, I do beg your pardon…I didn’t realize you were entertaining.” Then, her eyes grew wide, her mouth fell open, and her hands flew to her crimsoning cheeks. “Good God! Is that…Lord Brontë with you?”
He shoved the chit aside with more force than was strictly gentlemanly and was on his feet the next instant. He started toward Jane, but the look on her face stopped him in his tracks. As they stared at each other in mutual horror, desperation flailed within him. “Pray, don’t be deceived by appearances. For I am but a hapless fly caught in the web of a greedy spider.”
Hurt and suspicion darkened Jane’s lovely blue-gray eyes. “From where I stand, it looked as if the fly enjoyed being the meal.”
“The fly didn’t—” He shook his head to reorder his thoughts. “That is to say, I was not enjoying myself.” He started toward her, but her reproving scowl stopped him again. “You must believe me, dearest. I came to ask Cécile to get a message to my nephew and, in the midst of our conversation, she threw herself at me like a shameless harlot. I promise you, swear to you on all I hold dear, that I did nothing to encourage her.”
Jane pursed her lips and averted her gaze. “Or to discourage her, either, apparently.”
“That is untrue!” He felt like a shipwreck survivor in icy waters, treading frantically to stay alive. “I was trying to throw her off me when you came into the room.”
Jane turned her heated gaze on her conniving pupil. “Is this true?”
Matthew spun and looked at the minx. To his surprise and dismay, she wore an expression not of concern, but of triumph. Clearly, she’d meant to cause trouble between him and Jane, and was pleased with herself for having accomplished her aim.
“Oh, Miss Grey. You poor, sad creature.” Cécile’s address was infuriatingly condescending. “Even you cannot be so naïve as to believe a man like Lord Brontë would choose a drab old thing like you over a vibrant young beauty like myself.”
“He would and he has.” Matthew wanted to slap Lady Cécile hard enough to knock her senseless. Not that she had a lick of sense to begin with, but still. Jaw clenched, heart in throat, hands fisted by his sides, he turned back to Jane. “Please don’t question my sincerity based on this selfish creature’s insinuations.”
“I want to believe you. Truly, I do.” The tears in her eyes tore at his heart. “But you forget this is not the first time I have caught you kissing her.”
“I was not kissing her,” he insisted, close to shouting. “She was kissing me—most unwelcomely, I assure you.” He dared to take a step toward his love, longing to take her in his arms and assure her of the constancy of his affections. “The only lips I care to kiss are yours, dear Jane. Now and forever.”
Looking over his shoulder, he fixed Lady Cécile with a hateful glare. “Tell her the truth, you viper. Tell her what we spoke of and what you did. This instant. Or I shall…” He hesitated, unsure what to threaten her with. Then, deciding, he added, “Or I shall rescind my offer and remain at Cœur Brisé until my dying day.”
Despite his threat, he still feared the girl might keep up the pretense of his infidelity. His thoughts leapt to motive. Was vanity run-amok her only reason for making the pass, or was she wreaking vengeance on him for his behavior toward her all those months back?
If revenge was indeed her impetus, the wrong he’d done her, egregious though it was, was a mere trifle compared to the harm she might do him. He didn’t want Mathilde’s estate. He wanted Jane Grey for his wife. More than anything else in the world. Even more than he wanted fame as a painter. But Jane might not have him if Lady Cécile persisted in her deception.
As he stood there, waiting upon the girl’s response, he could feel happiness slipping through his fingers like sand. As the seconds ticked past, foreboding wrapped its noose around his throat and began to tighten the loop.
“He has done you no wrong,” Lady Cécile said at last, to his great relief. “He came here to ask me to communicate to Phillippe his decision to give up his fortune for you.”
Though pleased she’d finally been honest, Matthew didn’t appreciate her trumping his announcement. Turning to Jane, ready to explain his plan for their extended engagement, he found blue-gray eyes as hard and cold as flint. Luckily, her anger appeared to be directed at her charge rather than at him.
“Don’t think me as naïve as you suppose, you wicked girl,” Jane snarled at Lady Cécile. “I know what you were up to. You were trying to seduce him—because he’s the one man in the county who doesn’t fall at your feet. And it galled you, didn’t it? Galled you to the core of your selfish, scheming little heart. Never mind that, had you succeeded, you would have broken my heart…or that you’ve already made a conquest of Lord L’Hiver and every other man around. You couldn’t bear it that the man you most desired saw the ugliness behind your pretty face.”
Most desired? The accusation astounded Matthew—not only because of the motive she’d assigned to Lady Cécile, but also because he’d not thought she had it in her to be so pernicious. Far from being put off by her display of temper, he was proud of her. The conniving little bitch deserved to be shot through with every arrow her longsuffering governess had in her quiver.
He turned back to Jane, ready to praise her well-deserved attack. Finding the arrow of her anger now aimed at him, he let the words die on his tongue.
“And as for you…leaving me in suspense for weeks with no hint of your whereabouts or assurances of your regard or intentions. Then, when you finally do reappear, I find you locked in a kiss with another woman, with only your word that you were played.” She scoffed and rolled her eyes. “Am I really supposed to believe that a healthy, strapping man cannot defend himself against a sprig of a girl, however determined she might be? Well, I don’t believe it, sir. And so, I can only conclude that you are as big a fool as all the other men she has bedazzled with her vampish wiles. You have disappointed me, Matthew. And I would not have you now if you were the last man on earth!”
At that, to his horror, Jane bolted from the room. Matthew stood there, gaping at the door through which all hope of happiness had fled, unsure how to proceed. Would it be better to go after her or give her time to cool down?
“She’s wrong, you know.”
Lady Cécile’s statement brought his gaze to hers. For several moments, he regarded her with poison in his heart, wanting so badly to wrap his hands around her neck and choke the life out of her. Finally, when he’d regained his self-control, he asked, “Wrong about what?”
“I didn’t kiss you because I couldn’t bear not having you.” Her victorious smile melted into a sneer. “I kissed you hoping to make you fall madly in love with me.”
Matthew glowered at her, bewildered by her logic. “For what possible reason?”
Her eyes narrowed to slits. “So I could spurn you the way you spurned me.”
The wicked, spiteful little wretch! As if he would so easily transfer his feelings from Jane, who was her superior in every way. Still, as flawed as her strategy was, she had prevailed over him.
Matthew licked his lips and swallowed hard as he considered his response. While the girl deserved no consideration, he didn’t wish to make a greater enemy of someone so vindictive.
“Well, Lady Cécile.” He took a breath, fighting to keep his composure. “If it’s any consolation, you have succeeded in breaking my heart—to a far greater degree than if I’d been taken in by your charms and then rebuffed. Not that I ever would have been taken in, because, unlike your other playthings, it takes more than physical beauty to impress me. Much more. And I see nothing to reco
mmend you beyond a pretty face, which, not unlike all the lovely roses in my gardens, will fade and wither with time. Only then will your packaging match the poisonous product within.” He started toward the door, and just before exiting, turned back. “Oh, and one more thing. Does my nephew plan to attend your ball?”
“Of course he does.” Her glare contained sufficient venom to strike him dead on the spot, even from this distance. “He wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
“Good. Then I shall see him there. And when I do, I mean to explain how close I came to giving him what he coveted to the point of attempting murder. And how your vampish behavior changed my mind.”
Daggers flew at him from her eyes. “You wouldn’t dare.”
He released a bitter laugh. “Not only would I dare to open his eyes where you’re concerned, I look forward to doing him that small service.” Narrowing his eyes at her, he added, “Though it does seem a shame to break up two such perfectly matched villains.”
Lady Cécile’s hateful expression robbed her face of all its beauty. “I shall rescind your invitation!”
He glared at her with equal loathing, delighting in the desperation he knew must be brewing beneath her implacable facade. She deserved to suffer, to know how wretched it felt to have the rug pulled out from under her feet when she was so close to having what she most desired. She was an odious creature and he despised her to the very marrow of his bones. “Go ahead. Disinvite me. But know I shall be there all the same…with every intention of spoiling your future happiness—just as you’ve so unfeelingly ruined mine.”
He turned to go, but paused when she called after him.
“If I can fix things between you and Jane, will you reconsider your decision regarding Cœur Brisé?”
Unable to bear the sight of her, he didn’t turn. “Perhaps…but first I must in all fairness warn you: the price you are paying for the estate is exceedingly high. For my nephew is the worst kind of scoundrel who will very likely treat you ill and gamble his fortune away in less than a twelvemonth?”
She laughed mockingly. “Oh, Lord Brontë, what a Cassandra you are. For marriage will reform your nephew, as it does all men of questionable character. And, as for treating me badly, he would never dream of doing anything of the sort. For he is madly in love with me and has vowed to worship and adore me all the rest of my days.”
Matthew bit his lip to keep from making a response. There was no point in wasting any more breath on such an unreasoning creature—especially one as blind to her own self-deceptions as she was to the feelings of others. Come what may, she deserved her fate. Let her marry Phillippe and suffer the consequences. And the sooner, the better. For once she was off the market, she would be far less likely to mislead and injure any more beauty-blinded bachelors.
He stood his ground, eager though he was to be gone from her and the house. “If you are able to patch things up with Jane, I might be willing to rethink my decision.” He paused for dramatic effect. “I will, however, give you only until the end of your ball to heal the rift. If she has not agreed to be my wife by then, all bets are off.”
“You cannot be serious! My ball is tomorrow evening.” The tenor of her protest was akin to the whine of a tot whose intended mischief had been preempted by a vigilant nanny. “And I have so much else to do to prepare.”
“In that case, I shall importune you no longer.” He started toward the door. “And look forward to seeing you, my nephew, and Jane at the ball tomorrow evening.” He paused in the doorway. “But know this, you spiteful creature: if she cannot be persuaded to hear me out, I shall not be induced to change my mind—and will set the dogs on my nephew if he ever dares to set foot on my property in the future.”
She actually had the audacity to laugh. “But, Lord Brontë, you silly thing. You have no dogs.”
“Then I shall acquire several very large and vicious mastiffs for the singular purpose of keeping the pair of you from my door.”
At that, he took his leave, escaping her insufferable company not a moment too soon.
Chapter Fifteen
Despite Jane’s resolve to end things with Matthew once and for all, some hope yet remained. Elsewise, her heart wouldn’t have leapt with such expectation when a knock sounded on her bedchamber door. Had he come to beg her forgiveness and propose? Oh, please let that be the case! Dashing the tears from her cheeks, she climbed off the bed, straightened her clothes, and smoothed her mussed hair. Steadying herself, she called through the door, “Who’s there?”
“It is I.” Lady Cécile’s answer crushed Jane’s hopes and excited her vexation. Did the girl seriously give no thought to anyone but herself? “I must speak to you at once, Miss Grey.”
“Can it not wait until tomorrow? I’m in no humor for company at present.”
Especially your company, you thoughtless coquet.
“I have a message I’m sure you will wish to hear.”
Jane’s pulse quickened. “A message from whom?”
“Lord Brontë, of course.”
“I have no desire to hear anything he wishes to relay,” she lied out of pride.
“Even so, you must let me in and give me leave to speak my piece. I wish to apologize. Most sincerely. I let my anger toward him overshadow my regard for you—and I’m heartily sorry for the injury I’ve done you.”
Though she sounded in earnest, Jane remained unmoved. She was, however, curious to know what Matthew had done to offend the girl. “If I may…what grievance do you have against Lord Brontë?”
“I will tell you all if you will only open the door.”
Against her better judgement, Jane relented. Part of her—the senseless, ever-hopeful part—still loved him and couldn’t bear the thought of living out her days as a spinster in service.
As soon as the door was opened a crack, Lady Cécile charged in, nearly knocking Jane down with the force of her entry.
“Oh, thank you, Miss Grey,” the girl effused in a breathless flurry of silk skirts. “You won’t regret letting me in. And, in exchange for the favor of your kind charity, I stand ready to confess that you have been right about me all along. I am a selfish, senseless, shallow creature. For I thought of none but myself just now when I threw myself at your beau. He spoke the truth. He is blameless. It was I and I alone who made the advance. He did nothing to encourage me and everything in his power to dislodge me from his person. It is you, he loves, not me. He only came to see me to ask me to relay a message to Phillippe, guessing I knew where to write him. He was right, of course, because Phillippe has sent me more than one billet-doux over the weeks he’s been absent.” Taking Jane by the arms, she said, more excitedly, “Oh, Miss Grey. You must read his letters—for they are so full of adoration and passion it makes me blush just to think of them.”
Jane smiled through her annoyance. True to form, the girl had allowed her vanity to distract her from her purpose. “And what of Lord Brontë?”
Lady Cécile’s animated expression sobered and her eyebrows pulled together. “Lord Brontë? Good God, Miss Grey. What makes you think he has written me love letters?”
Jane pursed her lips as she struggled to preserve her forbearance. “I meant, what message did Lord Brontë entrust you to deliver to me?”
“Oh, of course.” The stupid girl laughed off-handedly. “Forgive me. I thought… Oh, never mind what I thought. It matters not. What matters is that you forgive me my evils and come to my ball. For you’ll look so charming in my remade blue gown with your face painted and your hair all done up so prettily. Lord Brontë will take one look at you and, if he recognizes you at all, he’ll fall down on his knees to declare his undying love. Oh, how I envy you his love. For he is so handsome, my loins quicken whenever he deigns to look my way.”
This was not to be borne! Even as the senseless twit was begging Jane’s forgiveness for throwing herself at the poor man, she was confessing her carnal lust for him. Jane swallowed her offense, but was left with the bitter aftertaste. “Do your loin
s not quicken when Lord L’Hiver gives you longing looks?”
“How I wish they did! But alas, I feel nothing but dread about sharing his bed after we are married.”
“Has he yet proposed?”
The girl frowned and lowered her gaze. “No, but I’m quite sure he intends to do so at my ball.”
“And he will have Cœur Brisé, so your father at least should be pleased.”
“You should be pleased as well, Miss Grey,” the girl said. “I would be if a man loved me enough to give up his fortune to have me. Though I’m not sure I’d want him once he was poor.”
Jane cleared her throat. “You paint my present situation with a far more romantic brush than it deserves, I assure you.”
“Perhaps,” said Cécile. “But even someone as prosaic as you must be moved to some extent by such a romantic gesture.”
“If he means to give up Cœur Brisé,” said Jane, struggling to keep her hops from rekindling, “I’m sure it’s only with the goal of securing Vouvray.”
Lady Cécile looked startled by the suggestion. “Oh, Miss Grey. You could not be more wrong. I promise you, he has no interest in me. It’s you who’s turned his head with your modesty, conversation, and intelligence. He prefers reserve to vivacity, it would seem. And respectability to originality. Just as my father does. Fortunately, most men value the charms I possess over yours.”
Narrow-minded men, perhaps, who measured a woman’s worth by her looks and breeding—the same standards they applied when buying dogs and horses. And perhaps women like Lady Cécile were fine with such superficial criteria, but Jane was not.
Then, there was the matter of her attitude, which cried out for correction. “You speak of attracting other men, but you not as good as engaged to Lord L’Hiver?”
