‘I’m afraid I would be considered a lost cause.’
‘Then consider yourself fortunate.’ He looked at her for a moment in thoughtful silence, then said, ‘What is your opinion of Miss Spelling?’
Jane was completely taken aback by the question and her eyes snapped to his. ‘I—I cannot answer that—and it’s not fair of you to ask me. Miss Spelling and I are—not acquainted—but—she seems—very nice,’ she answered hesitantly.
‘Be honest,’ Christopher said, amused at the way she tried to equivocate. ‘I got the distinct impression when I introduced the two of you that you didn’t like her.’
Jane’s cheeks flamed. ‘Am I as transparent as that?’
‘As glass.’ He chuckled.
‘I think the feeling is mutual. If you know my opinion, why did you ask me?’ she retorted crossly. Not for a moment did it enter her head to deny it. ‘Forgive me if I appear impertinent, but I could not help noticing that the two of you—don’t...’
‘Don’t what? Look like love’s young dream?’ he said on a wry note. Seeing the answer in her eyes, he nodded. ‘We don’t know each other well enough for that. We met in America—in New York. Her father is a self-made millionaire. He is ambitious and interested in all things European—including a title for his only daughter. An attractive girl with a rich father is automatically a treasured being.’
‘So—you decided to ask her to be your wife.’
‘Not immediately. Nothing was said—it has still not been discussed. Mr Spelling intended stopping off in London en route to Paris, so I deemed it only polite to invite them to Chalfont.’
‘But—wouldn’t a more select gathering have been more prudent—instead of inviting them to the countess’s birthday party with half of Oxfordshire present?’ The answer dawned in her eyes when a slow smile curved his firm lips. ‘Oh—now I understand. It was to assess Miss Spelling as a possible wife without appearing too obvious. Am I right?’
‘You read me too well.’ He chuckled. ‘But it isn’t difficult. Lydia is the kind of woman any man would be honoured to have as his wife.’
‘That depends on the kind of wife you want. Although I don’t suppose it’s every day you meet an American heiress. A tempting prospect indeed.’
Christopher cocked a questioning brow. ‘You must think my reason for considering marriage to Miss Spelling is rather mercenary.’
‘Of course not. I am aware that it is an accepted fact that in England, society is full of marriages of convenience and political and financial alliances.’
‘It is common.’
‘I am only surprised that you can be so matter-of-fact about an issue that is supposed to be the most important event in anyone’s life. My world is so very different from yours, I’m afraid. But then I may have got it all wrong. You are probably attracted to Miss Spelling because you think she’s a sweet person who worships the ground you walk on—although perhaps she might not be quite so sweet if she were not so rich.’
Jane’s forthright manner and the fact that she was not afraid to speak her mind brought a smile to Christopher’s lips. ‘Miss Spelling may be many things, but sweet is not one of them. However, I will not betray my meticulous standards by bringing to Chalfont an unworthy countess.’
How cold and dispassionate his attitude was towards marrying Miss Spelling, Jane thought, having no wish to discuss it further. The mere idea of them together brought a pain to her heart. ‘Then I wish you joy in her.’
For a moment Christopher considered her in thoughtful silence. ‘Thank you for your opinion. Nevertheless, Miss Spelling does have some good points.’
‘I know. After our conversation earlier, I feel like a pincushion already,’ she told him drily.
Unable to contain his mirth, Christopher was laughing now with amusement, his teeth flashing white from between his parted lips. It was a rusty sound, as if he did not laugh very often.
‘May I give you some advice, Miss Mortimer?’ he enquired.
‘If you must,’ she replied lightly. ‘But I warn you that it will be unlikely that I shall take it, for advice invariably exhorts one to do something that one does not wish to do or to give up something which one enjoys.’
Christopher threw back his head and laughed once more. She realised that when he did that he seemed younger, much younger, than when his face was in repose.
‘You are incorrigible,’ he said, ‘and a complete contradiction in terms and appearance—in fact, in everything.’
‘A contradiction?’ she queried, looking puzzled.
‘Yes,’ he answered. ‘You look reserved and pliable, yet I believe you are strong and determined and, if the truth be told, more than a little obstinate.’
‘That sounds quite dreadful,’ Jane said with mock gravity.
‘That is a word that can never apply to you,’ he replied, turning from her and strolling casually to the door.
Chapter Four
‘You said you wanted to give me some advice.’
Christopher turned and looked back at her. ‘My advice is for you not to change. To stay exactly as you are. One day you will be a wife and mother any man will be happy to make his own. Oh, and I feel I must compliment you on the dress you chose to wear today—definitely foreign. It was bright—exotic, in fact.’
There was a caressing note in his voice which should have caused Jane to take flight. Instead, perhaps because of the quietness all around them, she merely looked at him a little enquiringly and smiled. ‘Like a peacock’s plumage, you mean,’ she murmured. ‘I believe you are teasing me, Lord Lansbury.’
‘Not at all. I was being perfectly serious.’ He looked down at the table littered with books on Greek and Roman antiquities and documents and monochrome photographic prints. ‘May I?’ he asked, indicating one of three men against a backdrop of an ancient temple.
‘Please do.’
He gazed at it with interest. ‘Would I be right in thinking that one of these gentlemen was your father?’
‘The one on the left—with a moustache and wearing a battered old hat.’
‘And the location?’
‘Al Khazneh, which is one of the most elaborate temples of ancient Petra in Jordan.’
‘It looks interesting.’
‘It is. Petra is also called the Rose City due to the colour of the stone out of which it’s carved. It’s of immense historical importance. The artefacts that are being uncovered all the time and my father’s writings are of tremendous benefit to scholars and historians the world over.’
‘He must have been a clever man.’
‘He was. He was particularly interested in ancient scripts and loved delving into myths and legends to find out the truth. He loved the fact that so much remains unanswered. He worked with a team—funded by different societies. Wherever we went, he made sure excavations sites were protected. Everything that was found had to be recorded and catalogued.’
‘Which was where you came in.’
‘Exactly. With immense buildings hacked into the rocks, Petra is one of the most beautiful places I’ve been to—like nowhere else on earth.’
The passion she felt for her work shone in her eyes, bringing a smile to his lips. ‘I envy you your life, Miss Mortimer—and the special relationship you had with your father.’ She had no idea how fortunate she was, he thought. His own father inspired him with nothing but disgust and loathing. ‘It’s clear to me that you loved your work. And were you in Jordan long?’
‘My father was so keen to go there that we spent several months. That was the last picture that was taken of him. It is rather precious to me. It was taken in Thebes—where he died.’
‘It must be a consolation to you to have a photograph of someone you care for.’
‘Yes—but it is also a reminder of all I have lost,’
she said softly. ‘Perhaps it would be best to let the memories dim, but while ever I have the photographs I am reminded of how alive he was, how he lived for his work, how vivid he was.’
Jane met his gaze as he seemed to stare at her in a new way, the silver eyes behind the thick lashes crinkling at the corners. She was unaware that she was beginning to stir up his emotions, that he felt echoes of long-forgotten passions—anger, resentment and loss. She would be surprised to learn that before today he might have said that he no longer cared how his own past had affected his future, that somehow, talking to her was reawakening dormant grief.
‘Time has a habit of passing,’ he said, ‘even though sometimes we would hold it back.’
He sighed deeply and looked at her and Jane was amazed by the expression in his eyes. It had a yearning quality, nostalgic almost, as if he was crushed by some scarcely supportable distress. She smiled, taking the photograph from him, unaware that the lights in her wonderful hair changed colour rapidly, from deepest wine to earth-brown to gold, as she abruptly moved her head.
‘You are right and I am being sentimental.’
Christopher looked down at her fingers curled round the photograph. ‘Perhaps. I was brought up by a father who believed sentimentality was a weakness and anything that was a weakness was abhorrent, forbidden. So was anything that made a man vulnerable, including love. I envy you your closeness to your father. I feel that some atonement for my abrupt behaviour this afternoon is in order. When I introduced you to Miss Spelling, it was rude of me to walk away as I did.’
Jane stared at him, quite intrigued by this confounding man. She was fascinated by this extraordinary conversation and by the very strangeness of having it. To her, his potential attraction was obvious and as she gazed into those cynical grey eyes she felt drawn to him as if by some overwhelming magnetic force. She remembered how, when she had mentioned her father, she had been struck by an undercurrent of intense emotion barely controlled, which, along with subdued whisperings of the servants on occasion, gave her reason to suspect the old earl had been a difficult man.
‘Pease don’t feel you have to apologise.’
At the sincerity of her reply, humour softened his features and his firm, sensual lips quirked in a derisive smile. ‘Why? Because of who I am?’
‘It has nothing to do with who you are. It’s just that I don’t think you have anything to apologise for.’
He laughed softly. ‘You are too kind. In fact, you are unlike any woman I know.’
‘Am I? In what way am I unlike the women of your acquaintance? Is it because I work?’
He nodded. ‘The women I know have nothing to work for—not that they would be allowed to. Little wonder they are all so bored and frivolous. A man has honour for as long as he wishes. All women have is their virtue and once given it is gone. How unjust, don’t you think so, Miss Mortimer?’
She hesitated, struck by the cynicism of his words, not certain whether he was ridiculing her. She should have been shocked, but she wasn’t. She shrugged. ‘I agree with you. You are absolutely right.’
He looked at her curiously. ‘Then why do they never attempt to change all that? Has it never occurred to them?’
‘I am sure it has,’ she answered bluntly. ‘Are you saying that women may be as free as men in your world, Lord Lansbury?’
‘In an ideal world they would be, Miss Mortimer.’
‘That is not what I asked.’
‘I know. I shall have to give it some thought.’
‘For myself—well—never having reason to question it, I’ve never thought about it. I just get on with what I have to do.’
‘I applaud your honesty. It is a rare virtue in your sex. Now I will bid you goodnight. I have kept you from your bed long enough.’
* * *
Jane watched him go, wishing that he would stay. She thought she must be going mad to have such reckless thoughts about him. She was uncertain what it was she hoped for, since Lord Lansbury was not for her. But something unusual had happened between them today. As yet she had had no time to mull it over, to examine it in depth, to visualise what she would do with it when she knew what it might be. Later she would think about what they had talked about, what he had said, the way he had said it and the expressions on his face.
If he married Miss Spelling, it would be to shore up the flagging finances on Chalfont. She understood why he would do it and she admired his courage and his tenacity. But feeling as she did for him and that marriage should be between two people who loved each other unconditionally, she could not admire him for the sacrifice he was about to make to marry without love for the sake of a house.
The easy interaction between them and the fact that he did not love Miss Spelling had planted a seed of hope in her heart. But she was not so naive as to believe anything could come of it. Things could never be any different between them, feeling as he did about love and marriage, and she was surprised how deeply this pained her. It would be madness to consider herself anything but out of his class, a social inferior. But she knew there would never be any peace of mind for her as long as he remained on earth. Time and distance were of no consequence, for he was already in the heart and soul of her, and there he would remain.
* * *
Lady Lansbury was entertaining the handful of guests, who had settled in the large drawing room for talk and music and, for some, a game of whist. Blue-jacketed servants passed among them with champagne, brandy and fortified wines. Mr Spelling and Lydia were among them. They were to leave for London first thing, where they would take the boat train to Dover.
Lydia had taken up her place at the piano and was in the middle of a Chopin nocturne. Christopher walked over to the sofa where his mother was sitting and stood behind her. Mr Spelling sat across the room, his eyes filled with pride as they dwelt on his daughter. They would frequently settle on Christopher, impatient for him to declare himself.
‘You have been to see Octavia?’ Lady Lansbury enquired softly without taking her eyes off Miss Spelling.
Bending down, he said quietly in her ear, ‘Miss Mortimer said she was quite worn out and went to sleep immediately.’
‘Poor dear. It’s been a long and exciting day for her. You stayed and talked to Jane?’
‘We exchanged a few pleasantries.’
‘You were absent a long time. You must have found something of interest to talk about. Did you not think to ask her to join us?’
‘She was on the point of retiring.’
‘I see. What are you going to do about Lydia? I feel I must ask because her father is growing impatient and everybody is talking about an imminent proposal.’
Something in the soft romanticism of her words irritated and irked Christopher. He did not like being the subject of gossip and speculation. ‘I will settle the matter one way or another before they leave in the morning.’
‘Whatever you decide I will support you, you know that. But should you decide against it, then take care not to offend Mr Spelling. He won’t take kindly to seeing his daughter rejected.’
The Chalfont brow quirked in sardonic amusement. ‘At twenty-four going on twenty-five, Lydia can hardly be classed as a young lady, Mother.’
‘Then at fifty-five I must seem positively ancient to you. You know nothing would please me more than to see you settle down with someone who will make you happy.’
‘I will, but I no longer think that Lydia is the right person for me.’ He spoke dispassionately, giving away nothing of his feelings. ‘She is beautiful, intelligent and well connected, but I find it hard to swallow that for her, the idea of being the Countess of Chalfont outshines everything else. It’s what’s on the inside that determines a person, not what’s on the outside. Believe me, Mother, I’m beginning to think I’ll be doing myself a favour by not marrying her.’
Lady Lansbu
ry turned her head and looked up at her son’s stoic features, wondering if the time he had spent talking to Jane might have some bearing on what he said. ‘I am surprised to hear you say that, Christopher, and I can see you have made up your mind. You are in a position to choose.’
She gave him a beguiling smile that, ever since he was a boy, had been able to get him to do almost anything she wanted, but on the subject of marriage he remained unmoved. ‘When I choose a woman who is most suited to be my wife in every way, there will be affection and respect. When I finally settle down I expect to be made happy by it.’
‘And marriage to Lydia would not bring you happiness?’
Christopher looked at Lydia’s immaculate profile as her fingers swept with precision over the piano keys. ‘I think not.’
‘And love, Christopher? Does that come into it? It is necessary if you are to have a good marriage, you know.’
He smiled down at her upturned face, knowing she wanted him to have what had not been present in her marriage to his father. ‘I know how much that concerns you. You always were sentimental. I promise you that when I decide to settle down you will be the first to know.’
Lady Lansbury’s quiet conversation with her son was noticed by Miss Spelling, who was not so lost in her music that she was unable to monitor the situation on the sofa and that Christopher had returned to the company. It was time to join him.
She stopped playing and called out, ‘I have been playing long enough. I am sure someone else would like to have a turn.’
One of the ladies, keen to exhibit her skill at the keyboard, rose and crossed to the piano, where she began to play a lively tune.
‘That was one of my favourite pieces,’ Lady Lansbury said when Lydia stood beside Christopher. ‘I don’t think I’ve heard it played so well before. Thank you for playing it so beautifully.’
‘Thank you, Lady Lansbury. It was my pleasure.’ She glanced at Christopher. ‘It’s a splendid evening, Christopher. I would like to take a walk on the terrace before bed.’
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