He tried to put her from his mind, but failed miserably in his effort. If he wasn’t careful, he would make a fool of himself, he knew it, doing his best to get some order into his mind to discover why. Why she would keep creeping into his thoughts when he least expected it. Why he found himself looking out for her whenever he was in the house or the park or the garden. The sweet fragrance of her soft perfume lingered, drifting through his senses. He cursed with silent frustration, seized by a strong desire to go after her and cauterise his need by holding her close and savouring those full, soft lips of hers.
Instead he strode into his study and attempted immersing himself in his work. Sitting at his desk, he set himself the task of going over the estate accounts, multiplying and subtracting and adding long columns of figures. With a keen, mathematical mind, under normal circumstances this was a simple procedure, but slowly, a face with wide velvety violet eyes thickly fringed with curling black lashes, a wide expressive mouth and full lips and cheeks as flushed as a ripe peach crept unbidden into his mind—teasing him, taunting him.
At this thought Christopher leaned back in his chair and set down his pen. After a moment of further confusing, uneasy thoughts concerning the young woman who took such good care of his sister, he thrust himself out of his chair, strode across the study and within minutes was galloping away from the house to ride off his frustrations.
* * *
While Octavia was with Lady Lansbury, Jane opened the bulky envelope that had been delivered from Aunt Caroline. She had enclosed some correspondence from Phineas Waverley—or Finn, as Jane and everyone else affectionately called him. Her aunt’s letter was lengthy, giving her a detailed account of her day-to-day activities. Finn’s letter informed her that he was shortly to begin work on the exhibition he had told her about for the Antiquities Society in London, and would she like to help him prepare for it?
Jane was excited by the idea of being involved in the work once more and she would write back telling him she would give serious thought to accepting his offer. After all, in the beginning she had told Lady Lansbury that her care of Octavia would be only temporary. But could she bear to leave Chalfont?
* * *
The warm afternoon drew Lady Lansbury outside. It was quiet and still but for the hum of busy bees among the flowers. Seated on the terrace in the shade, she had been reading for several minutes, but now she lowered her book so that it rested, forgotten, in her lap. Her eyes fixed themselves on Jane. She sat on a bench on the lawn, watching Octavia walk back from the lake with Christopher.
There was an intense expression on Jane’s face. Jane, Lady Lansbury could see, was looking at the man rather than the girl. There were times when, believing herself unobserved, Jane would gaze at him with all the quiet longing of a woman who loves deeply but with small hope of ever possessing the object of her desire.
Already Christopher has enchanted her, Lady Lansbury thought with a sigh, feeling a swift stab of helpless sympathy for the naked sorrow and longing she saw on Jane’s face. She had a tremendous amount of admiration for the young woman. Everything about her was in complete contrast to Lydia Spelling, who had set out to ensnare Christopher as soon as he entered her sphere. Barely a smile or a word had passed Lydia’s lips without contrivance. Each turn of her head, every flash of her eyes was carefully calculated to delight, to amuse, to captivate the English earl. She was a true American daughter of a self-made millionaire, and with that special tenacity peculiar to her breed, she had set her heart upon the prize and become single-minded in winning it.
On the other hand, Jane rose to every challenge and opportunity life had to offer in spite of the grief that had lowered her spirits when her father had died. Lady Lansbury noted that today she seemed to have taken more time over her appearance than usual. She was wearing a feminine dress of delicate pale blue muslin. Her bonnet was held in place by a wide band of ribbon loosely knotted under her chin, its ends left hanging so that they moved in the breeze.
Although her haughty manner and often bold stare marked her as strong of character there was also a softness about her, an elusive gentleness that declared her to be fragile and vulnerable. Jane was a woman of shifting moods and subtle contradictions, and while she could not be described as a classical beauty, it was this spectrum, this baffling, indefinable quality that drew attention to her and held the beholder captive. She had somehow managed to infiltrate the very fabric of the household with her enormous reserves of friendliness and charm.
Her gaze went to her son. These past weeks Christopher had battled over whether or not to propose marriage to Lydia Spelling. Lady Lansbury was relieved he had decided against it. She loved Chalfont dearly and she could not see Lydia Spelling within its walls as its chatelaine.
Whereas—Jane? She became thoughtful. She was a young woman who seemed to know her own mind, and she would stand up for what mattered to her. Her background might be frowned upon by those in the upper echelons of society—for centuries the bloodlines of this family had been unsullied—but what did that matter if she could make her son, who had endured and borne so much misery and pain in the past, happy.
Her thoughts began to run off at a tangent.
Maybe...
Chapter Five
After lunch the following day the carriage took Lord Lansbury and Jane to the station, just half an hour away. It wasn’t until Jane had climbed into the carriage and enquired after the maid and valet who she thought were to travel with them that Lord Lansbury casually told her they had left on an earlier train with the baggage to open up the London house.
The impropriety of travelling alone with Lord Lansbury gave Jane reason for concern, but with the carriage halfway to the station, it was too late to do anything about it.
When they arrived at the station, the yard, littered with boxes and trunks, was noisy with the influx of passengers who were waiting for the train. Christopher had a small carriage bag made from the softest leather. Impatient for the train to arrive and not liking to be kept waiting, frowning, he took out his pocket watch, a gold hunter which had been a gift from his mother, and flicked open the case to look at the time. The watch caught and reflected the sun, which also lit the diamond in the ring which he wore on his little finger.
He was dressed immaculately in dove-grey trousers and a fine worsted dark-green-coloured coat, his pristine white shirt contrasting sharply with his dark hair and dark countenance.
As the train to take them to London pulled into the station, in a cloud of smoke and soot, Jane watched as it came to a halt in a hiss of steam. They stood back as passengers began to get off and drift away.
Moving towards the first-class compartments, Christopher took Jane’s hand to assist her. The gesture was unexpected and Jane quivered in response. His smoky stare homed in on her as though he, too, had felt the shock of electricity that bolted through her when they touched, and Jane’s heart skipped a beat. Her cheeks coloured as she turned her head away and entered the empty compartment.
Keeping her eyes lowered and making herself comfortable, Jane took a book from her reticule that she had brought to read on the journey. Lord Lansbury sat across from her and, keenly aware of his presence, she knew it would be difficult concentrating on the book’s content. She knew he was watching her. She could still feel the pressure of his hand on hers. This was insane, but her body was throbbing.
The silence between them stretched as the station master blew his whistle to send the train on its way to London.
‘Miss Mortimer?’
‘Yes?’ she asked at once, swallowing hard.
‘Are you comfortable?’ he enquired softly.
‘Yes, thank you,’ she replied, favouring him with a brief smile before lowering her head over her book.
‘What are you reading?’
‘A biography of Marie Antoinette.’
‘Indeed?’
He glanced at the slim blue volume. ‘Do you find it interesting?’
‘Yes. Not only is there real historical value to it, but it’s also about the kind of woman she was, which is what I like.’
‘And what kind of woman was she—apart from being the queen of France and having her head removed?’
‘By all accounts, not only was she beautiful, there was something undefinable about her—a magical, captivating quality. She did have a certain allure.’ Meeting his eyes, she noted the little smile twitching the corners of his lips. ‘Why do you smile?’ she asked, slightly indignant. ‘Do not mock me, Lord Lansbury.’
‘I’m not. Quite the opposite, in fact. I imagined that all young ladies read romantic poetry and insipid novelettes—which I am certain have a deleterious effect on their impressionable minds—whereas I find a woman who prefers reading about historical heroines. I have no doubt you’ve read anything I care to name and are conversant in French, Greek and Latin.’
‘Yes,’ she replied, as though it were the most natural thing in the world for a young woman to be so accomplished. ‘My father taught me.’
‘I am impressed.’
‘You seem surprised.’
‘I confess that I am. There are few ladies of my acquaintance who are familiar with the classics—and I am hard-pressed to think of any one of them who is conversant in any language other than their own native English and perhaps a smattering of French.’
Now it was Jane’s turn to be surprised. ‘Then I can only assume that your experience with the female sex is somewhat limited, Lord Lansbury.’
A gleam of supressed laughter lit Christopher’s eyes and Jane could only guess, correctly, that her remark about his inexperience with women had not been taken in the way she had intended.
‘No doubt you consider my reading material quite boring, Lord Lansbury. Usually I read for enlightenment, for knowledge, but I often read something light. In fact, I often read those insipid novelettes you mentioned and enjoy them enormously.’
The journey went quickly as Christopher asked her about the countries she had visited, fascinated by the ease of their conversation. Her tastes were many and varied and she was knowledgeable about most things, answering his questions and listening to his comments with interest, speaking to him as an equal and enjoying the debate when his opinion differed from her own, laughing when the discussion was in danger of becoming heated.
She talked with relish and held him rapt with sparkling tales of her travels so that he could almost smell the scented breezes of India and the Mediterranean. He listened in fascination to stories of her adventures and experiences in exotic Asian countries and Europe, marvelling when she told him of the splendour and treasures of Florence and Rome, and trying to imagine the beauty of the Swiss mountains, of the individuality of the many people she had met.
Absently she tucked a stray lock of hair beneath her bonnet that had dared escape its strict confines. Christopher was distracted. The unconscious gesture caused him to study her closely. He remembered how her hair had looked when he had seen it unbound—the colour of rich mahogany with highlights of red and gold, making him think of harvest corn, chestnuts and autumn fires. He had the absurd desire to reach out and remove her bonnet and set her hair free and let it spill about her shoulders, convinced it would glow with the glorious vibrancy of autumn leaves.
She fell silent and gazed at the passing scenery. In the subdued light of the compartment her eyes were captivating. Their violet depths, aglow with the warmth of glorious purple velvet-soft pansies, looked so dark to be almost black. His gaze dipped to her mouth, an enigmatic mouth, ripe and full of promise.
Christopher decided then that Miss Mortimer did not do herself justice. He strongly suspected that the ill-fitting russet-coloured travelling dress she wore hid a female form that was faultless, slim and strong, with long legs and curves in all the right places. Her face was alluring, interesting, and overall there was an innocence and vulnerability about her that would put a practised seducer beyond the realm of her experience.
* * *
Jane became uncomfortable beneath Lord Lansbury’s watchful gaze. He sat across from her with his long legs stretched out, studying her imperturbably. His body, a perfect harmony of form and strength, was like a work of Grecian art and most unsettling to Jane’s virgin heart. Unable to endure his scrutiny a moment longer, she looked across at him, her eyes locking on his.
‘Why do you look at me so closely, Lord Lansbury?’
Quite unexpectedly he smiled a white buccaneer smile, and his eyes danced with devilish humour. ‘You don’t have to look so uneasy to find yourself the object of my attention. As a matter of fact I was admiring you.’
Unaccustomed as she was to any kind of compliment from the opposite sex, the unfamiliar warmth in his tone brought heat creeping into her cheeks.
To divert the conversation away from herself, she said, ‘Do you often go to London?’ She wondered how he could bear to leave such a lovely place as Chalfont for the hurly-burly of the city.
‘Frequently. I have business meetings to attend, as well as taking my seat in the House of Lords occasionally.’ A faint smile touched his lips when he observed Miss Mortimer’s expression of bewilderment. ‘I realise that spending all your life travelling foreign parts, you will know very little about English politics.’
‘You are a politician?’
‘No—at least not in the professional sense. It is simply that I, and all peers of the realm, have been trained to regard it as our right and duty to participate in governing the country. We enter Parliament as we do university and gentlemen’s clubs.’
Jane was impressed. ‘It all sounds very grand to me.’
‘I imagine it does, and I take my duties very seriously, but I prefer Chalfont to London. Octavia is a constant worry so I try not to be absent for any length of time. Although I am happy to say that my mother has not looked so at ease for a long time. She has come to rely on you, as bright and quick-witted as you are, Miss Mortimer, and Octavia is happier away from her. I am grateful to you.’
‘It’s a pleasure, Lord Lansbury.’
‘Although Octavia is probably already missing you. I can see that you will have some explaining to do when you get back.’
‘With Lady Lansbury and Maisie fussing over her, I do not think that Lady Octavia will have noticed my absence.’
‘My mother informed me you look on your position as only temporary. Do you intend to leave us soon?’
‘Eventually I think I must. A colleague of my father’s is putting together an exhibition of antiquities. He’s asked me to help him.’
‘And will you?’
‘I don’t know yet. I shall have to give it some thought.’
‘But you are tempted?’
‘Yes. Yes, I am. It’s what I know, you see. What I’m good at.’
Christopher was unprepared for the disappointment that washed over him. ‘You’re relentless.’
‘I’m not sure you meant that as a compliment.’ Resting her head back on the upholstery, she closed her eyes.
‘You can sleep if you wish. I promise not to disturb you. I’ll wake you when we reach London.’
‘I don’t feel in the least like sleeping. Besides, we’ll soon be at Paddington. Anyway, I could not sleep with you across from me,’ she told him quietly.
‘Why not?’
‘It’s not often I’m alone with a gentleman.’
‘We were alone together in your rooms the other night.’
‘That was—different.’
‘But why?’ he persisted.
Jane also asked herself the question and to her consternation found the answer. It was because he encroached so closely upon her, because he seemed too near, because she was afraid of him coming closer still. Her body reached out to his,
wanting to feel his lips on hers, but if that were to happen it would be her undoing. However difficult it would be, she must learn to resist these feelings.
Quietly, in answer to his question, she said, ‘Because you had come to see Lady Octavia.’
They were fast approaching Paddington Station.
* * *
They fell silent. As the train was reaching its journey’s end, Jane lifted her face and smiled at Christopher. For him it was as though a shutter had been flung open and the sunlight rushed in. He sat quite still, looking across at her and no longer seeing her as the woman who looked after Octavia. He had never truly seen her beauty before, nor had he ever seen a smile like that, compounded of a luminous tenderness in her violet eyes, and yet in the lift of her lips, her even, perfect teeth and the dimple near her voluptuous mouth there was a hint of seduction.
The scent of her gentle perfume filled the compartment with a subtle fragrance that was as potent as the sound of music and there was a strange magic in the warm air. Quite suddenly, and with a queer stunned amazement, Christopher was conscious of a fantastic, overwhelming impulse, an impulse to reach out and take Miss Mortimer’s face between his hands and draw it to his own. For a long moment it was almost as though he could feel her thick hair under his fingers, the shape of her head and the touch of her warm mouth.
Then a shrill sound of the train’s whistle shattered the spell, bringing him back to reality as though from a drugged sleep. A tide of incredulous horror engulfed his mind. His nostrils flared on a sharp breath and his thoughts darted in confusion. Why had he sent his valet and the maid on ahead to prepare the house for his arrival? In doing so he had known that he would have to travel with Miss Mortimer alone, but he had not thought he would find himself fighting his attraction for her. And now he was afraid where it might lead. Why must she sit there in her ill-fitting russet dress through which he could just make out the outline of her breasts and the curve of her long supple waist?
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