Deep inside what Lily had done to him—her betrayal—still haunted him. He had deliberately put the memory away, not wanting to look too carefully, but now he found it rising to the fore like some awful spectre, so that he became caught up in its grip once more. To become deeply involved with a woman again, a woman who could seep into his mind, his body, his heart and his soul, was a situation he had always diligently avoided, but now, when he thought of Jane, he felt an uneasy surge of guilt.
* * *
Whatever it was Jane had done in refusing Christopher’s proposal, it was too late to remedy it now. But she was unashamed of her feelings. God help her, but Christopher Chalfont had infatuated her from that first moment she had laid eyes on him—she loved him, but she had always known he wasn’t for her, that she wasn’t suitable to be his wife. She had had no illusions about that. Staying at Chalfont any longer was only a recipe for heartache and disaster. She would leave and he would forget all about her—and she would strive to recover from her experience.
The awful reality was that not only was she losing Christopher, she was also leaving Chalfont. For years she had lived within canvas walls, surrounded by rolled maps, battered leather travelling trunks, things that had comprised the elements of everything she had called home for most of her life.
And then she had come to Chalfont. She hadn’t considered how it would be to say goodbye to the only place she’d ever lived that felt like home.
* * *
Two days later Jane was up and dressed at seven. After a small breakfast and after saying her goodbyes to Lady Lansbury in Lady Lansbury’s room, she went down to the hall. It had been difficult parting from Octavia, but she got over it quickly when Lady Lansbury promised to take her to London to visit Jane.
Her trunk and cases stood near the door to be loaded on to the carriage that was to take her to the train. Jane kept looking around her, hoping to see Christopher, but there was no sign of him. When it was time to leave she walked outside to the waiting carriage. As she climbed inside and the carriage set off, she looked back at the house and felt a lump rise in her throat.
* * *
At the station she waited on the platform while the coachman dealt with her luggage. She half expected to see Christopher to come and say goodbye, but he didn’t come. She boarded the train, looking out of the window in case he made a last-minute appearance, but as the guard blew his whistle and the train moved out, there was no sign of him.
Not that she had changed her mind about his proposal. So perhaps it was best that she didn’t see him. Yes, she thought, it was best that he hadn’t come.
* * *
From a window on the first floor of the house, Christopher watched Jane leave. The sky was a flawless blue fading into a pool of deep indigo on the horizon. Against its warm colours lay the silhouettes of nearby trees whose leaves dipped and turned like dancers on the morning breeze. For one agonising moment as she stepped up into the carriage, pausing for a moment before she took her seat, he thought she was going to turn and look up at him. Helplessly he reached out his hand, longing to touch her face, but all he touched was cold glass.
His gaze brushed the flush in her cheeks; the smooth, high line of her brow; the stubborn tilt of her chin. The manner in which her bodice clung to her breasts, outlining their round, firm shape until he swore he could feel their softness once more filling his palms. He just managed to stop himself from groaning out loud.
This was ridiculous. How was it he could want her so badly? He had made love to her once, and usually, for him, once was enough. Then why was this occasion so different? Why did it feel so different? He couldn’t believe he was losing her.
He had known a lifetime of struggle to keep himself and his passions in check, a lifetime of suppressing all the hate, love and fear that had raged within him as a young man—a lifetime of swallowing his pride and looking away and pretending indifference when his own father had taken Lily. It was a lesson Christopher refused to forget, a mistake he would never repeat. He had sworn never to give one woman such power over him again.
Admittedly he’d got more than he’d bargained for when he’d kissed Jane Mortimer.
Coming on to the landing, Lady Lansbury went to stand beside her son, who was watching the departing carriage. Anxiously she studied the deeply etched lines of strain at his eyes and mouth. She had secretly harboured the hope that he might somehow persuade Jane to stay.
‘We are all sorry to see Jane go, Christopher. We will miss her—especially Octavia.’
‘I’m sure she will. Octavia has become dependent on her.’
‘I know. I intend to spend more time with her. When the exhibition opens I have promised to take her to London. It is something for her to look forward to.’ Lady Lansbury looked with loving eyes at her son. ‘You look troubled, my dear,’ she said quietly.
Christopher sighed heavily, unwilling to share his uneasy thoughts. ‘I’m rather tired,’ he confessed, having been up half the night working in his study, doing anything he could to blot out the thought of Jane’s leaving.
‘It’s more than that, I suspect. Has something happened to distress you?’
He shrugged, turning to his mother when the carriage was no longer in sight. ‘You concern yourself unnecessarily.’
‘My dear Christopher. I have known and loved you since the moment you came into the world with your eyes wide open and making enough noise to bring the house down. Just two days ago you were happy. Now a shadow darkens your mood. Will you not tell me what it is?’
On impulse Christopher put his arms around her and hugged her warmly. ‘There is nothing wrong, Mother, believe me.’
Lady Lansbury held him away from her. She could not bear to witness the pain she saw written on her son’s face. ‘Then why do you look so worried?’
Christopher tried to read his mother’s face. Did she know? Was she aware of his relationship with Jane? He decided not to press the matter further, but his mother had other ideas.
‘You have come to care for Jane a great deal. I would be blind if I did not see that. Is she the reason you decided against Lydia Spelling?’ When he remained silent and turned from her she smiled. ‘I, for one, am glad that you didn’t marry her. It is my own bitter experience that impelled me to abhor your selection of Miss Spelling. I want you to be happy with your wife, happy enough that you do not need the companionship of women such as Lydia Spelling—for all her money. You deserve better than that. I cannot help but believe that it is possible to be happy in marriage, despite my own poor choice.’
Something in the soft romanticism of her words stirred Christopher’s ire, for they brought memories to the surface, memories both he and his mother had tried to banish. ‘How you can remain such a romantic when the man you married caused us both such pain astonishes me.’
‘Perhaps because my parents loved each other so passionately I know love within marriage is possible. What you need is someone like Jane.’
Christopher shot her a sharp look. ‘Jane? What has she said?’
‘About what?’
‘Did she say anything to you before she left—confide in you?’
‘We got on well, I know, but what confidences would she be imparting to me?’ She cocked her head on one side and her lips curved in a knowing smile. ‘Is there something you wish to say to me, Christopher?’
He was pleased by Jane’s discretion, but his mother clearly thought there was something going on between them. All of his life he had always tried to be open and truthful where his mother was concerned and this time was no exception. So he told her about the proposal, watching the surprise appear in her eyes.
‘You proposed to Jane?’ A smile lit her face, lighting up her eyes. ‘But—that’s wonderful.’
‘Not quite,’ he replied drily. ‘She turned me down.’
‘Did she? I
can’t imagine why. Most women would give their right arm for the chance to be a countess.’
‘Jane is not most women.’
Suddenly Lady Lansbury frowned as a thought occurred to her. ‘Did you ask her, Christopher, or tell her? Knowing you, you were probably very autocratic and she told you to go to the devil.’
Christopher found it irritating that his mother might be right. ‘She did.’
‘And I cannot blame her. Not once have you given any indication that there was any kind of relationship between the two of you. I don’t suppose it entered your head that she might expect to be courted before you ordered her to marry you. What are you going to do about it? Are you going after her?’
‘Why? She made it perfectly clear that she has no wish to marry—me or anyone else for that matter. She likes her independence too much—and I quote—to sacrifice it on the altar of matrimony.’
‘I see. Well, I do not believe that for one minute—and nor should you.’
‘She has given me her answer. I will not go running after her.’
Lady Lansbury gave him a look of scepticism. ‘You do want her, don’t you?’
Of course he wanted her, his mind raged. He wanted her as desperately as a man dying of thirst wanted water. But Jane Mortimer’s rejection had left him feeling bewildered, ill used and ill tempered. What did she expect of him? What had she expected him to do? Did she think him such a callous brute that he would abandon her, that she thought him capable of nothing more? His worry and confusion of the previous day had been replaced by a deeper, darker feeling of uncertainty. It was still a new emotion to him and one of which he was not particularly fond.
‘I would not have asked her to be my wife if I didn’t.’
‘Then you must go to London and persuade her that marrying you is the only acceptable course. You cannot simply put her out of your heart.’
* * *
Lady Lansbury was disappointed that Jane had left Chalfont, but not defeated. She knew that her son could forget Jane if he made up his mind to it, but as his mother she would not allow that to happen.
She might just have the perfect solution, but it would mean enlisting the assistance of Jane’s aunt, Caroline Standish.
* * *
Working on the exhibition was Jane’s salvation. For a whole month she immersed herself in work in the spacious rooms Finn had acquired off the Strand to exhibit his private collection. She did not want to think about Christopher. She did not live in expectation of seeing him, but neither was she able to relax. She must try to forget that her dream was shattered and start again. In a way she was lucky, for this project which demanded her deeply involved attention would help her.
She was surrounded by crates and boxes containing all manner of artefacts to be displayed in glass cabinets and on plinths. The exhibition was to run for six weeks. Finn was negotiating for some of the exhibits—those not being returned to their countries of origin—to be taken over by the British Museum. Photographs and drawings of frescoes and mosaics, of archaeological sites in ancient Greece, Rome and Egypt, of temples in the Far East and India were to be displayed on the walls. Everything on display was listed in catalogues compiled by Finn to be sold at the door.
Jane had known Finn almost all of her life. He was in his midfifties with a shock of hair bleached white by spending years under the sun, fearless pale blue eyes, a firm jaw and a bright colour. Finn and her father had been good friends since their university days and had spent much of their time together ever since.
‘It’s good to be working with a lovely, talented young woman again,’ Finn had said when she had arrived at the exhibition rooms more than ready to begin work. ‘Your father would be pleased to know you’re carrying on his work.’
‘But I’m not, not really. What I’m doing is helping you with the exhibition. Although I’m glad you’re going to exhibit some of his work, especially his photographs and writings. He would like that.’
Sorting through some photographs on the table, he paused and looked at her. ‘What have you been doing with yourself since you arrived back in civilisation? I can’t imagine you being idle.’
‘I’ve been completing some of the work Father left unfinished. I’ve also been employed with work of a completely different kind.’ She smiled when he gave her a quizzical look. ‘Not the kind of work I am used to—in Oxfordshire.’
‘I sent my letter to your aunt’s house in London.’
‘She posted it on to me. As a matter of fact I’ve been helping to look after a twelve-year-old girl.’
‘Really? That’s not like you. Who was she?’
‘The sister of the Earl of Lansbury. She’s a delightful child. Sadly she has—difficulties.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that. And did you enjoy doing that—taking care of her?’
‘Very much.’
‘Then—why did you leave?’
‘I—I had my reasons,’ she said, averting her gaze in an attempt to hide the wretchedness of her parting from Christopher.
Finn’s sharp eyes assessed the situation correctly. He perceived a struggle going on within her. ‘Who is he?’
‘Who?’
‘The man you have fallen for. There is someone, I can tell, so don’t try denying it.’
She blushed beneath his probing stare. ‘You always could read my mind.’
‘Precisely.’
She lifted her gaze solemnly to his. ‘There—was someone, but it is over.’
Finn saw a painful sadness dulling her beautiful eyes. Anger at this unknown man for causing her distress weighted him down. ‘And you are sure about that, are you, Jane?’
She nodded. ‘I am not of his class. It could never have worked.’
‘But you are a wealthy woman now. I know your father left you more than well provided for.’
‘One thing I have learned, Finn, is that you cannot buy yourself that kind of thing. You have to be born into it. Yes, I have suddenly found myself in possession of a decent living, but I want nothing more than to live a quiet, modest, simple life and never need to depend on anyone.’ She smiled. ‘And to help you with your antiquities when you want me to.’
He chuckled. ‘I will always need someone to do that. If I were younger, I would marry you myself just to keep you with me.’
‘And if you were, I would accept. But to be perfectly honest with you, Finn,’ she murmured, picking up a photograph depicting a desert scene, ‘I couldn’t resist the opportunity of being involved again. See this photograph. I remember my father taking it. What a splendid sight that was. Who else could understand what it is like to watch the glorious colours of a desert sunset as the sun drops gracefully, slowly, below the horizon, the heart-stopping glory of fiery brown, crimson and orange, spreading upwards as the orb of the sun sinks?’
She sighed wistfully. Finn understood. Dear, kind, lovable Finn.
‘Besides,’ she went on, ‘I rather liked the idea of working with you—and I couldn’t bear the thought of you being all alone and friendless in this great metropolis.’
He chuckled. ‘I’m flattered, although you hit the right note. The people I know are mere acquaintances—not soulmates. I miss having a confidant—in truth, I miss your father,’ he told her quietly. ‘I don’t feel I’ve had a proper conversation since I left Egypt.’
She smiled, empathising with him. ‘I know what you mean. But you should get yourself a wife, Finn,’ she teased in an attempt to lighten the moment.
Finn returned her smile. ‘I’m too long in the tooth to change the habits of a lifetime.’
‘No, you’re not. I’m sure there are plenty of ladies out there willing to take you on.’
He stopped what he was doing and stared at her in theatrical outrage. ‘Jane, how can you say such a thing? Do I look like a man who is in need of f
eminine company? A rake? A Lothario?’
Jane shook her head, laughing. From another man, Finn’s declarations would be not just eccentric but alarming—however, there was something about the smooth fluency of his speech and the way that he was carefully examining a rather splendid statuette that he had just unpacked that made one realise that his word and gesture was just an affectation.
‘What will you do when the exhibition closes?’ she asked. ‘Will you stay in London?’
He shook his head. ‘A team of archaeologists are going out to Greece. I intend to join them later.’ He suddenly looked at her, putting down the statuette. ‘Why don’t you come along? We can always do with someone to do the paperwork—cataloguing and such like. You’re used to doing that kind of thing. You don’t have to let it go now your father is no longer...’ He faltered. After a moment he said, ‘There are some on the team you will know and I will be there to take care of you—as if you were my own daughter. You know that, Jane.’
She smiled, deeply touched. ‘I know that, Finn, and thank you. The appeal is still there. I will think about it.’
* * *
It had been four weeks since Christopher had last seen her. Four weeks since she had abandoned Chalfont and stormed out of his life. He had gone through the following days in a fog of desolation, going through each meaningless, dragging day by pretending to his mother that everything was just fine—that Jane Mortimer had ceased to exist. It was difficult when Chalfont echoed with images of her everywhere he turned. There was no escape from the memory of her, the scent of her, the taste of her. She was in his blood, under his skin, haunting him like a pitiless ghost.
He knew that he had hurt her. She had been an innocent, a virgin, and he had robbed her of that. He supposed it had been arrogant of him to assume she would accept his proposal of marriage, but that was what he had thought. Initially, his opinion of her as a woman had not been flattering, but he had not known her in any personal sense. But suddenly, in his sight she had become an alluring young woman, as desirable as any he had ever known.
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