The duchess appeared quite put out, her chin inching upward and her back stiffening like a cat’s. She was clearly offended that any man would choose to spend time with Jane rather than her. It was a stark reminder that while the Duchess of Elsingham could occasionally be pleasant company, they were not truly allies. Jane had no allies in that house and it was to her benefit to remember that always.
“Certainly, Charles,” she replied. While her words were congenial, her tone was anything but. It was quite evident that the slight had been noted and would not be easily forgiven. The duchess glanced at Jane, eyeing her figure and then her face before turning away dismissively. “I will leave you to your conversation. It is a certainty, of course, that nothing inappropriate would ever occur.”
Charles leaned in and kissed the duchess’ cheek. It was a gesture that was far too familiar. “I promise to make it up to you.”
The duchess smiled again and whacked his arm flirtatiously with her fan. She giggled and then cooed, “Yes, you will, you silly man!”
A feeling of dread had washed through Jane the moment Charles Balfour arrived. Watching the interplay between him and the duchess, earlier suspicions about the nature of their relationship reared their ugly head again. But more terrifying still was whatever it was that he wished to speak to her about. Anything he desired to say to her that required privacy was obviously nothing she would wish to hear. On that score, she was certain.
Helpless, Jane watched the Duchess of Elsingham sail from the room in a cascade of graceful black skirts. Her grace had been correct on one count. With her perfect, blonde beauty she wore the color well, whereas Jane always thought she herself looked like a sad but very plump crow. Even given the strange and quite charged exchange that had just occurred, Jane had to admire the woman’s stunning beauty with no small degree of envy.
When the door closed behind her, Charles looked back at Jane with that same smile. It made him resemble the confidence men who hawked elixirs which they claimed could fix every ailment from gout to a man’s loss of vigor, whatever that was. In reality, those elixirs only succeeded in making the unwary buyer poorer and too foxed to care. “My dearest, Miss Barrett—Jane—you must know why I’ve asked to speak with you privately.”
Jane rose from her chair, feeling very much at a disadvantage. He towered over her regardless, but at least on her feet she felt marginally better about the situation. “No, Mr. Balfour,” she stressed the formal address, hoping against hope that he’d take her meaning. “I cannot fathom that there would ever be any need for us to speak privately, for any reason.”
“Jane,” he continued, and his expression was both overly earnest and incredibly determined. It was a dangerous combination. “You must understand that over the years of our acquaintance, I have developed a deep and abiding admiration for you.”
“Our acquaintance has been just that, Mr. Balfour. We see one another socially perhaps a handful of times each year. It is hardly of any significance,” Jane insisted.
“Dare I confess it?” He continued as if she hadn’t spoken and, in truth, he was so doggedly focused on his own ends it was possible he had not heard.
“No. Do not dare. Do not confess anything, Mr. Balfour,” she said with greater force, her voice rising with panic.
“Jane,” he continued, blissfully ignorant or deliberately obtuse regarding the terror he had invoked. “While you are certainly not a fashionable choice and your appearance is not that which would inspire great sonnets to your beauty, during our acquaintance, I have come to see that your beauty shines from within!”
Jane’s lips parted in stunned offense. Panic gave way to umbrage. She gaped at him like a fish for several seconds as the magnitude of the insult sank in. Had he truly just said he wished to marry her because he’d known her long enough to overlook how unattractive he found her? He had! The pompous, puffed up idiot had, in fact, addressed how singularly unappealing he found her in his marriage proposal! His ineptitude would have been laughable had it not been so insulting. Only moments earlier, he’d been lauding her beauty. How quickly he had forgotten!
“I understand that you are still entangled with this kerfuffle of my cousin’s disappearance and that you are not free to wed… but as the heir presumptive, there is every possibility that your father might be amenable to extending or modifying the existing contracts so they would be inclusive of my offer for your hand,” he continued, his tone conciliatory.
Jane shook her head. “There is no offer, Mr. Balfour. There can be no offer! I am betrothed to your cousin—”
“Who is dead!” He stated it with a firmness that was somewhat surprising given that he had also been at the Battle of Corunna and had been unable to offer any information as to Marcus’ whereabouts or condition. More concerning was the complete and utter lack of feeling the sentiment appeared to invoke in him. They’d never been close, as she understood it, but they were family, after all.
“Who is missing,” she fired back quickly. “Missing and presumed possibly—maybe—could be dead, but not definitively dead. Certainly not so dead that I would feel compelled to throw off the marriage contracts that have been signed, the past reading of the banns and the scandal that would ensue were I to trade one member of your family for another! No, sir. Such an offer is beyond scandalous and it would be best for both of us to simply go on as if it never happened,” she stated firmly. It wasn’t really beyond scandalous. People did it all the time in slightly altered circumstances. But she was seizing upon any excuse she could to avoid a fate she deemed far worse than either spinsterhood or death.
The truth was, Jane realized, that being betrothed to a man who was not present and was most likely not alive, had given her a certain amount of freedom. It wasn’t as much as if she’d been married and then subsequently widowed. Regardless, it wasn’t something she wished to give up just yet. That small taste of freedom had given her a yearning for more and she’d made plans accordingly. They most certainly did not include being wed to a man of Charles Balfour’s ilk.
Certainly being in mourning for as long as she had been did require some sacrifice. She didn’t miss the parties and the balls. Wearing black and gray all the time was a bit of a set down but, in truth, it was a small price to pay. She was largely left alone with her books and her writing. Giving that up to marry a popinjay who was so utterly puffed up with his own importance—well, it would not and could not happen.
“Surely you are not seriously rejecting my offer, Miss Barrett? You only need time—”
“I am quite serious, Mr. Balfour,” she replied evenly. “Time is not and will not be a factor in my decision.”
“Even if Marcus is declared dead at some point, your marriage settlement and your father’s extensive fortune will not be enough to have suitor’s knocking down your door!” he snapped. “You haven’t the sense to recognize a decent offer when presented with one!”
“I’ve not yet been presented with a decent offer,” she replied quietly.
He drew back as if struck and, in some ways, Jane supposed she had struck the man. It didn’t matter that he’d all but called her ugly and offered up his willingness to look past it because she was a good person. That didn’t even brook commenting upon. But she’d refused him for sound and viable reasons that anyone else in society would champion, and he was insulted by it.
Rallying, he smoothed the front of his waistcoat and schooled his features into a neutral expression. It still reminded her of drawings she’d seen of crocodiles. The teeth might be concealed, but they still posed a very real threat. “I see, Miss Barrett. Perhaps, I have been overzealous in my pursuit of you and we’ve gotten off on the wrong foot. I understand that women prefer to be wooed slowly. I shall endeavor to move at far less frantic pace over the course of the remaining season as I attempt to sway your affections and secure your hand.”
Jane blinked in surprise. Surely not, she thought to herself. Surely, a man of reasonable intelligence was not so foolish as to think a
grown woman did not know her own mind when refusing his courtship. “Let me affirm for you, Mr. Balfour, I am not open to courtship or being wooed. Not by you and not by any man. I am betrothed to your cousin. If he should ever happen to be returned to us, I will honor that agreement between our families but I will seek no other offers and I will accept no other offers… specifically, I will never accept yours. Is that quite clear?”
His expression altered, shifted into something dark and even threatening. For a moment, it looked as if he might actually strike her. In the end, he stepped back, smoothed his hands over his hair and stated bitterly, “He’s not coming back! He’s dead and rotting in a Spanish grave… or are you too addlebrained to realize that?”
Jane had stepped back as well. Instinctively, her hand had searched for a weapon, landing upon the neck of a priceless antique case. She drew in a deep and steadying breath, but kept her hand there, ready to strike back if it should prove necessary. She’d actually been afraid of him. It wasn’t simply her nerves or her overactive imagination. For that brief moment in time, Charles Balfour had dropped his mask and shown her a glimpse of all the nastiness that lurked beneath his well-polished surface.
Jane tried to retain a mask of poise and civility, and forced herself to let go of her makeshift weapon, her hands now resting at her sides. She clutched her skirts to hide their trembling. It was a better option than braining him. While the duchess was kind to her, Jane would never presume to say the woman was fond of her. Breaking an expensive vase against his impossibly hard head would likely strain the relationship. “I have refused you as kindly and firmly as I can, Mr. Balfour, and have done so in a manner that leaves you without question that my refusal would stand independently of your cousin’s return or continued absence. I believe I will beg off dinner and dine in my chambers. I bid you good evening, sir.”
“Don’t bother. I’ll not be insulted further by sitting at the dinner table and taking the scraps tossed my way while everyone bemoans the absence of a dead man who never deserved any of it to begin with!” he snapped at her as he turned on his heel and exited the room.
Left alone, Jane exhaled so forcefully that it left her quite dizzy. So much so that she had to grasp the back of the chair nearest her as she struggled to make sense of all that had occurred. She’d been aware of Mr. Balfour’s changed feelings for her. No, she corrected. It was not that his feelings had changed, only that his intentions had. It was quite obvious that he believed taking on the abandoned fiancée of his late cousin would be a strategic maneuver on his part to further cement his claim to the titles and whatever inheritance was also intended for him.
She simply had not expected him to act so soon or to be quite so fervent and intractable in his offer. Was he in dun territory and trying to get his hands on her marriage portion to save himself? It was a likely explanation as she knew he liked the cards far better than they liked him. Whether she wished to wed him or not, it was much more palatable to believe that his offer was not entirely related to what he thought marriage to her might gain him financially. But her own vanity did allow her to deny the voice of reason or logic. His motives, beyond a doubt, were purely mercenary. That didn’t mean she hadn’t bruised his pride with her refusal. Whether he truly wanted her or not, he’d fully expected that she would want him. Disabusing him of that notion could have consequences.
When she’d regained her equilibrium to some degree, Jane stepped out of the drawing room and into the foyer. Her foot was on the bottom step of the grand staircase as she prepared to retreat to her room. The knock that sounded at the door filled her with dread. Had Charles returned to further press his suit or to hurl more insults at her head? Glancing over her shoulder, Jane watched with trepidation as Riggs opened the door and a man stepped inside.
Swathed in a dark and heavy cloak with triple capes, it was difficult to tell much about him at first. The coat was of good quality and very new from the looks of it as he stepped deeper into the more brightly illuminated hall and out of the shadows of the doorway. There was something familiar about him, about the way he moved. When he removed his tall beaver hat and passed it to the butler, even Riggs appeared taken aback.
A ringing began in Jane’s ears as she watched him. It couldn’t possibly be, she thought. The light struck his dark hair and she could see the shimmering blue undertones in the deep black strands. She’d known only one man in her life to have hair that black, like ink spilled on parchment.
“Althorn?” she uttered the word on the merest whisper of breath. It was enough. He turned to face her, but he did not smile. Instead, he looked at her levelly, his expression guarded in a face much leaner and harder than she recalled.
“Miss Barrett,” he offered. “It seems you’ve quite grown up since last we met.”
She would have to be married. It was that thought, more than the man standing before her that prompted the very first swoon of Jane’s heretofore completely practical life. The breath whooshed from her body and the room seemed to spin about before her eyes. The floor was rushing up to meet her as the darkness closed in about her.
*
Marcus Balfour, Marquess of Althorn, heir to the Duke of Elsingham and a long list of other lesser titles, had fought his way back from the brink of death. He’d survived battles, injury, disease that had wiped out entire regiments, capture and torture at the hands of the enemy, and even five long years of hard, back-breaking labor in an island prison off the coast of Spain. But walking the city streets of London, navigating the polite society that had once been his home, those things struck fear in his heart like nothing else.
It was that fear which had prompted him to hide out, to seek refuge in the less than stellar accommodations of the Thorn and Thistle Inn. While he hadn’t intended to remain there forever, he’d hoped for a slightly longer reprieve to gain his bearings and decide how best to proceed with resuming his rightful place.
Back on English soil, he’d sought out one of the only allies on whom he could fully depend. Lord Highcliff had been a friend since they were boys at school. He was also one of the few men who knew precisely what sort of duties Marcus had undertaken while in service to the Crown. Highcliff still worked in secret, moving through the highest echelons of society and ferreting out those whose loyalties might be divided.
Not content to simply be a foot soldier, Marcus had worked in intelligence, providing false information to the French and ferrying back any tidbit he’d learned while in their midst. It had been dangerous work and Marcus had thrived on that. Until Corunna. Everything had gone wrong, from the moment he encountered his cousin in the small city to the second when he’d looked up and seen Charles’ face as he was being dragged away by French soldiers.
For a brief moment, he’d felt relief thinking that rescue would not be far off. But time had made both a liar and a fool of him. Charles had watched him being carted away. If what Highcliff had said was true, Charles had kept that information to himself in the years since, effectively leaving Marcus for dead.
So his return was a cautious one. He’d taken several days’ time to gauge the temperature of the waters that awaited him and to discover just what had been done in his absence. It had been something of a relief to discover that his family had at least waited and not already petitioned the House of Lords to have him declared dead. That would have added yet another layer of complication to the Gordian knot that required unraveling.
During his brief stay at the Thorn and Thistle Inn, far from anyone who had expectations of him, he’d been slowly working his way around to returning to the family fold. A late night stroll to his father’s home had ultimately made the decision for him. Marcus had watched Charles enter and then watched him leave. Cold fury had washed through him as he thought of that bastard taking his comfort in the house that was to be his after Charles had watched him being carted off to prison and an unknown fate.
But now, as he stood on the threshold of the life he’d left behind, ready to take up his rightful p
lace as the heir apparent to the Duke of Elsingham, Marcus found that he was nervous. Far more so than he’d anticipated, in fact. It might well have been the bad terms on which they’d parted. It could have been that despite their parting, he didn’t anticipate that anything about his situation would have changed in spite of the fact that he had—very much so. The things he’d endured and the things he’d seen had eradicated the privileged and spoiled boy he’d once been so completely that it hardly seemed possible he would ever be able to fully assimilate to that life again.
Nothing could have made that more apparent than coming face to face with the girl he’d run from. But she was not a girl anymore. While she’d been little more than a child at his departure, the voluptuous figure so flatteringly displayed by the cut of her drab, gray gown was a stark reminder of just how long he had been gone. From the horrified expression on her lovely face, it was very apparent that she had neither forgotten nor forgiven their last meeting.
“Althorn?” The incredulity of her voice as his name whispered from her parted lips was to be expected, of course.
What did one say to a woman after so long? And she was a woman now. That was unfailingly clear. Whatever changes nature had wrought on her in the eight years he had been absent had marked her very sex very clearly. Ample curves and a face, that while not beautiful in the classical sense, was still quite arresting, made it almost impossible to reconcile the girl he’d known with the woman who now stood before him. But if his shock at seeing her so grown up was impossible to process, then what could she possible be feeling at seeing him very much alive? What on earth could he say to her when he’d left her to face the disapproval of their managing families while he’d run to another continent to escape their machinations? Nothing, he decided. Addressing that at all would be a terrible strategical error. Instead, he attempted to be flippant.
“Miss Barrett, it seems you’ve quite grown up since last we met.”
Her response was not at all what he’d anticipated. Marcus watched with dawning horror as her gaze went blank and she began to sink slowly to the floor. He rushed forward, managing to catch her just before her head struck the marble floor.
The Missing Marquess of Althorn (The Lost Lords Book 3) Page 3
