A London Season

by Patricia Bray

  True. Julia Hanscombe had accepted Glendale’s offer of marriage with a becoming show of shyness. Her father pleaded for a long engagement, citing the youth of both parties. Six months after the engagement she had shown no such shyness when she threw Glendale over for a much wealthier nobleman. A Marquess, no less, who unlike Glendale had already inherited his title. An elderly Marquess to boot, one who left her a gay widow not too many years later.

  Julia Hanscombe’s betrayal had cut deeply. At the time Glendale had believed himself in love with her, although now, years later, he could see that it had been a mere infatuation. Glendale had been barely twenty at the time, too young and inexperienced to know his own heart.

  He had thought himself long over the fickle Miss Hanscombe. But all it had taken was a few misspoken words from Jane to bring back the pain. And the innocent Jane had taken the brunt of his anger.

  “I won’t argue with you,” Glendale said. “What’s done is done. The point is, how do I make amends?”

  “Have you talked with Miss Sedgwick?”

  Glendale laughed mirthlessly. “Talked with her? I can’t even see her. I called yesterday and was told in no uncertain terms that she was unwilling to see me. Then or ever.”

  “Hmm,” Freddie said thoughtfully. “That does make it tricky. What about her aunt? Surely if you explain to Lady Barton that you intend to apologize, she’ll insist on Jane seeing you.”

  “You may be right,” Glendale said reluctantly. If Lady Barton was his only chance, then he would overcome his distaste for her. “But is an apology really enough? I’m afraid I damaged Jane’s reputation rather badly.”

  “What else can you do?”

  Glendale paused, letting silence fill the room. After a few moments, he said, “I could always offer to marry her,” giving voice to the thought that had been at the back of his mind.

  Freddie laughed. “That’s a good idea. But I think her intended might object. And having two fiancés would really put Miss Sedgwick beyond the pale.”

  “Fiancé?” Glendale asked. It couldn’t be true. She was his. Freddie must be mistaken.

  Freddie studied him with a keen eye. “You didn’t know? It was in the papers yesterday. Jane’s gotten herself engaged to that Cit. Whitehead or Whitstone, or whatever his name was.”

  “Whitmore. James Whitmore,” Glendale corrected absently. Jane, engaged? Promised to another man? In all his thoughts he had never considered this possibility. He felt robbed, as if someone had stolen something precious from him. Something that he only noticed when it was gone.

  “Well, have you decided what you’re going to do?” Freddie asked.

  “No. But I am certain I will think of something.” He knew one thing. Jane wasn’t in love with Mr. Whitmore. She couldn’t be. She was sacrificing herself for the sake of her family.

  It was Glendale’s fault that she had come to this, and it was up to him to find a way to extricate her from this mess. He owed it to her. And to himself, for he wasn’t about to give her up without a fight.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “I’ve found it!” Sally held up the offending glove as she emerged triumphantly from the depths of the wardrobe. “Here now, put this on quick. You don’t want to be late, Miss Jane.”

  “There is more than enough time. The guests aren’t expected for nearly an hour,” Jane replied. She drew on the satin gloves, then rose from her chair. Walking over to the cheval mirror she examined her appearance with a critical eye. The lace gown was lovely, but even Madame Cecile’s best work couldn’t disguise Jane’s unfashionable height. And the low décolletage would draw unwanted attention to the generous bosom that nature had seen fit to endow her with.

  “It’s a shame that your necklace is still at the jeweler’s,” Sally commented. “The pearls would be just the thing with that.”

  Jane felt herself blushing, and one hand flew up to her bare neck. “I was tired of them anyway,” Jane prevaricated.

  “If you say so, miss.”

  Jane turned away, unable to meet the maid’s knowing gaze. When Sally first noticed that the pearls were missing, Jane had hastily concocted the story of a broken clasp, and a trip to the jeweler’s to have them repaired. But that was two weeks ago, and Sally was getting suspicious.

  A knock sounded at the door, saving Jane from having to embroider further on the tale. Sally walked through the dressing room to the bedroom and opened the hallway door. Through the door, Jane caught a glimpse of one of the household’s many footmen.

  “Sally, tell Miss Sedgwick that Lady Barton would like to see her in the drawing room,” the footman said, loudly enough for Jane to hear him.

  “I’ll tell her,” Sally said. “And it’s Miss Penny to you, you cloth-head.” With a toss of her head, she shut the door firmly in the footman’s face.

  Sally was still muttering when she returned to the dressing room. “Who does he think he is anyway? I’m not one of the housemaids who goes moony whenever he smiles at ’em.”

  It was hard not to smile at Sally’s indignation. Sally relished her promotion to the exalted position of lady’s maid, and was quick to set down anyone who failed to recognize her new status.

  Jane’s smile quickly faded however, as she left the room and descended to the first floor. She couldn’t help remembering the two previous occasions when Lady Barton had entertained. Jane winced at the remembrance of that disastrous first dinner party. It hurt to remember how naive she had been.

  Even her memories of her come-out ball, which had once seemed so grand and glorious, were now tainted. For her memories of the evening were wrapped up with memories of Lord Glendale, and his subsequent betrayal.

  Jane paused outside the drawing room, taking time to calm her jangling nerves. She had nothing to fear tonight. There would be some uncomfortable moments, but the guests had been carefully chosen by Lady Barton. They might come out of curiosity, but they could be counted on to behave civilly.

  When Jane entered the room, she discovered Lady Barton sitting in her favorite chair by the fire.

  “Good evening, Lady Barton,” Jane said, crossing the room to greet her aunt. “I trust you are well?”

  “Tolerable,” Lady Barton said.

  Jane bent down to kiss her aunt’s withered cheek. As she straightened back up, Jane saw a gentleman standing in the shadows near the window. He looked familiar, but it couldn’t be, could it?

  “Matthew?” Jane intended to shout, but the words came out in a whisper instead.

  “Now Cornelia, Lord Glendale is here to make his apologies.”

  How dare they trick her in this way! Jane knew that Glendale had been trying to see her for the last week, and it had given her great pleasure to refuse him admittance.

  “I have no intention of listening to anything he has to say,” Jane declared.

  Lady Barton reached up and grasped Jane’s arm to keep her from leaving. Lady Barton’s grip was surprisingly strong for a woman of her age. “Yes, you will, because I say so. It is the least that you can do, considering all I have done for you.”

  There was no missing the implied threat in Lady Barton’s words. Until her marriage, Jane was still dependent on her aunt’s generosity.

  “Very well,” Jane said. She would listen, but there was nothing Glendale could say that would change her opinion of him.

  Lady Barton released her grip on Jane’s arm, and then heaved her bulk out of the chair. Her parting words were addressed to Glendale. “You have five minutes. And I am leaving the door open.”

  Jane turned her back on Glendale and stared at the fire, as if fascinated by the flickering coals. She heard Glendale’s footsteps as he crossed the room, but she refused to give him the satisfaction of acknowledging his presence. He finally stopped a few feet away from her.

  “Jane, I am so terribly sorry,” he said. “I do not expect that you can ever forgive me.” His voice was quiet, colored by some strong emotion.

  His words startled her. This was not the pra
cticed, empty apology that she had somehow expected. Glendale sounded as if he meant what he was saying.

  Jane turned around and met his gaze steadily. “You are correct, my lord. What you did was unforgivable.”

  She had the satisfaction of seeing Glendale flinch. He opened his mouth to say something, and then closed it, as if at a loss for words. This was another first. The glib, witty Glendale with nothing to say. In the ensuing silence, Jane took the opportunity to study him. He looked different than she remembered. His face was thinner and paler than she recalled, and there were new lines around his eyes.

  “I never meant for you to be hurt,” Glendale explained.

  “Is that so? You thought I wouldn’t mind learning that I was merely the subject of a wager? You deceived me, and feigned friendship, and this was supposed to make me happy? While all the time, you were laughing at my naiveté.” Jane’s anger mounted as she relived the memory of his betrayal. The pain she felt was physical, a dull ache in her chest. “How, pray tell, was I not supposed to be hurt by this?”

  “The wager was a drunken bit of foolishness, between myself and Freddie. We didn’t—that is, I didn’t know you then. Anyone could see that you weren’t ready for London. So we wagered about whether or not you would stick it out. It wasn’t very noble of us, but we didn’t see the harm.”

  An impartial observer might have conceded this point. Jane had been woefully unprepared for London society. And gentlemen wagered all the time, over matters as weighty as the war with Napoleon, to things as trivial as a falling raindrop.

  But conceding that the wager was harmless did not excuse his subsequent behavior. “And afterwards?”

  Glendale ran one hand through his hair, betraying his nervousness. “The more time I spent with you, the more I wanted to get to know you. To be with you. I had never met anyone like you before, never felt for them the way I did for you.” He took a deep breath before continuing. “To tell the truth, I had forgotten all about the wager, until that night.”

  “Then why did you say the things you did? What did I ever do to you, that you should treat me so?” Jane demanded, giving voice to the pain that had troubled her since his betrayal. To her mortification, her voice broke on the last words.

  Glendale stepped closer, raising his arms as if to reach for her. Jane took a hasty step backwards and he halted his advance. She didn’t know whether or not to be relieved. She longed for the comfort of his embrace, yet at the same time she felt as if she would shatter into a thousand pieces if he touched her.

  “That night, when you asked for my advice, I misunderstood you. I heard what I expected to hear. What I’d heard before.” Glendale broke eye contact and began to pace, as if unable to keep still. “Did you know that I was engaged once?” he said, so quietly that she had to strain to hear his words.

  He looked over, and Jane shook her head.

  “Well, it was a long time ago. Her name was Julia Hanscombe, and she was the most sought-after catch of the Season. I thought myself lucky when she accepted my suit.” Glendale grimaced at some memory. “The signs were all there, but I couldn’t see them. She was lively and charming, and loved nothing better than being the center of attention.”

  Unwillingly Jane felt herself drawn to the story. Even her anger with Glendale couldn’t keep her from sensing the pain behind his words.

  “And then she came to me, and said she couldn’t marry me after all. There was this Marquess, you see. And he was elderly, and very, very wealthy. And he was willing to buy her all the baubles she desired. As for me, well, my father was still alive, and she decided she had no wish to wait for her title.”

  “It sounds like you had a lucky escape,” Jane said.

  He gave a short bark of laughter. “Indeed. But I didn’t think so at the time. I thought I loved her, and couldn’t understand how she could betray me.”

  Betrayal. Jane could sympathize with the young Glendale. She knew the pain of being betrayed by love. She reminded herself that she, not Glendale, was the injured party. Whatever had happened in the past, it could not excuse his actions. “I am sorry, but—”

  Glendale made a brusque gesture, cutting her off. “I didn’t tell you this to gain your sympathy. But you needed to hear it, to understand what happened the other night. In all these years, I’ve never considered offering for another woman. Never felt I could trust a woman enough to tie myself to her like that. Then I met you. And you were so different from everyone else. So honest. So caring. You said what you thought, without all the layers of pretense.”

  He paused, but Jane could think of nothing to say. Her mind was whirling as she considered his revelations. Why hadn’t she ever wondered about this before? Glendale’s single state was a matter of great comment in the ton, given his title and responsibilities. She should have known that there was more to his refusal to consider marriage than a simple unwillingness to settle down.

  “And then that night,” Glendale said. “You came to me for advice.”

  Jane remembered that night. Remembered how anxious and nervous she had been. Remembered, too, how she had made a botch of explaining her situation. “And I told you that I needed to marry for money,” Jane said, finally breaking the silence.

  “Yes. And it seemed suddenly that I had misjudged you all along. My pride was hurt, and I acted on impulse. If Freddie hadn’t been there, who knows what would have happened? But he was convenient, and I spoke of the wager, knowing that my words would be repeated.”

  “I see,” Jane said. “I understand, even if I find it difficult to forgive.” She understood all too well. Glendale had imagined himself betrayed for the second time, and had taken his revenge on her. It didn’t matter that she was the innocent victim of his rage. He had been hurt, and he had lashed out, intending to hurt her in return.

  Before the last few weeks, Jane would have never understood how passionate emotion could drive someone to such an act. But now she knew differently. In the white hot heat of her own anger, she might have done or said anything if she could have been certain of wounding Glendale.

  But understanding what had happened did not change the past. Even the most eloquent of apologies could not erase the events of the last two weeks. Glendale’s words had come perilously close to a declaration of love, but it was much too late for that.

  “Can you forgive me?” he asked. “I want to make amends.”

  Jane made the mistake of looking into his eyes. There was an equal mixture of hope and sadness in his expression. She longed to tell him that she forgave him, that everything could be as it was before. But that was impossible now.

  “Well, I forgave Freddie, so I suppose I must forgive you as well,” Jane said with a brittle laugh.

  “And will you let me requite my wrongs?”

  “I am afraid it is too late for that. Many things have changed. I am to marry Mr. Whitmore, you know,” Jane said, wondering what his reaction would be.

  “Yes, I know,” Glendale replied. “Allow me to wish you happy.”

  Jane waited, half-hoping that he would say something else. That he would say it was not too late for her to change her mind. If he cared for her at all, how could he take so calmly the news that she was to marry another? Or was his silence an acknowledgment that she had irrevocably committed herself to Mr. Whitmore?

  Glendale reached inside his coat, and withdrew a small, velvet-covered box. “I brought you a gift,” he said. Jane made no move to take it, so he lifted her right hand, and placed the box in her palm.

  Her hand tingled where he touched it, unnerving her. It was a reminder that no other man had ever made her feel this way. “I cannot accept this,” Jane said, for form’s sake.

  “But you must,” Glendale replied. Then, with a trace of impatience, he added, “Open it at least, before you decide.”

  It could do no harm to look. She lifted the lid of the box, then gasped in wonder. Inside, nestled on white satin, lay a familiar string of pearls, set in the antique style of her grandmoth
er’s time. How had he known? How had he found them?

  “I never thought to see these again, Matthew,” she said.

  Glendale smiled, seemingly pleased by her happiness. “They are lovely yes, but they will look more beautiful on you.” Reaching into the box, he withdrew the necklace. The pearls glistened in the light. Before she could stop him, he fastened the string around her throat. She trembled as his fingers brushed her neck and the sensitive hollow of her throat, as he deftly arranged the necklace. “There now, that’s better,” he said.

  No, this was not better. His fingers were gone, but she could still feel the tingling where he had touched her. She wanted him to touch her again, to be swept up in his embrace. What kind of wanton was she, to be thinking such things when she was engaged to another?

  She should never have agreed to talk with him. Should never have forgiven him. Her anger would have shielded her from this attraction. Now what was she to do?

  Glendale wanted to spend more time with Jane, but the arrival of the first of the guests put an end to their tête-à-tête. He was on his best behavior, even managing to congratulate James Whitmore on the engagement with seeming goodwill. The guests were surprised at his presence, but no one was gauche enough to mention the rift. On the contrary, the show of family solidarity would give the rumormongers something else to talk about.

  As guests of honor, Jane and Mr. Whitmore were seated together, on the opposite side of the table from his own place. Glendale studied her, but could find no clue as to her emotions. She seemed at ease, and conversed pleasantly enough with her dinner partners.

  But was she happy? Was this match what she truly wanted? Glendale had promised Freddie that he would do nothing rash. Having acted hastily once, Glendale was resolved to be more cautious this time. To ascertain Jane’s feelings before he acted. There was no sense in saving a woman who did not want to be saved.

  It seemed incredible that he had once thought Jane the easiest of persons to read. Her emotions had shown plainly on her face. Happiness, excitement, affection, and trepidation had shone freely for all to see. But not tonight. Jane had learned another of the bitter lessons that life in London taught. She had learned the cost of sharing her feelings, and now hid behind a mask of politeness. It was a lesson she should never have had to learn.