Jane Austen & the Archangel

by Pamela Aares

  A flutter of activity at the entrance to the ballroom released Princess Charlotte into their midst. She was speaking in animated tones with a gentleman whose back was turned to their group. Jane saw him gesture and froze when she recognized the movement. Her chest tightened, and she quickly tried to convince herself that it was simply not possible, that her senses had obviously deceived her.

  Princess Charlotte, seeing Lady Baringdon, turned, opening the circle, and acknowledged them. A lady whispered in the princess’s ear. The princess nodded, her gaze settling first on Jane before tracking to Lady Baringdon.

  “Lady Baringdon”—Princess Charlotte smiled—“I am pleased that you and your party could join us for this celebration.”

  Lady Baringdon offered a long-practiced curtsy, as did Jane and Serena.

  “You are most gracious, Your Highness,” Lady Baringdon replied as she curtsied again. “May I present my daughter, Lady Serena, and her friend, Miss Jane Austen.” Her voice revealed only the slightest tremor of nerves.

  “Miss Austen.” The princess greeted Jane with a tilt to her head. “You have no idea the entertainment you’ve provided me and my circle. We’re positively in your debt.”

  Jane did have some idea, for the Prince Regent’s severity in restricting the princess’s activities was well known. That she’d managed to gain permission to host the ball was a wonder. Though the princess was only seventeen, an air of timeless oppression hung over her, in spite of the spirited light that danced in her eyes.

  Before Jane could formulate a reply, the princess’s companion turned toward them. For a moment, Jane was sure the entire gathering could hear her heart pound.

  Mr. Grace.

  “May I introduce His Grace, the Duke of Sanclere,” Princess Charlotte said. “This is Lady Baringdon, her daughter, Lady Serena, and Miss Jane Austen.”

  The Duke—a duke!—bowed over Lady Baringdon’s hand, unruffled by her puzzled look. He then gave a relaxed bow of acknowledgment to Jane and Serena, ignoring the surprise that registered in their faces. Jane was both startled and thankful when her shock began to transform into a sizzle of anger.

  “Sanclere is a fan of your writing as well, Miss Austen,” Princess Charlotte said with a twinkling smile. “I think you’ll find many here who are. It’s a pity that you keep your authorship such a secret.”

  Jane smiled weakly. An emotion she couldn’t name washed through her buoying anger. She was vaguely aware of the nearest orchestra playing the beginning notes of a waltz; she recognized it as Mozart, one of Princess Charlotte’s favorite composers. She concentrated on the music, using all her will not to faint. For the first time in her life, she felt as weak-kneed as one of her heroines.

  “I am indeed a devoted fan.” The Duke smiled and bowed again. As he straightened, he said, “Might I have the pleasure of this dance, Miss Austen?”

  “He’s hopelessly well read”—the princess laughed as she pivoted away—“but I warn you, I cannot vouch for his dancing.” She paraded into the next room, her attention already turning to other guests. Lady Baringdon and Serena stood, speechless, as the Duke led Jane into the crush of swirling dancers.

  Though she was fighting shock at yet another of his deceptions and feeling displaced in such dizzyingly opulent surroundings, the mere pressure of his hand against her back sent an unwarranted yet stabilizing thrill through Jane. And though every sensible aspect of her being told her not to, she lifted her gaze to his. His smile lit his eyes. Was she imagining the feeling that it radiated into her very soul? In the midst of the crush and commotion, a marvelous peace flooded her.

  “I thought you were a letter carrier,” she said with a lightness that surprised her. She had sought a tone of remonstration, but found she couldn’t conjure it.

  “I have many talents.” His fingers tightened on hers as he guided her smoothly through the waltz. “And I was, in fact, carrying your letters, but that’s a story for another time.” When she widened her eyes, he added, “I promise to explain.” He gracefully swirled her past a gaping Lord Baringdon who, having procured refreshments for the ladies, now stood with his wife and daughter looking out at the dancers.

  “I began to believe you a figment of my imagination,” Jane said, suddenly feeling shy and awkward.

  “In that case,” he murmured, drawing her closer with the pressure of his hand, “I hope you don’t stop imagining.”

  His breath was warm against her cheek as he turned them toward the perimeter of the ballroom. He smelled of citrus and spices. And frankincense. The man smelled of frankincense. It made her think of the heavens, of holy rites, of troubadours and knights and mythic heroes. She wasn’t sure if it was the reflection from the thousands of candles in the chandeliers casting their light in a halo around them or her own power of invention, but his eyes shone with a fierce amber light. She felt as if she would fall into them. Through them. Perhaps she had, and she now danced and laughed in another world entirely. Her thoughts flashed to the time long past when she’d thought she’d lost her heart, thought she’d sensed passion, thought she’d known love. She’d thought those emotions strong, vibrant, but they held no comparison for the passions now racing through her.

  She’d never felt the way she did with his hands guiding her and his eyes looking into her own.

  “Truly,” she protested, fighting her way back to some semblance of reality, “I don’t even know what to call you.”

  “Call me Michael. You may not believe me, but hearing my name on your lips would give me the greatest joy.”

  Jane felt herself blush. She’d clearly not left the world of emotion as far behind as she’d surmised. He—Michael—stroked his gloved fingers along hers and though she felt the pulsing between them, she also felt the oddest sensation, as though she weren’t truly touching him. Yet a raw captivating power ran unmistakably between them, bridging them, connecting them.

  The competing sensations were dizzying.

  “And may I call you Jane?” he asked. His question called her back from what was surely the very edge of her senses.

  “You may, although a more accurate name for my current state would be ensorcelled.”

  A stormy look stirred in his eyes, then vanished. “No, not ensorcelled,” he said, suddenly serious. “That’s not allowed.”

  “Whatever do you mean?”

  He glanced around the room. “Well, perhaps these others may be, but it is no fault of mine that they see only what they wish to see.” He winked at her. “And besides, as a name it doesn’t become you. Miss Ensourcel...it sounds all wrong. I distinctly prefer Jane.” Before she could laugh, he tenderly pressed a gloved finger against her lips. “Were I Dante, I would call you Beatrice, for you are beauty itself.”

  She laughed then, a ringing silvery tone she was sure had never before escaped her.

  “That, my dear Jane, is a sound that can stir joy in the heavens.” He pulled her closer.

  With a releasing sigh she surrendered to the music and the enchanting feelings shimmering in her. A diffusing joy bloomed in her as they moved in the rhythm of the dance. She was vaguely aware of stares and whispers behind fans as they danced waltz after waltz. It wasn’t proper, she knew; no one danced more than twice, certainly no more than three times, with the same partner. But, gloriously, she didn’t care. And, miraculously, she didn’t tire. They swirled past Serena, happily dancing with Darcy, and Jane supposed she wore the same look that she saw on Serena’s upturned face: smitten and entranced.

  But the next time they swirled past Darcy and Serena the image of the black cloud rising from Rendin jolted Jane out of her trance. Roaring in with the image came the many questions she’d ignored for too long. All her sensible instincts screamed for answers. Michael must’ve felt her stiffen in his arms for as she looked up she saw him wince.

  Ignoring the lilting music she took a mustering breath. “How, exactly,” she asked, fighting to keep her tone firm, “did you and your friend find Darcy?”

  H
e pressed his lips together but they did not form a smile. “For tonight,” he coaxed, “let’s leave words and explanations aside and simply enjoy the blessing of this singular pleasure.”

  But she couldn’t. The spell was broken. “I’d like to be returned to my party,” she said flatly as she pulled away from him.

  Without any word of answer, he returned her to Lord and Lady Baringdon. Lady Baringdon acknowledged his bow with a pleased smile, clearly thrilled that a person of such consequence had sought out one of her party. Michael immediately excused himself to procure refreshment for them. Jane turned to Lady Baringdon, preparing herself for the questions for which she had no ready answers.

  ***

  Michael didn’t press through the crowd to the room where the refreshments were offered. With hurried steps, he headed directly for the main entrance, ignoring the beckoning, sidelong glances of admiring ladies as he shouldered through the foyer. He couldn’t go back into the ballroom. He couldn’t face another moment with her, another moment of not being able to be honest with her or to truly be with her, body and soul. She deserved that, not some phantom surrogate.

  It wasn’t fair to entrap her heart. He wanted to be with her more than he’d ever wanted anything, but if he were to be with her again, any relationship had to be true, had to be real—and it had to be a choice made freely by both of them.

  He was driven by a force he couldn’t name, didn’t command. But he was certain that if he didn’t heed it, if he didn’t honor it, his denial would undo all that he’d been sent to accomplish.

  It would undo him.

  As he pressed through the crowd, he made his decision, although the feelings that powered through him made it seem that the choice had been made for him, that it was something beyond his control. That was a feeling he didn’t like and never had.

  And though he knew Gabriel wouldn’t like this new plan either, Michael had every hope that he’d help. A satisfying outcome seemed preposterous, but he had to attempt it. The next time he saw Jane, there would be no deception. Whatever passed between them would be true; at least it would be that.

  That thought salved his raw nerves, and he laughed at himself. Who would’ve known that desperation had a sweet edge to it? He began to see the lovers that he’d helped over the millennia in a new light, comprehend why they’d often met with less than ideal endings. The world didn’t open an easy path for those driven by love. And not even angels could determine their own destinies. He simply had to trust the force that drove him. Plus, he secretly nourished hope; hope that he could share the deepest of loves with Jane and that the sharing would be full and true. But that was also nothing he could command. He’d long known that love had a power all its own.

  As he strode toward the cloakroom, the image of Jane smiling and laughing rose before him. In that moment she’d looked at him with trust, even though she had every reason not to trust. And the joy in her laughter ... He’d told her that the joy had reached Heaven. He should have told her it had reached into his soul.

  He made an irrefutable vow: he would follow through with his idea, even at risk to himself, which was likely, given the plan. But he’d terminate the whole thing if there was risk for Jane. That he wouldn’t allow.

  At the cloakroom he called for pen and paper and struggled with his tumbling thoughts. In the end he simply wrote that he had to pursue a matter of importance to both of them and he’d return as soon as possible. He started to fold the paper, then stopped. He scratched out a fevered postscript telling her that she was necessary to his very soul. He stared at his words and wished he had the facility for language that she had. But his simple note would have to do. He folded it and handed it to a yawning page with explicit instructions for its delivery. He walked out into the dark night, leaving the sounds of the ball far behind.

  Stepping into a future that he’d never dreamed he’d pursue.

  Chapter Ten

  Jane woke the next morning with the feeling one has when a deep dream has not yet lost its hold. She lay snug in the opulent bed, turning the events of the previous evening in her mind. All along she’d thought she’d known the rapture that Serena felt for Darcy, that her heroines felt for the men who stirred their passion and their love. But she’d never truly known such feelings until now. For the briefest of moments she considered that she was only imagining the flooding feelings that for years she’d penned for her characters. But what she felt was no imagining.

  She knew it in her body, beyond the grasp of language.

  She knew it in her heart, beyond the realm of thought or earthly wisdom.

  The utter power of her feelings was frightening to grasp.

  She rose and sat at the dressing table, distractedly drawing a brush through the tangles of her hair. Like her heroines, she knew that men could be their most dangerous when most entrancing. But what dangers she faced, she hardly fathomed. Yet one hazard loomed clear. After all the years of carefully avoiding love’s disappointment, of vowing that never again would she open to heartache—particularly to a man who was so obviously secretive and dishonest—it certainly wasn’t prudent to open herself to any of that now. Yet that’s exactly what she’d done. And her heart was ill prepared to wage the battle taking place inside her.

  She faced yet another of Michael’s blatant deceptions and found herself at war not with him, but with herself. Did she now fight for her feelings or against them? She’d never had to make that choice concerning feelings before.

  Never before had she been afraid to have them.

  Beyond that, the odd sensation she’d been aware of as she danced with Michael haunted her. Though it had been the purest experience of her life, she felt as if he’d never truly touched her. She’d whirled in his arms and yet she hadn’t felt those arms. Hadn’t ... She tapped her brush against the table, frustrated. She had no words to describe the feeling of not feeling. For a woman accustomed to finding language to capture the flight of any emotion, her failure astonished her. Words, it seemed, were relentlessly intent on evading and abandoning her.

  A light knock at the door pulled her from her thoughts. Serena bounded into the room, all smiles.

  “I ran up the stairs,” she said breathlessly as she flopped across the bed. “I simply had to tell you immediately—Darcy has inherited the estate of his childless uncle, the Earl of Darrington! It happened while Darcy was in Spain, and it’s been settled—Darcy is an earl! Now there can be nothing for my parents to dislike. And, did you see? Last night Mama was positively glowing when Princess Charlotte bestowed honor upon him.” She hugged her arms across her chest, cradling her delight, then jumped up and crossed to the dressing table, beaming. “Jane, we are to be married!” She squinted her eyes at their reflections in the mirror. “Well ... he has yet to ask Papa, but I will marry him, no matter what my parents say.”

  “This is happy, happy news,” Jane said as she laid the brush on the dressing table and swiveled to hug Serena. “You never, ever gave up. This is a happiness you well deserve.”

  Serena giggled. “Perhaps now we should try our hand at helping Princess Charlotte?”

  Jane laughed. “I rather think the Prince Regent might be more formidable than your mama—but just barely.”

  Serena eased away, her smile fading.

  “I heard that the princess positively loathes the man they’ve chosen for her, poor thing. I feel sorry for her.” She picked up the brush and began to stroke it through Jane’s hair. After a quiet moment, she slanted a sly smile at Jane in the mirror. “You were the subject of much envy in the ballroom. Who would imagine that your Mr. Grace should turn out to be a duke?”

  Though warning flashed though her, Jane knew she could trust Serena. Ordinarily she would confide in her sister, but Cassandra wouldn’t believe her tale. In fact, the news might unmoor her or convince her that Jane had completely lost her senses.

  “He is not what he seems, Serena—I worry that he’s a spy,” she confessed. “With his connections in Spain and to
the mysterious Lord Gabriel ... Not to mention, he evaded my questions about how they effected Darcy’s rescue.”

  Serena laughed. “You, who are the most impossible person to flatter, you flatter yourself—or delude yourself would be more accurate. Why would any spy focus on you?”

  “I rather think that my part is inconsequential. But as you know, Francis is an Admiral and Charles is a commander and on some sort of special assignment he can’t talk about. If one considers that Mr. Grace is not what he represented himself to be and considers his appearance at Princess Charlotte’s ball—”

  “That’s ridiculous! He has a tendre for you, Jane. There’s probably a very simple reason he kept his identity a secret. But it is odd that a duke would pose as a letter carrier.” She tapped her chin while she thought for a moment, then brightened. “Perhaps he’s tired of people holding him in esteem simply because of his station.”

  “Darcy is restored to us; that is all that matters.” She plucked the brush from Serena’s hand and laid it on the dressing table.

  Serena held Jane’s gaze. “He sought you out, Jane. Everyone saw it.”

  “I’ve fallen for misrepresentations, Serena, more than once. Worse, in this instance I’ve embellished them to the point that even I have trouble distinguishing what is real.”

  “I saw how he looked at you, Jane. No man can falsely represent that, no matter what his motives.”

  “Turning my own words on me—you are a rascal of the worst sort, Serena!” she chided. But as she considered Serena’s words, a sad thought occurred to her. “Perhaps, like so many men of his station, I was merely a diversion. Besides, if he is a spy, I want nothing to do with him. Nor should any of us.”