Heiress in Love (45 page)

It was torture to look at her, but if he dropped his gaze she would have won. He didn’t want to show her by word or gesture how crazed he felt. He’d already gone against Montford’s wishes and his own good sense by speaking to her at all.

A slow smile of those red, red lips made him shudder inside. She lifted one slim shoulder in a shrug. “I was so tired of dreary old black.”

What the hell were her lips doing now? Was that a … a pout?

Jane. Pouting. Good God, where had she learned all this?

She took a sultry step toward him. In a low, husky voice, she added, “You always said you wanted to see me out of mourning. Well, here I am.”

Take me.

Her eyes said the words, even if her mouth did not.

That mouth … Hot chills began again when he thought of what that mouth could do to him, had done to him. She was a siren, and he’d need to be blind and deaf to resist the call.

Remember what she thinks of you.

A fresh wave of pain gave him the impetus to break her spell. He bowed. “My lady.”

As he turned, her fingertips grazed his arm.

“Don’t!” He ground out the word. “Don’t touch me.”

But her hand closed around his bicep. A catch in her breathing told him she was as affected by that small contact as he. “Won’t you give me your arm, Constantine? Shall we go in together?”

He looked down at her. “No.”

Shaking off her hand, he strode away in the direction he’d seen the others take.

*   *   *

A hush fell over the drawing room when Jane walked into it. She kept her head high, greeting guests left and right as she moved toward the duke. It took every ounce of courage and determination to appear oblivious to their shock and disapproval.

When she saw Beckenham’s quick frown, her steady pace nearly faltered. But with a nod, she moved past, sending up a silent prayer that he’d say nothing to spoil the effect she was trying to create.

And now, the real test of her mettle. The duke.

When she reached his side at the far end of the room, Montford took her hand and bowed over it. As Jane rose from a deep curtsy, she scrutinized his features. They evinced no sign of the fury or disgust she’d fully expected.

After a silent moment, His Grace said clearly, “Ah, Lady Roxdale. I’ve never seen you look so well.”

His voice carried so that everyone in the room must have heard it. Inwardly, Jane staggered at the amusement in his eyes. Was this the proper, stiff-rumped duke she’d held in such stricken awe?

Of course, she’d known that whatever his private opinion, Montford would never rake her down in public over her transgression. In her wildest dreams, she hadn’t expected his support. Now she had it, she was so grateful she could have hugged him.

Where the Duke of Montford led, society would be sure to follow.

One by one, conversations resumed and Montford made Jane known to various guests she did not recognize. In all, it was to be a cozy dinner. No more than thirty at table was modest by Westruther standards.

The butler announced dinner. The crowd shifted, and as her dining partner took her arm, Jane gasped.

Adam Trent.

In consternation, she glanced at the duke. What on earth was Trent doing here? She must suppose Montford had invited him before he’d begun to make such a nuisance of himself. How unfortunate! She hoped he wouldn’t have the bad manners to make a scene.

The hope was short-lived, however. She saw Trent sway a little as he leaned down to speak with his partner. The lady did her best, but she couldn’t hide her recoil at the smell of his breath.

Jane looked around. Perhaps she ought to have a footman escort Trent from the house.

But it was too late; she couldn’t have him removed without creating a scene.

At the dinner table, she found herself seated opposite Constantine. Dishes were served all around her, fragrant, elegant, sumptuous. She didn’t eat a bite, simply devoured Constantine with her eyes.

She made awkward, desultory conversation with her neighbors at the table. It was too much to expect she’d become adept at small talk overnight. She did her best, however, managing the social niceties with a small part of her brain while the rest of her mind went over and over what she intended to say.

Soon, the moment she’d been awaiting arrived. Toasts were drunk. To the King, to the Queen, to the Regent, to the nation, to the host. They went on and on.

Finally, the formal, obligatory toasts ended.

Jane rose to her feet.

In a clear, carrying voice, she said, “My lords, ladies, and gentlemen, I have a toast of my own to make.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Hell and the devil confound it! What was she up to now?

Constantine had been studiously avoiding that intent, gray gaze all through dinner. Now, he couldn’t take his eyes from her as she stood there, so regal, so poised, with a liveried footman standing like a guard behind her.

When she spoke, it was in a clear, low voice. “You will have heard the news, no doubt, that I and Lord Roxdale—the present Lord Roxdale, that is—were engaged to be married.”

Her color heightened a little, but otherwise she remained calm. “I say we
were
engaged, because we are betrothed no longer. However, I wish to make it clear to you all that this rift between us is not Lord Roxdale’s doing. It is mine. I made a terrible mistake, one I bitterly regret. I misjudged him.” She flashed a look around the dining table, and her gaze rested for a significant moment on his mother. “I think many here are guilty of that. Guiltier than they will ever know.”

She took a deep breath. “If his lordship could find it in his heart to forgive me, I…” Her voice suspended here, and she gave a tiny shake of her head. “I love him,” she said, with a hint of defiance. “And I’d give anything to be his wife. If he’ll have me.”

Jane, Jane, what are you saying?

Resolutely, Jane met his gaze and lifted her glass. “So … A toast. To the finest, bravest, most
honorable
gentleman I’ve ever had the privilege of knowing.”

The room fell silent; no doubt the guests were as shocked and disbelieving as he was. Something hard and sharp lodged in his throat. She said those things as if she meant them. And she said them publicly, for everyone to hear.

Suddenly, from farther down the table came a feminine voice, “Hear, hear!”

Lady Arden, of course. He sucked in a ragged breath. He’d feared she’d given up on him entirely after yesterday’s confrontation.

Then the strangest thing of all happened. Montford said, “To Roxdale!” He raised his glass in a salute and drank.

With an echoing murmur, others began raising their glasses, clearly following the duke’s lead. The tightness in Constantine’s chest seemed about to crush his lungs. He saw his mother, her mouth working with emotion, lift her glass, too.

The murmur around the table grew to a rumble. Montford’s guests clearly ranged from confused to titillated to rampantly curious. But if the Duke of Montford gave his imprimatur so wholeheartedly and in public, who were they to cavil?

Only his sister Lavinia sat, still and unmoving, two hectic spots of color flying on her cheeks.

No, she would never forgive him. And judging from the lines bitterness had carved into her face, he began to think that was Lavinia’s loss, not his.

Unable to keep his gaze from Jane’s any longer, he looked up. Tears glittered in her eyes; the hand that held her glass aloft trembled. For someone so averse to calling attention to herself, she’d given the performance of a lifetime tonight.

The wound she’d dealt him back at Lazenby seemed to heal over in that moment. All of a sudden, his heart expanded with love for Jane until it all but burst from his chest.

She loved him. Before all these witnesses tonight, she’d told him so. Not only that, but she’d risked her own reputation to salvage his.

The dowager beside him nudged his ribs with her bony elbow. “Go on, boy. You must reply.”

He must. Yes.

Slowly, Constantine rose to his feet. His eyes locked with Jane’s as she sank down to her chair, giving him the floor. A hush fell over the room again. Tension thickened the air.

It took him some moments to find his voice, and when he did, it came out rustily. “Lady Roxdale does me too great an honor. I—”

“Stop right there!”

Knocking over his chair in his haste, Trent strode down the long line of chairs at the table to Constantine, shoving a hapless footman out of the way. “I don’t know what lies you’ve been feeding these people, but I’m here to tell the truth about you!”

Between gritted teeth, Constantine said, “Sit down, you ass.”

Rage flushed Trent’s cheeks and narrowed his eyes to slits. Breathing hard through his nostrils, he said, “No, I will not be silent! I’ve held my peace too long, it seems.” He curled his lip in disgust. “You cannot marry Lady Roxdale. Why, you are not fit to lick her boots.”

Constantine smiled. “Well, there is one thing we agree on, Trent.” He turned to Jane. “But if my lady will have me, I am not so noble as to refuse her.”

“You blackguard!”

Trent grabbed Constantine’s shoulder to spin him around. Constantine ducked the fist that flew at his head, caught Trent’s flailing arm and wrenched it behind his back, pinning him in a wrestling hold.

In Trent’s ear, he said, “You are making a fool of yourself and a spectacle of Lady Roxdale. Get out of here, before I give you the thrashing you deserve.”

DeVere’s voice boomed down the table. “Be damned to you, Trent! Roxdale’s worth a dozen of you, you sniveling little worm. You, there!” He gestured to the bank of footmen that lined the wall. “Take him out of my sight! Turns my stomach to look at him.”

Trent stopped struggling, his jaw dropping in surprise. Clearly, he was staggered by his kinsman’s disloyalty.

Constantine was similarly dumbfounded. Despite his seething anger at Trent, deVere had paid him a compliment he couldn’t ignore.

Jane’s reckless declaration had made an ally of everyone at this table. Constantine had never looked for Montford’s approval, but he’d be lying if he denied it meant something. Lady Arden’s support, he’d learned to count on, but deVere weighing in like that … Well, that was unprecedented. A deVere defending a Black against one of his own? Who would have thought?

Bemused, Constantine glanced around at Montford’s dinner guests. Jane’s bold maneuver had seen Constantine not only accepted but publicly embraced by three of the most powerful figures in society. The prodigal son had returned, and he’d been welcomed with open arms.

She’d achieved the impossible. She could have made herself a laughingstock, admitting her fault, announcing her love for him so boldly. Yet, for his sake, she’d braved all that.

For him.

She’d believed in his honor and defended it, even when he hadn’t.

Roxdale nodded to a couple of the footmen and shoved Trent toward them. “Show him the door.”

Wooden-faced, the liveried servants looked to their master. Montford inclined his head. Then he turned to his neighbor and resumed his conversation as if nothing at all had occurred.

“You’ll meet me for this!” Trent spat out the words, his voice spiraling higher as he lost all control. “You’ve bewitched her. You’ve beguiled them all, but I know what you are, you jumped-up mongrel cur!”

The world seemed to slow as Trent ripped his glove from his pocket, lurched away from his captors, and slapped Constantine’s face.

The hot blood of rage roiled in Constantine’s body, suffusing his brain. There was no escaping such a challenge. This time, Constantine had little desire to refuse it.

He’d nearly killed a man once in a duel over Amanda all those years ago. He’d vowed that never again would he allow himself to be goaded into such foolish and deadly posturing. No matter what, he’d always kept his distance and his head. No matter what the provocation, he’d never allowed anyone to tempt him to repeat the experience of that awful morning on Hampstead Heath.

Until now.

Suddenly, a voice came back to him from long ago. His father’s.
Your honor is your most precious possession, Constantine. Guard it with your life.

He’d never taken the chance to reclaim his honor while his father lived. But it was not too late to defend it now.

A slow, dangerous smile spread over his face.

“Constantine, no!” Jane’s fearful voice came from across the table.

Ignoring her, Constantine straightened his coat and twitched his ruffled cuffs back into place. “Since you put it that way, Trent, what can I do but accept?”

The room fell into dead silence around him. A glance at Jane told him her face was white, stark with fear.

Languidly, the Duke of Montford spoke. “If you two gentlemen have finished your … ah … enlivening conversation, perhaps we might all get on with our dinner.”