Season for Scandal (14 page)

Triumph made her hands unsteady as she undid the bow at her chin. In some small way, she had forced him to see her clearly.

“Yes,” she decided. “I will buy it, after all.”

As Edmund helped Jane back into their carriage, freed from the snarl of traffic and half-filled with packages, there was only one question on his mind.

Why was she so obstinate?

She would not take what he offered in the intended spirit. He’d had to browbeat her into picking out something personal, not just something for the house or the library.

He had warned Jane against the so-called Bellamy as much as he could without telling her the full shameful truth. Now it was up to Edmund to protect her. To do so, he must keep her happy, wrapped up in threads of joy, cocooned from the man’s poison. More outings like today’s; that would be the answer. Little gifts. Books that pleased her.

Yet she had said she didn’t want a small life, hadn’t she? And there was not much that was smaller than a cocoon.

But how could he keep her safe if she wouldn’t allow him to make her happy?

All right, that was much more than one question. In truth, the uncertainties seemed infinite.

Jane shifted on the seat, elbowing him in the ribs. “Pardon me. We’re in tight quarters.”

It would have been more convincing as an accident had she not used so much force.

“Think nothing of it,” he replied through clenched teeth. A wet blanket of silence settled over them, heavy as the afternoon fog now drifting over the street.

“Last night.” Jane cut the silence. “I shut my door to you.”

His solicitous voice clicked into place at once. “You may do that whenever you wish.”

“I shut my door because”—she paused—“I’m having my courses.”

“You’re—oh.”

“Yes. Right.”

“I see.”

In the light from the carriage window, he could tell her cheeks had flamed hot. An endless pause succeeded their pointless stammering.

This silence was of a different sort, though. It was a space full of sounds: the soft pull of her breath; the rustle of paper-wrapped parcels sliding on the floor; the dim clamor outside the carriage. Impossible, amidst all these little noises, not to be aware of how alone they were, together. Impossible not to recall the ways they’d been utterly naked with one another, as well as all he withheld from her.

Edmund, I love you
, she had told him. Then she had sworn it wouldn’t be a problem, and she was as good as her word. She intruded little on his life, so little that every night he felt he was an intrusion on hers. She took nothing from him without begrudging the gift.

But whatever he could give her wouldn’t be enough.

“Thank you for telling me,” he managed to say. “I wondered if I had somehow displeased you. At the ball.”

“You did, but that doesn’t matter now. We already talked about that in your study. And what I said is true. That I’m having my—well.”

“Oh,” he said again.

They hadn’t managed to create an heir, then—or a little daughter, either. Much as he’d tried to force a child into existence, with all the urgency of the past snapping at his heels, he had failed.

He wasn’t sorry, exactly. Being created not out of love, but out of desperate necessity, was no way to begin one’s life. He wished his nonexistent offspring better than that.

As long as he was wishing, he wished himself better than that, too. His parents’ marriage had been arranged, with no purpose but the creation of an heir. Now he was repeating their mistakes. It was all he knew.

That, and the fact that marriage was somehow wondrously different for some people.

There was no point in wishing, though, was there? Sometimes things simply
were
, and all one could do was deal with what came next, and next.

“Jane. When you wish me to return”—there was that word,
wish
, again—“just leave your door open.”

“All right.” Her face was still flushed.

Edmund let the subject drop. Either she would open her door to him, or she wouldn’t.

He rummaged for a new topic. A new way to keep her close. “Until then—I remember you mentioned you didn’t know how to dance. Would you like me to teach you?”

“Would you really?” She looked at him for the first time since they had clambered into the carriage.

“Yes, I really would. If you want me to.”

“I’d love it above all things.”

Her smile was bright, but he remembered that she had used the same words about attending a ball with him. Now, like then, did she agree simply to humor him? He didn’t know.

That’s all the beginning I need—the not knowing. Then comes the not trusting. And then comes the not loving.

So Turner had said.

And to hear Jane use the word
love
when she meant it not at all—well. Perhaps she had never meant it very much, even when she’d directed it at him.

He didn’t know; he didn’t know. And he couldn’t help but wonder if she was beginning to slip away before he ever figured out how to hold her.

Chapter II

Concerning Secrets, Both Likeable and Otherwise

The following day, Lord and Lady Kirkpatrick were invited to a dinner party at the home of Jane’s cousin, Lord Xavier, and his wife. On the small scale of this event, Jane was confident she could avoid major social trespass.

Xavier House was a thick slice of dark brick and pale-trimmed stone on the west boundary of Hanover Square. Jane had visited many times before, of course; most recently, to get married in the drawing room. As she proceeded after Edmund into that same room, she wondered at the effect of marriage on a house. Edmund had lived with morose gray walls until Jane splashed green up in their place. During cousin Xavier’s bachelor days, he had followed every fashion in décor, most recently surrounding himself with the chilly splendor of gilt and lacquer. Men, on their own, had no notion how to create a true home.

Now the gilt had been relegated to the scrolls and roundels of plasterwork, bright flashes in the candlelight, warm on yellow-papered walls. Instead of lacquer’s cold gloss, all the elegant old furniture Xavier had shoved up in the home’s attics was back in the drawing room. A warm antique carpet stretched underfoot. Tapestry-covered armchairs; a painted and caned sofa with scrolled arms and a silk cushion. The dinner guests were perched on cushions or toasting themselves before a generous fire.

Xavier came over to greet them, tall and confident, a pucker tugging at his brows. Louisa—his wife and Jane’s friend—caught up to him, stately in a long-sleeved gown the purple-blue shade of a bachelor’s button. She laid a hand on her husband’s sleeve and whispered something in his ear that made him jerk with surprise, then grin.

There seemed to be enough of that grin to share, for Louisa was wearing it too as she shooed him and Edmund away. “Alex, why not find a masculine beverage for your new cousin? Lord Kirkpatrick would undoubtedly like to admire your port bottles.”

“You are chasing me away, aren’t you?” Xavier dropped a kiss on his wife’s head.

“Maybe.”

“Don’t let Jane be a bad influence on you.”

“Perhaps I shall be a bad influence on
her
,” Louisa said, waving them off. Then she turned toward Jane. Without preamble, she said, “Your cousin is worried that marriage doesn’t suit you.”

“He’s such an old woman.” Jane snorted. “What on earth gives him a reason to think that?”

Louisa let pass the fact that Jane hadn’t denied the statement. “He worries because he loves you.”

Jane let pass the fact that Louisa hadn’t answered her question. “How sentimental he is. And what did you say to make him smile?”

Louisa went slightly pink. “I reminded him that we got an early start on figuring out . . . ah, certain aspects of marriage. But not everyone does. I think you and Kirkpatrick will deal well together in time, with feeling such as yours to guide you.”

Feeling such as hers. Ha. Jane’s stomach felt as though she’d swallowed a stone.

Though Jane and Louisa had once discovered a cache of bawdy books together—though they’d talked over their ideal men, and though Jane had first admitted her feelings for Edmund to Louisa—some secrets were too private to share with a friend. Among this number were included the fact that Jane’s feelings had led her horribly astray, and that
certain aspects
were the only bits of her marriage that seemed to be going well right now.

Jane caught sight of Edmund, now in conversation with Xavier on the other side of the room. He appeared to be reassuring her cousin, all friendly nonchalance. In the light of an Argand lamp, his fair skin was gilded, his hair darkened, the beautiful bones of his face thrown into highlight and shadow.

Lamplight brought out the best or worst of people; Edmund had only the best to bring out. Her chest squeezed, desire holding her heart in an unyielding fist.

Oh, those
certain aspects.
Oh, how she wanted more, though she’d never even expected to have so much. This careful marriage was like giving an addict only the sweet scent of opium, but none of its smoke. Having Edmund’s body was nothing compared to possessing his heart.

At least no one else had his heart instead. She ought to be satisfied with that.

She didn’t realize she’d muttered this aloud until Louisa asked, “What did you say?”

Jane met her friend’s dark eyes. Louisa’s laughter had vanished, now replaced by the same pucker that had creased Xavier’s brows.

No. They would not be permitted to worry about her, and they would not pity her. This was a private matter, not even between Jane and her husband. This was a battle with herself, which meant that she alone would win.

“I said . . .” Jane thought quickly. “‘At least no one else heard what you said.’ Because I would be embarrassed. If someone knew you and Xavier were talking about me.”

Louisa relaxed. “Nonsense. We’re family, and family cares. But I’ll confine my bawdy comments to a mere whisper.”

She leaned closer to Jane. “By the by, I asked Xavier to invite Mr. Bellamy, since he is such a particular friend of your mother’s.”

“My mother’s? I thought he was Xavier’s friend.” Jane frowned. “Maybe Bellamy knew my father before traveling to India.” She knew little about the interests of the man who had helped to give her life, then died in her early childhood.

“Bellamy has been a busy man over the past month or two,” Louisa said. “Such a far-traveled man fascinates the polite world; I think he’s had an invitation almost every night. Lady Alleyneham even held a picnic
al fresco
in his honor.”

“What, they ate outside in autumn? The guests must have been half-frozen by the end of it.”

“Doubtless they thought a cold rear was not too high a price to pay. No one wishes to miss his thrilling tales.” The young countess hesitated. “Jane. I don’t mean to question the reputation of any friend of your family. But are you certain all Bellamy’s tales are true?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never been to India.”

It was a stupid answer, but Louisa let it pass. “Few people in London right now have. And I haven’t read much on the local customs, yet it seems—”

“I got a book,” Jane broke in. “Well, Kirkpatrick got it. A book about India. When I read it, I’ll know more.”

Louisa looked relieved. “Good. So Kirkpatrick is wondering about him, too? It’s important to—well. Bellamy is a friend of your mother. So. We’ll leave it at that.”

“Yes,” Jane agreed vaguely. All her attention seemed required for keeping a pleasant expression on her face. For neither ignoring Edmund, nor hunting him with her gaze. For being just the right sort of baroness.

The light chatter continued until the guests were called down to dinner. Not sticklers for a strict order of precedence, Xavier and Louisa allowed everyone to walk in as they so chose, and couples took one another’s arms in a casual fashion.

Edmund came for Jane, his smile warm. “Having a nice time?”

“I always like to see friends,” she replied. So many lies of omission, but they were necessary to win this battle with herself. Looking ahead down the echoing years of her marriage, she would far rather fill the space with friendship than unrequited yearning. She would triumph over her desperate love.

Her body hadn’t received notice of this determination: as she hooked her hand around Edmund’s arm, sweet heat arced through her.

And it occurred to her that in a battle with herself, she was guaranteed a defeat along with her victory.

Whether by accident or some design on his part, Bellamy seated himself next to Jane at dinner. Jane wasn’t unwilling to speak to him; in fact, she had a topic of conversation at the ready. “Mr. Bellamy, I’ve recently gotten a book about India. Once I’ve read it, I’d like to discuss it with you.”

He smiled. “I thought we agreed it was to be ‘Daniel.’”

She remembered Edmund’s cautions and Louisa’s doubts. “I don’t even call our host—my cousin—by his first name. I think it ought to remain ‘Mr. Bellamy.’”

“You called me Daniel once.”

“I’m rather impulsive,” she said. “Which means I also change my mind.”