The Desperate Love of a Lord (8 page)

“Your Grace, did you call?”

Jane swiftly turned her gaze to her butler, knowing her discomfort must be visible. She was surely flushed, and a thundercloud probably flashed in her eyes. Undoubtedly, Garnett had heard their raised voices from the hall and had come to her rescue. Thank God.

“The Duke is just leaving, Garnett. Perhaps you could show him out.”

She met Joshua’s gaze again. His eyes were as Hector’s would have been in his youth, clear and dark brown. His tall stature was magnificent, imposing, and although she hated to admit it, he was handsome in his way. But there was nothing handsome in his character.

For nine years, she had suffered life as Hector’s wife and this man had helped make those years miserable. So while part of her could not blame Joshua for his anger over the money, another part could. It was not her fault, so why should she be the one to pay?

He did not move, didn’t budge an inch except for a muscle twitching at the edge of his mouth. His eyes told her he was assessing the situation and deciding his next move. After all, he could not force her to comply unless he was also prepared to force all of her staff, who would undoubtedly testify on her behalf that she had been coerced.

He must have drawn the same conclusion, for his brow furrowed, and he virtually spat his final words on the subject in her direction. “Very well, Jane, I shall leave, but I warn you, this is not the end.
I shall have my father’s fortune
.”

It was not even a statement; it was a decree.

Watching, she waited, still stiff with fear and irritation.

He spun about and strode from the room, the tension of his anger visible in every taut, muscular line of his body.

She held her erect stance, not even daring to breathe, while Garnett followed in Joshua’s wake; her fists were curled so tight against her sides, her fingernails pressed into her palms.

When she heard the front door open and close, she crumpled, dropping back into the chair.

Her shoulders were shaking in response to her retreating fear, and she covered her face with her hands. A sob escaped her throat before she could control it, even though her eyes were dry.

“Your Grace?”

Garnett.

She sensed him moving closer and drew in a deep breath, fighting for composure as she let her hands fall to her lap and straightened up.

“Madam, is there anything I may fetch you?”

The young butler bowed to her as she looked up. It was not his place to ask if she was well or needed help, but his expression admitted his concern.

Her life was unravelling at the seams. Unfortunately, she did not think a cup of tea would fix it. A raucous, disturbing laugh rang in her thoughts, a sound she knew bordered on insanity.

It was ridiculous.

She was now completely alone, apart from her servants.

There was no way out. No going back. She could only seek a path forward, and she could not do that if she became a simpering wreck or lost her marbles. No, she had to think, and get away from Joshua. She needed somewhere else to go.

She sucked all her courage back into her lungs on a long, deep breath. “No, thank you, Garnett.” Her eyes looked past the butler, her mind reaching for ideas. Then she remembered Garnett’s timely interruption. “Thank you for your intervention. I am grateful.”

“Your Grace,” he accepted, his voice full of compassion. “If you have need of anything, you will ring?” Then he bowed once more and left.

Jane stood. Her body was tense and her thoughts raced. She began pacing the hearth rug, crossing back and forth, her hands clasped at her waist. The sound of Joshua’s carriage pulling away permeated the windows.

She had thought this property secure, a place which would be a home at last. She had rented it only last week and moved in but two days ago, and Number Three, The Circle, Bath, was the answer to her prayers, the supposed beginning of a new and independent life. Joshua had proved her wrong. No doubt Messrs Brampton and Bailey, Hector’s solicitors, who had arranged her tenancy, had passed on her forwarding address. It had never occurred to her Joshua would follow.

She’d vacated the entailed property, which had become Joshua’s, within a week, allowing the new Duke, his wife, and eight children to take up residence. But it seemed having his father’s sprawling country estate and his town mansion, as well as a number of other smaller holdings and all the tenancies and income which went with them, was not enough.

Of course, a man in his father’s mould completely, Joshua wanted it all, and he wanted her to have nothing. But let him bully her as much as he wished. “I will not give in.”

Stopping before the mirror over the mantelpiece, she looked at her sad, pathetic reflection. She was gaunt, her skin sallow and grey, large dark circles rimmed her eyes, but then she had slept very little since Hector’s sudden death four weeks ago. She had arranged the funeral and played sorrowful widow at his wake, while neither Joshua nor his wife had made any effort to attend.

Joshua had severed all ties with his father the day the old Duke had married Jane. Since then, her stepson had taken the greatest pleasure in victimising her, including making several indecent propositions.

Yet when Hector was alive, Joshua had never entered their home.

Her eyes faced her reflection, Jane Grey, the Dowager Duchess of Sutton. A dowager at the ripe old age of six and twenty. It was ludicrous. It had always been ludicrous marrying a man more than four times her age with a son over twenty years her senior. But her parents had thought only of the title and their financial security. They hadn’t given a fig for her happiness. She had been bartered off for profit.

Finally, happiness was in reach. But Joshua was snatching it from her grasp once more. She was in equal measure angry and afraid.

He had the estates. They would make another fortune in time and plenty to live on. Why could he not leave her alone?

Oh, she wished her parents were alive. She would have run to them and let them share the hell they’d crafted.

Pressing her fingers to her forehead, she caught her sharp emerald gaze reflected in the mirror. Her almond-shaped eyes shone. She frowned in self-deprecation. Despite her current worn and sickly look, she was still beautiful. She did not feel in the least vain to recognise it. To her, it had been a simple and sorrowful fact for years, no blessing. Her unusual colouring, her jet-black, spiralling hair, her honeyed skin tone and, most of all, her vivid green eyes, were all at fault.

As Sutton’s wife, her beauty had drawn constant attention. It was a gift from her ancestors – so her mother had once told Jane, glowing with pride. She came from a distant line of Spanish nobility.

Jane saw little to be proud of today. Beauty was a curse. It attracted men like Hector. Men who wanted to acquire it.

He’d sought eternal youth through an innocent, young woman in her sixteenth year and he’d drained Jane’s life from her. She was an empty shell now. That blind, ignorant girl died the night her seventeenth year commenced. The woman who faced her now was born when she’d stood before an altar and promised herself to a man four times her age.

But it was useless thinking of the past; she could not change it. The only thing she was certain of was her future would not be under her stepson’s rule.

Jane turned and paced back across the rug. She thought of Lady Rimes, Violet. The woman Jane had lovingly named the wicked widow. Last winter in Bath, when Hector had visited the spa to take the waters, Jane had snatched moments to escape and formed an unlikely and rare friendship with Violet. Violet was everything Jane was not, and the reason Jane had come to Bath. She’d hoped Violet would be here. It had taken one look in the register book at the pump room to realise her hopes were naïve.

This was not winter. The month of May meant the
ton
, England’s elite society, were in London; of course Violet was there.

But Jane knew Violet would help her. They’d sought each other out numerous times last winter. Violet had made Jane laugh for the first time in years, and when Jane had left Bath, her friend had begged Jane to visit whenever she wished.

Then this is my answer
.

If she lived with Violet, surely Joshua would not dare barge into the house. Every insult he’d thrown had been out of the earshot of society. He picked his moments carefully. Violet’s presence would hold him at bay until Jane could find a pathway forward.

Impatient suddenly, she strode to the door, the black muslin skirt of her high-waist gown with its fashionable empire line, slashing against her legs, restricting her hurried and determined steps. When she reached the door, she looked out into the hall.

Garnett stood beside the front door. “Garnett, would you have Meg fetch my pelisse and bonnet? I am going out, and while I am out, please hire a post-chaise and team to transport me to London, and have Meg pack. I will be leaving tomorrow.”

The Pump Room’s director would know Violet’s address.

The butler bowed stiffly.

Chapter Two

Jane’s gaze swept the spectacle of the Duchess of Weldon’s spring Ball. The room was flooded with shimmering, spinning colours as she watched the dancers, the debutantes in white muslins, and their mamas and chaperones wearing every shade of the rainbow and beyond. Gentlemen punctuated the spectacle in formal black, crisply starched white cravats and silk stockings; their only show of frivolity, the glinting embroidery on their waistcoats.

It was a beautiful sight, and all the glamour was reflected in shards of light, spinning and flickering from the crystal prisms of glass dangling from the chandeliers above, and from mirrors which lined the ballroom above head height. The orchestra played a merry country tune, and the dancers bounced and stepped in time, skirts swaying. Laughter, chatter, and the sound of their footsteps filled the stifling air.

Jane had never been to a ball in London until recently. Access to the splendour of this society ritual should have been hers by right as a duchess, but Hector had preferred small, crude affairs for entertainment. He had not held balls, nor attended them, and so, nor had she.

It all appeared surreal to her now, a place of dreams. Yet she’d existed in this world of illusion for over two weeks. It was Violet’s everyday life. Jane was still overawed by it. She wished for her friend’s air of confidence.

For the past two weeks, Jane had studied Violet’s every movement, longing to gain both town polish and society’s approval. To date, they had eluded her. Of course, wearing black did not help. She should not even be on the social round. She ought to be at home, tucked up in bed and reading a book, acting out the role of deepest mourning. But if she obeyed that unwritten law, then she would be at the mercy of Joshua.

Besides, Violet, the model on whom Jane was moulding her own image, did not give a whit for society’s conventions, and no one seemed to pay any attention to Violet’s blatant misdemeanours. Violet’s favourite saying was, “Society’s rules are only there to be broken.” She put no store at all by them and persistently urged Jane to just put off her blacks and face the indignation, weighting her argument by pointing out Jane was now a wealthy widow and she need not pander to the
ton
’s condescension
.
Violet also said it was only the women who’d care. The men would not give a damn. They would be too busy being intrigued by another merry widow entering the fray.

Jane was not that brave. Yet she did not doubt Violet’s perception. Everywhere they went, men glanced sideways, implying their interest.

Jane had not come to town to become embroiled with another man though. She had come to town to escape one. At least that, to date,
had
been successful.

“Jane, dear, I know you do not wish to dance while in mourning; would you care for cards?”

Violet’s words stirred Jane from her reverie. She turned to her friend and smiled. “Truly, Violet, I do not mind at all if you wish to dance. I am quite happy to sit it out alone.”

Violet’s sole purpose in life was bringing men to her heel; she kept them on an invisible leash. She’d had numerous affairs, and made no secret of them. Jane thought such things too
risqué
.

Yet observing Violet’s intrigues had stirred new emotions in Jane. She noticed the muscular turn of a man’s calf and his broad shoulders and slender hips far more than she had before.

“Lady Rimes, you will, of course, allow me to take your hand for the waltz.” Lord Sparks, a third son, a very attractive man, a little older than Jane, bowed over Violet’s hand.

Jane turned to gaze at the gathering dancers, ignoring the caressing forefinger she had seen him slip inside her friend’s glove beneath her wrist. Jane knew Lord Sparks. He was one of Violet’s long-standing flirts and a man of excessive qualities according to her friend’s indiscreet descriptions.

His attention turned to Jane.

He had an unabashed beauty and an impressive figure. The dancing glimmer in his eyes made Jane blush. She dropped a slight curtsy. He took her hand, but his grip was formal, not testing any of convention’s boundaries. “Your Grace, it is a pleasure to see you again. I hope you do not mind if I steal your friend away for a while?”

Matching his broad smile, Jane answered, “How could I possibly deny either of you? Of course I do not mind.”

“You are very kind, Your Grace.” He bowed, then turned to Violet and extended his hand. “Lady Rimes?”

Violet took it and let him draw her away, sending Jane a jovial smile over her shoulder, as if to say she would not be long.

To give her fingers something to do, Jane applied her black lace fan in a swift sweep beneath her chin and looked up at the call of a new arrival. The footman positioned at the head of the stairs, rapped his staff on the wooden floor and announced the guest whose name was swept away by the tune of the Venetian waltz flooding the room. Yet when the imposing male stepped forward, Jane’s heart stopped, as did the movement of her fan.

Lord Robert Marlow, the eleventh Earl of Barrington, was the last person on earth she wished to meet. Or perhaps – her heart set up a wild and anxious rhythm – he was the person she most wished to. But not like this, not in her blacks, when she did not look her best.