Chapter Seven

Another week passed. The weather brightened as spring became summer, although it was still cold. The spring flowers in Mama’s garden died back, making way for the colors summer would bring. With Mary helping in the house, Mama had time to tend the garden properly, tidying and training plants, growing flowers and some vegetables. Lucy spent time with her, paying rapt attention as Grandmama pointed out the different plants and allowed her to help with the easier tasks.

Jem helped Robert downstairs every day. After that, the manservant would chop wood or mend the hedge, or do the myriad other jobs that needed more strength than Jane or Mama possessed.

Ben followed Jem around like a poodle, so close on his heels he ran the risk of tripping over him. Jem had infinite patience with him. Many people would—had—grown weary of Ben. Some were cruel to him. But Jem spoke to him in friendly terms, enlisted his help and swore he couldn’t have completed the work without it. Ben’s proud grin split his face and he seemed to grow several inches.

Robert was a dreadful patient, far too eager to move about and prove he was no invalid. When Doctor Bull said he might leave his bed and sit in a chair, Robert came downstairs. When he was told he could come downstairs and sit in the parlor, he practiced walking around the furniture. Now he tried to walk back and forth without leaning on anything. His legs were stiff, and he walked with a rolling gait, not quite limping but not wholly healed. He moved across the room, first one way, then the other, stumbling over his own feet and cursing as he grabbed onto furniture to prevent a fall.

Jane watched from the doorway, unable to help herself as the muscles in his broad back flexed and shifted with his efforts. He no longer needed the sling, although his left arm was still markedly thinner than his right.

He took another step. Jane’s eyes travelled down from his wide, strong shoulders to his narrow waist and hips and on to his legs and buttocks, which were firm and well-shaped, his muscles well defined beneath his snug-fitting trousers. She licked her lips and a strange feeling, like the buzzing of a million bees, filled her stomach.

She closed her eyes and willed herself to behave. When she opened them again, he had turned and now watched her intently. Nonplussed, she asked in a waspish voice, “Should you be doing that?”

“The more I do, the more I can do.” His deep voice seemed to make the air vibrate. He smiled, and a tiny dimple showed in his cheek.

“If you do too much, you might undo the good of your previous efforts.” To her ears, Jane’s voice sounded breathy, as if she had run before speaking.

“You are correct, of course, and I am ready to rest.” He gestured to a chair, inviting her to join him. She was about to refuse when she realized he would not sit until she did. Over the past weeks, he had, of necessity, stayed seated while she or Mama stood, but now his strength was returning and he would be a gentleman.

Jane saw something else as well: he had reached his limit for today. His face was pale, and there were beads of sweat on his upper lip. His eyes, ringed by dark circles, held pain. She guessed it took a great effort to remain standing.

Startled by this epiphany, Jane hurried to the chair. She sat, then he did. His movements were careful, slow, as if he tried to hide the pain in each movement.

At the very last moment, he knocked the occasional table beside him. It teetered and threatened to topple. Robert grasped it, preventing its fall, but grunting as his muscles jarred.

Although he saved the table, he wasn’t quick enough to save his book, which fell to the floor. Jane moved to retrieve it at the same moment he reached for it, and their fingers brushed. The sudden jolt of electricity made her jump, and she pulled back her hand as if she’d been burned. He pulled back just as quickly. Had he felt it too?

She looked up. His eyes were darker than ever, his gaze seeming to bore through her.

This was a dreadful idea. A mistake she couldn’t afford to make. She should break eye contact, stand, back away. Now.

Her legs refused to straighten; her eyes refused to look away. Her heart raced until the beats melded into one long, continuous note, loud and insistent, drowning out the tiny voice of caution.

His hand touched hers again, this time a soft caress, light as a flower’s petal against her skin. Jane shivered. He moved closer. She could see each fleck in his eyes, every individual lash around them. His warm skin held the fragrance of woods in summer. It mixed with the scent of laundry soap on his shirt and that of the starch in his cravat, and an indescribable, undefinable something that was unique to him.

Jane didn’t know if she moved toward him or he moved toward her, but the gap between them disappeared. His arms enfolded her, warm against her back, and she felt his breath, soft against her cheek. He lowered his gaze, studied her mouth, then slowly, slowly, came closer until, finally, his lips brushed hers, soft, barely there. She tasted the coffee he’d drunk at breakfast, and the sharp tang of his tooth powder.

She closed her eyes and willed him to kiss her again.

He obliged. This time his kiss was harder, firmer against her lips. The beginnings of his new beard scratched her. His hand moved up and cradled her neck. She wound her arms around him and her fingers played with the silky ends of his hair. She heard a small noise and realized it came from her. Her nipples hardened and there was a dull, warm ache between her legs.

His tongue pressed against the seam of her lips and she opened, letting him in. His tongue danced with hers. Instinctively, she moved her own tongue, and felt him smile against her mouth. His fingers splayed in her hair, loosening pins, which pinged as they hit the floor. Her hair uncoiled, falling over her shoulders. She held him closer, tighter. A soft growl rumbled in his chest. She wanted this. She wanted more. She wanted…

In the garden, Lucy squealed, bringing Jane back to reality. She was in the parlor where anyone might come in, and she was kissing a man she barely knew.

Harlot.

She pulled away, quickly and took a step back. Then another. Their eyes held. She couldn’t have looked away from him had she tried. He made no attempt to come after her. He said nothing. Jane didn’t know if she wanted him to or not.

Sydney would have. Sydney had used soft words, called it destiny, because how else could they have shared such a wonderful kiss?

Except Sydney’s kisses hadn’t been wonderful. Jane had thought they were when he’d been the only man she had ever kissed, but compared to what she’d just shared with Robert, Sydney’s were nothing. Robert’s kiss was warm and strong and filled as much with emotion as with desire. He left her wanting—craving—more. She couldn’t stop it, couldn’t control it. And it terrified her.

“I should…” She gestured over her shoulder.

“Yes.” His voice was gruff.

She held his gaze for maybe three seconds more. Then she raced from the room, pulling the door firmly shut behind her.

Alone in the corridor, she took what seemed her first proper breath in…forever. What had she done? She had kissed Robert Carrow. Mr. Carrow, she corrected herself. It would be best to keep things formal between them from now on.

She touched her fingertips to her lips and shivered. That could never happen again. It would not happen again. She would make certain of it. She had far too much to lose this time.

****

Robert sank into his chair. The careless movement jarred his ribs and made him grunt. His shoulder ached, as did his legs where he’d pushed them hard, strengthening his muscles in the hope of healing faster. He thought it was working, since he could stand for longer and do more before the pain came, and his limp was less pronounced.

What he could not exercise away, though, was his anger. He clenched his fists, welcoming the pull on the muscles in his healing arm. His jaw tightened and he wanted to hit something, although if justice was served, the only thing being hit would be him.

He had kissed Janey. Taken advantage of her vulnerability and trust, acted less than honorably. He scoffed. Less than honorably? There was no honor in him at all.

For weeks he had desired her. He watched her move about while he was incapacitated, enjoyed the gentle sway of her hips, the way her bosom lifted when she reached for something on a high shelf. He reveled in the sight of her dress molding to her firm, round bottom when she picked up something from the floor. Everything about her drew him in: the lightly tanned skin above the neckline of her dress, the slender gracefulness of her throat, the dainty curve of her waist.

At the same time, he came to know her better. She read to him, and listened while he read to her. They talked. He told her things he had not confided to anyone outside his family. He’d begun to consider her a friend.

And now, with one stolen kiss, he’d spoiled it all.

Damn! Janey was a respectable widow with a reputation and a family to care for, not some tavern wench out for a good time and a few pennies. She deserved to be treated with circumspection, yet he…he ought to be horsewhipped.

His book dropped to the floor. She’d made to pick it up. That was all she intended, a brief kindness to a man who found movement awkward. It was Robert who had turned it into more, Robert who had touched her hand. Had she felt the same jolt at that brief, accidental touch? The look of surprise on her face said it was possible. Or was it wishful thinking that saw in her the same sizzle that raced through him, putting every last nerve on edge?

She’d held him, her arms around his neck, her fingers toying with his hair. He smiled at the memory. She had been hesitant, unsure of herself, and there was a naïveté in her that was surprising, considering she’d been married and had a child. Her sweet innocence made him want her all the more, not just with that part of him that had grown so hard it was painful, but with every fiber of his being.

Which was terrible. It didn’t matter that she’d kissed him back, or that she’d given that soft mewl of pleasure when his tongue stroked the length of hers. Janey Frobisher was out of bounds. A gentleman—and Robert was a gentleman, despite current appearances—did not play fast and loose with a woman like her, especially when he had nothing to offer her.

A year ago, Robert Carrow could have courted her properly. He’d been the oldest son of an earl, set to inherit the title one day and, with it, large tracts of profitable land, business interests, and a healthy bank balance. He could have offered Janey the life he’d like her to have, one of comfort and ease.

Now, he was no longer certain what he was. He might be a second son, entitled to nothing, destined to make his own way in the world. Or he may still be the heir. Until Benedict was traced, and his identity verified, Robert could not know which he was.

Both would have consequences for a wife. And yes, it was early to think of Janey as his wife, but he had kissed her, felt things for her, dreamed of her. The thought of spending forever with her did not fill him with dread.

Could he make her happy? She was a country widow, of less than modest means. She was not a Society lady, doing the rounds of At Homes and gossiping over tea and cakes. If he was the future earl, his wife would have to fit in with that world, and Janey might be overwhelmed and uncomfortable there. It would make her unhappy, more so if she believed, at the time of their marriage, that she was becoming the wife of an ordinary man, with no title, no fortune, and no expectations.

On the other hand, if he told her he might be the heir, would she be dissatisfied if he proved to be no more than a second son? Perhaps she would feel cheated, tricked into marriage with false promises.

He’d concealed his lineage from her. It wasn’t that he didn’t wish her to know, specifically. He hadn’t told anyone about his family connections since leaving home to scour the countryside for a young man who may not even exist anymore. Keeping a low profile made for more honest encounters with many people. He’d been plain Mr. Carrow at the inn in Bloomfold, and the opportunity to tell Janey the truth had never arisen. First, he’d been too ill, then too careful. Now, it was too late.

And really, what did it matter? Unless her brother Ben turned out to be his brother Benedict—and didn’t that throw open a whole Pandora’s box of complications?—their time together would be brief, and his lineage a moot point.

Plus, there were other considerations…

He dropped his good hand over his bad arm, massaging away the dull ache. The broken bones had knitted and the muscles were strengthening, but Robert could not ignore that someone had tried to kill him.

The first few incidents had seemed like accidents. Negligence on the part of a servant, clumsiness in himself. But after the carriage…

The first attempt to run him down in the High Street might have been unplanned. The horses were out of control, the coachman reckless. But less than half an hour later, the same carriage had come for him again, on a little-used lane. The same coachman had whipped the same team, urging them to hit Robert, to trample him and anyone else who stood in the way.

Anger tightened his throat and burned his eyes. Lucy could have been killed. She was a bright child, full of laughter and mischief, with a curious mind fueled by a thousand questions. Somebody had been willing to snuff out all that, just to kill him.

Robert wanted to tear the villains limb from limb, to break their bones and see how they liked it. He wanted them to rue the day they’d put Lucy Frobisher in danger.

He might get the chance. There had been enough incidents, now, that he didn’t believe this was the end of it. Whoever it was, the incident in the lane proved they wanted him dead. Therefore, he must believe they would try again. And this time, he would be ready for them.