Chapter Fifteen

While the gentlemen enjoyed their brandy, the ladies sat in the drawing room and drank tea. The room was large and comfortable, its white walls embossed with gilt curlicues, which also decorated the black metal fire guard. Gold embroidery covered the white cushions on the cream sofa and matching armchairs. Occasional tables were placed around the room and a pianoforte stood near one wall under a picture of the present countess.

Wedgwood Willow bowls were in abundance, and the carpet, which covered the middle of the polished wood floor, picked up the blue of these bowls, mixing it with gold and cream. Altogether, the room had an expensive, delicate atmosphere.

The countess continued to be polite but distant, and Jane felt that she was merely being tolerated. Every time she said something, the countess looked at her as if listening carefully, then she nodded, her expression unchanging as she said, “How interesting,” until Jane wanted to scream at her to be truthful and admit she was bored.

Mama sat, busying herself by darning one of Ben’s stockings, though Jane was at a loss to know where she’d got it from, because she hadn’t been to her room to fetch it.

The countess poured the tea, then studied Mama for some moments. “There is no need to do that for dear Benedict, Mrs. Winter,” she said, and her condescending tone made Jane bristle. “Whatever the privations of his past, he is heir to the earldom now and, as such, can afford new stockings.”

Mama smiled at the countess. It was a smile Jane had seen before, a polite curving of the lips that in no way denoted pleasure. “There is still wear in these,” she said. Her voice was carefully modulated, not a hint of emotion in it.

Say nothing more, if you have any sense, Jane silently advised the countess.

The countess, of course, did not heed the advice Jane had willed upon her. “What is the point?”

Mama’s stare could have frozen the water in the earl’s lake. “Willful waste makes for woeful want.”

“Understood. And frugality is, undoubtedly, a virtue. At Carrow House, though, we have servants to do the mending.”

“Ah, but I like to be occupied. Idle hands are the devil’s workshop, are they not?”

Jane looked up at the ornate ceiling and wondered how Robert and Ben were faring with the earl. She would wager the atmosphere in the dining room was a great deal more cordial than it was in here. The earl had seemed pleasant, as warm as his wife was cold, and genuinely overjoyed to see Ben. But then, had he not been the sort of man to welcome his long lost, mentally challenged son, Jane did not think Robert would have brought them here.

Robert was compassionate and considerate, and from the first he had treated Ben exactly as he should. He’d never been condescending or mocking, like so many others had over the years. In fact, apart from that one moment on their first meeting in Bloomfold High Street, he had never reacted to Ben in any way that could be construed as objectionable. Now that Jane knew the truth of Ben’s heritage, that moment of staring, which had so incensed her at the time, was far more understandable to her.

Over the weeks, Jane had watched Ben model himself on Robert, growing in confidence and stature with every day spent in his brother’s company. Tonight, when both Robert and the earl had invited Ben to stay for brandy, his chest had puffed out so that Jane feared for his waistcoat buttons, and his smile was so wide it split his face. Robert had told Ben he would stay because he was a gentleman, and Ben had been beside himself with glee.

That instinctive knowledge of Ben’s needs was just one of the things Jane loved about Robert.

She tensed, the smile sliding from her face. Loved? Surely, she meant liked. She didn’t love anything about any man. She had learned not to do that four years ago, and it was not a lesson that bore repeating. She liked Robert for his kindness, his honor, and his integrity. She enjoyed his sense of humor and his conversation, the many interests they held in common. His handsome face was alluring, as was the way his broad shoulders filled his coat and the muscles in his thighs gave his breeches a good shape. Then there was the way his dark hair flopped over his forehead, drawing attention to the mischief and laughter in his deep brown eyes, the dimple in his cheek, which appeared only when his smile was genuine, and the way his kisses made her feel: warm and content, and wanting more.

But admiring these things did not mean she was in love. Did they?

Unsettled by her thoughts, Jane straightened, forced Robert from her mind, and concentrated on the conversation within this room. Mama was still darning the stocking, a slight smile on her face. Her expression could be interpreted as one of contented serenity, but Jane knew otherwise. She had just put Lady Barwell in her place and was relishing the satisfaction.

The countess, however, was not ready to concede defeat. “Idle hands are the devil’s workshop.” She repeated Mama’s words and the sour expression on her face said they tasted bitter to her. She sniffed, contemptuously. “The Book of Proverbs, is it not?” She grinned, and Jane was reminded of a cat about to pounce on a bird. “Are you able to read your scriptures, then, Mrs. Winter?”

Jane bristled at the blatant attempt to bait Mama. Their family may never have been wealthy, and since papa’s death the situation had become dire at times, but they were not heathens, and their education was as sound as Lady Barwell’s.

Mama inclined her head, acknowledging the barb, but her smile did not waver. “I most certainly am,” she said. “And I do. Daily. In fact, I consider the times when I read and contemplate the Bible to be golden. Although the phrase I used just now is not to be found within that holy book. Chaucer used it in his ‘Tale of Melibee.’ A writer of very droll prose, Mr. Chaucer. I am sure you must have enjoyed the Canterbury tales?”

The countess’ expression was stony. “I haven’t had the pleasure of reading them,” she said, her voice low and curt, as if the words were forced out between gritted teeth.

“Oh, you should,” answered Mama. “Some are exceedingly funny—if a little risqué. Although Melibee is tedious, so I wouldn’t recommend it as your first one.” She turned her attention back to Ben’s stocking. Lady Barwell glowered at her. Jane studied the teacup she held and concentrated on not grinning.

After a moment, Lady Barwell turned her attention back to Jane. “Mrs. Frobisher,” she said, her smile flickering back to life. “You are a widow?”

“I am, yes.” As always, Jane mentally crossed her fingers against the lie. After telling the same tale for so many years, she thought it might have become easier, but it hadn’t.

“What did your husband do?”

“Do?” Jane frowned, confused. This question had never been asked before, so she had no ready answer, and she wasn’t an accomplished enough liar for something to trip effortlessly from her tongue. She cast around for a respectable profession she should claim for the dear, departed Mr. Frobisher. Before she could think of one, Mama intervened.

“My son-in-law didn’t do anything,” she said without looking up from her darning. “He was a gentleman.” Jane breathed a silent sigh of relief.

The countess nodded. “I assume he left you well provided for?”

Jane’s eyes widened. The question would certainly have been contemplated by her acquaintances ever since she’d first told the world of Mr. Frobisher’s untimely death, but it should never have been asked of Jane to her face. That a countess could be so rude left her speechless.

Again, Mama stepped in. “My daughter is able to manage.”

Lady Barwell nodded and gave Jane a practiced look of sympathy that made the hairs on the back of Jane’s neck stand to attention. “But then, you have no real cause for concern, do you?” She smiled and shards of ice seemed to pierce the air. “You are still young, and passably pretty. You must have hopes of marrying again.”

Marrying again? Or rather, marrying at all. Jane had accepted the impossibility of that the day Sydney had rejected her and Mama had come to the rescue by inventing a decent but dead husband. Mr. Frobisher had saved the family from ruin, but in doing so, he had doomed Jane to a lifetime of spinsterhood. For how could she ever marry now? If she wished to wed, she must tell the groom the truth about herself and Lucy. Not only would any decent man be disappointed she had lied to him, he would probably be disgusted at her wantonness. Even if he did not immediately turn away from her, he would wonder when her immorality would surface again, and that could not bode well for a happy union.

She thought of how she might confess her past to Robert. No doubt he would listen without interrupting until she’d told him all; his good manners would ensure that. But what then?

Robert was a man of honor and integrity, the kind of man who would search diligently for his brother rather than take Ben’s not-insignificant birthright for himself. Surely, such a man could no more accept Jane’s dishonor than he could fly to the moon. The thought of his disappointment, the contempt in which he must hold her once he knew, caused a sharp pain in Jane’s breast. She fought the urge to massage it.

No. Robert must never know.

His stepmother smiled at Jane, benignly. “You like my stepson—my younger stepson—very much, do you not?”

The question made Jane wonder if she had voiced her thoughts aloud. Her horror must have shown on her face, because Lady Barwell laughed, softly.

“I have eyes. I saw the way you look at Robert,” she continued. Again, the look of practiced and calculated sympathy softened her features. “I would not be doing my duty if I didn’t warn you not to set too much store by him. I would hate to see him hurt you.”

That was not what Jane had expected her to say. “Why would he hurt me?”

The woman’s laughter was brittle. “Oh, he will not mean to hurt you. He never means to hurt anybody.” She leaned forward, as if conveying a confidence. “My stepson is altogether too charming for anybody’s good. You would not be the first young woman to have her heart broken and, dare I say, her dreams dashed by him. Shall I ring for more tea? The gentlemen will join us soon.”

Mama and the countess engaged in further conversation, but Jane did not hear them as the shock of the woman’s words settled over her. She was hardly able to think past the pounding of her heart and the taunting, ringing voice in her head.

He never means to hurt anybody. Too charming for anybody’s good. You would not be the first young woman to have her heart broken…

No! The word was so vehemently expressed that Jane looked around, thinking she must have said it aloud. Neither Mama nor Lady Barwell paid Jane the slightest attention and she released the breath she’d held in trepidation and retreated into quieter thoughts.

The fact was Robert could, indeed, hurt Jane badly. For one thing, Jane did like him, very much, in every way it was possible to like someone. His smile, and the tormenting dimple it brought to his cheek, made her heart skip. The merest brush of his hand against hers sent jolts of electricity coursing through her, even when she felt it through her thickest gloves. She lay awake at night, thinking of him, and wondering what he thought of her. When she slept, he invaded her dreams. She looked forward to their conversations, the bright banter, the intelligent puns, the discussion of shared interests. Seeing him with Lucy filled her with warmth, and his kisses…oh, his kisses!

She had a vision of him leaning toward her, his eyes dark with desire, the warmth of his breath caressing her skin. She smelled the cologne he used, the mint of his tooth powder, the unique scent of him as he came nearer, nearer, nearer… Then, at the very moment their lips touched she heard the countess’ words of warning:

You wouldn’t be the first young woman to have her heart broken by him.

Could that be true? Could Robert be so callous, so self-serving, as to allow a woman to be hurt by his unthinking actions? Everything within Jane screamed that it wasn’t true. He would not be so cruel. But then, why would Lady Barwell lie about it? Why would a stepmother, even one with so obviously chilled a relationship with her stepson, besmirch his good name? What could she hope to gain by it? She had nothing to gain. No reason to lie that Jane could think of.

On top of which, Jane knew her own ability to judge was flawed when it came to men. She hadn’t believed Sydney was the sort of man to seduce and then abandon a woman of good birth, either, and look where that had got her.

She was still tying herself into anxious knots over the countess’s words when the gentlemen came into the room. She looked up and her eyes met Robert’s. He smiled at her. Nervous, she bit her bottom lip as he took a step toward her. Her heart began to pound desperately, and she felt the heat rising from her chest, through her throat, into her face.

I’ve seen the way you look at my stepson.

Were her feelings so obvious? They must be, if Lady Barwell had noted them on first acquaintance. And if she had noticed, then surely, so had he…Oh Lord, how could she converse with him now? What on earth could she say that wouldn’t cause embarrassment to them both?

At the last moment, Ben darted past Robert and sat in the seat his brother had clearly intended to occupy. Jane tried to hide her relief as Robert smoothly changed tack and sat in a chair on the other side of the room. The distance between them made Jane feel something, but she couldn’t have said whether she was happy for it or sad.

“I drink brandy,” said Ben. “Not like it. But I still a gentleman.”

Jane smiled and gave her attention to her brother—no, Robert’s brother. “You didn’t like it?” she asked.

“No. It like when you eat something from the garden and not wash soil off first.”

That was not what Jane had expected him to say, but still, Ben knew what he had tasted, and it wasn’t for her to correct him.

He went into a long monologue about how he was a gentleman now, and that meant staying with the other men after dinner and not coming into the drawing room with the ladies anymore. Jane listened and nodded encouragement when it was relevant, and spent the rest of the evening trying not to let her mind, or her eyes, wander over to where Robert sat, talking with the rest of the company.

****

Robert had been tired when he went to bed. He’d stifled more than a few yawns and every muscle was heavily relaxed, but when he got to his chamber his mind seemed to wake again. Thoughts plagued him, tumbling over each other, tangling as they fought to surface and be examined.

His father’s health was worse. The earl was gaunter and more frail than he had been when Robert left on his quest, and the episodes of senility were still present. There had been more than one of them this evening, and that was a concern; to Robert’s knowledge, Father had never slipped into his own world quite so often before.

But what was to be done about it? As far as Robert was aware, there was little in the way of treatment for the earl’s condition. In fact, far from looking kindly on his illness, many people would call him mad, and fear of him may well become an issue. An ordinary man afflicted in such a way would likely be incarcerated in an asylum, or even a prison, where he would be shackled and beaten, bled and purged, all in an effort to reform him. Robert had considered such treatment inhumane even before he had read the works of Philippe Pinel, who insisted that madness was a disease, not a crime, and should be treated as such. Unfortunately, most people did not agree; Pinel himself had been lucky to escape prison for voicing such opinions. If society could treat a medical man in that way, they were unlikely to listen to Robert, or anyone like him.

Father’s title would protect him to an extent. The king had not been imprisoned when he became ill, but lived in seclusion at Windsor. Perhaps the same arrangement could be made for Father? Carrow House and its grounds were extensive enough that his confinement would not seem like incarceration, and they had the means to hire nurses. Robert could act as his father’s Regent—although he couldn’t see the earl agreeing to that, which posed quite the problem. If he tried to take control without his father’s consent, word would surely get out, and the very thing Robert hoped to avoid might happen. To say nothing of those who would consider the entire family tainted by madness and, therefore, bad blood. Especially when people thought of the earl’s illness together with the news of Ben, thirty years old but still, in many ways, an innocent child. He knew, from things Mrs. Winter had said, that people had already accused him of being a punishment for the sins of his parents. How much worse would that be when it was known his father was also afflicted? People would assume the condition was hereditary, and the entire family would become pariahs. No respectable woman would marry Robert, nor Barnaby in years to come. No businessman would deal with them.

If either Ben or Father had been an isolated case, the only one afflicted in an otherwise hale and hearty family, it might not be so devastating. Oh, there would be some who would gossip behind their hands; there always were. On the whole, though, most would not consider one incidence as reason to condemn the entire bloodline. But two, in two generations…

Should Ben be rejected by the Society Robert had forced him to join, if people were cruel, Robert would never forgive himself. He’d grown fond of his brother and hated the thought that anyone else might hate him simply because he was Ben.

Robert wasn’t the only one who would be heartbroken at such an outcome. Janey would be too, and she would blame Robert for it. Rightly so, though the thought that she might detest him made his stomach churn, and a sharp pain filled his chest.

She had looked uncertain in the drawing room tonight. He started toward her, but she’d seemed uncomfortable, as if she’d rather he didn’t. That only made him more determined, anxious to know what had overset her. If he’d done something wrong, he deserved the opportunity to put it right. Again, his stomach churned, and that pain in his chest stabbed at him. He could not, would not, be at odds with Janey, not if he could possibly avoid it.

He’d been halfway to her when Ben cut him off. His brother was eager to tell her where he had been and what he’d done, and after that, the chance to speak with her never came again. It worried him now. How could he make amends when he didn’t know his crime?

He punched the pillow into the shape he wanted and resolved to tackle her about it in the morning, then closed his eyes and tried to relax into sleep. If he was lucky, she would forgive him whatever transgression he’d made, and they would cry friends again.

If he was lucky. His father’s words came back to him. “Either you are the unluckiest man in England, or somebody has taken great exception to you.”

As far as Robert knew, he had given nobody cause to dislike him. At least, not enough that they would want him hurt or dead. He was an easygoing man, on the whole. He tried not to cause offense when he didn’t have to do so, and most people parted from him on good terms. He’d bullied no one at school or University, cheated no one in business, taken no one’s fortune at cards and, to his knowledge, he had never been anyone’s bitter rival in love. No woman had ever interested him enough to want to be.

Again, he thought of Janey. He remembered how she’d stood in her Mama’s cottage in Bloomfold and announced she and Lucy would not be left behind while her mother and brother travelled to Barwell. She’d stood, ready to defy them all, her eyes sparking bright blue, ice and fire. Her blonde hair was slightly disheveled where she’d removed her bonnet, and wisps of it shone in the sunshine that seemed to come through the window just to illuminate her. She’d been magnificent. He had been spellbound.

Inwardly he had rejoiced at the thought of spending more time with her, even as he wondered if it was prudent to do so. He enjoyed her company, but at the same time, it grew more and more difficult when, every time he saw her, all he wanted to do was take her into his arms, hold her close, feel the warmth of her against him, her soft breasts pressed against his chest, her pulse beating with his, her lips warm and full and welcoming. He wanted her slender fingers to play in his hair, sending those delicious shudders through his scalp and down his spine, until his brain surrendered, all thought retreating as his blood flowed south and made him ache with need.

Just the remembrance of it threatened his control. How did the woman do that? She wasn’t even present, and she brought him close to the edge. She filled his thoughts, visited his dreams, would not let him be.

Janey like Robert. Ben’s words echoed in his brain.

“And Robert likes Janey,” he whispered into the empty darkness.

The truth in the statement caught him by surprise. Robert liked Janey. He had feelings for her, and they were deeper than he’d imagined he could ever feel. Although he told himself, rather more quickly than was decent, they were merely feelings of lust, not love. Love wasn’t like this.

Not that Robert had ever been in love, or even close to it, but surely, it could not be like this. This torment of wondering what the other person felt, the uncertainty over every word they said, every look they gave. The need to be with them as much as one could, to spend every waking hour with them, or thinking of them, dreaming of them, wondering what they would think of the things one saw, or heard, or came upon in the course of a day.

But then, what was love, if it was not those things?

He sat up in bed and stared, wide-eyed into the darkness. Was he in love with Janey? If he was, what did it mean? Could he, in all conscience, offer for her? Would she be willing to take him? He didn’t think she would reject him because he was a penniless second son; she wasn’t angling after the catch of the season or expecting vast wealth.

Nor did she care for the title. It wasn’t a world she was accustomed to, after all.

He frowned. Ben was the heir apparent and would become the earl when Father died. However, given Ben’s disabilities, it was unlikely he would produce an heir. Which meant that, one day, Robert, or Robert’s son, would take the title. How would Janey feel about that?

Most women would see it as an advantage, something in Robert’s favor. His Janey would probably hate the idea.

His Janey? Was she his Janey? Was she his anything? He huffed a humorless laugh. Here he was, worrying how hypothetical futures might affect her, and for aught he knew, it was moot because she felt nothing for him at all, let alone love!

The thoughts swirled round and round in his head, taking him first this way, then that. His eyes were heavy, and there was a dragging headache behind them, and he cursed his mind for being so active. He punched the pillow once more and willed himself to stop thinking and try to fall asleep.

It was a long time before he managed to do so.