Jane was absolutely chilled to the bone, but it had nothing to do with the weather outside. She sat stone-still in the pew, Lord Needles on her left, her mother on her right. Several minutes had passed since Lucas’s departure from the church, and still her eyes remained focused ahead, concentrated on the vicar.
She didn’t hear a word the man imparted, though, and was only vaguely aware of his presence as he bowed his head over the scripture.
Her entire being was consumed by the look in Lucas’s eyes as he’d stormed from the church, the somber sound of each step on the stone floor driving a nail into her heart.
He’d been offended by her impersonal and distant behavior, which had been her intent, of course. After last night’s kiss, Jane could no longer pretend that continuing on as Lucas’s friend would ever be enough for her.
She loved him.
And because she did, she needed to keep as far away from him as possible.
The congregation stood and Jane automatically rose with them, covertly studying Lord Needles while the vicar made his closing remarks.
He could take her far away from Surrey and Lucas. Encouraging his courtship might make all of her problems dissolve into thin air. Her parents would be saved from ruin. Jane could build a life with Lord Needles, start a family, and forget all about Lucas Cavanaugh.
Her mother moved toward the end of the aisle and Jane followed, with Lord Needles closely behind.
“Lady Cybil, might you and your nephew wish to join us for Christmas luncheon?” Lady Merriweather inquired of Lord Needles’s aunt as they met at the back of the church.
Lady Pearson smiled graciously as she adjusted the velvet cloak about her shoulders. “That would be lovely, Alice. Thank you for the invitation.”
They said their good-byes to the vicar and stepped outside, a bracing wind hitting each in the face as they took their first steps into the storm.
“Best move quickly, before the snow overtakes us all,” Jane’s father suggested, offering one arm to his wife and the other to Lady Pearson. “Ladies, hold tight. I would not want you to blow away in this treacherous wind.”
All three laughed heartily, then set off toward Juniper Hall, Jane and Lord Needles bringing up the rear.
“Well, it would seem they were right,” Lord Needles said, setting a brisk but comfortable pace. “We’ll have more snow for Christmas than we’ll know what to do with.”
Jane smiled at him, attempting in earnest to forget everything that had occurred before. “I must admit, I’m quite fond of the snow,” she replied, pulling the collar of her fur-trimmed mantle higher about her neck. “It has the ability to magically transform one’s surroundings—as if you’d suddenly found yourself in the middle of a fairy tale.”
Lord Needles nodded in agreement and turned to take in the quiet beauty that surrounded them. “Such a romantic notion, fairy tales, don’t you think?”
“Oh yes,” Jane replied without thinking as she watched her parents and Lady Pearson disappear around a bend in the path. “Fairy tales are nothing without romance. I’d go so far as to suggest their very foundation is built upon such things—after all, one could not reach their happily ever after without romance.”
“And your happily ever after, Miss Merriweather?”
She looked directly at Lord Needles, her mind working to knit together a reasonable response. “I’m sorry, my lord—and I don’t mean to be impertinent—but how, precisely, did we arrive at such a topic?”
“Well,” he said simply, holding a hand out to capture snowflakes as they fell. “I commented on the snow. And then you made the observation that the snow possessed transformative powers—”
“You’re being coy, Lord Needles,” Jane interrupted, unsure of his endgame.
“My attempt at charm, I’m afraid,” he explained, an endearing smile forming on his lips. “It could be argued that we botanists are much more skilled at the scientific method as pertains to romance. First a hypothesis, which I had the opportunity to work out during last night’s party when Mr. Cavanaugh kissed you under the mistletoe.”
Jane’s stomach dropped at the words “kissed” and “mistletoe.” “Did you know mistletoe is considered a parasitic plant?” she queried, the deepening snow becoming harder to slog through with each step.
“I am a botanist, Jane.”
“Of course,” she answered, hitching up her skirts slightly in an effort to make the going easier. “How silly of me.”
Lord Needles offered her his arm, but Jane refused, though why she did so she could not exactly fathom.
“As for observation,” he continued, clasping his hands behind his back in a scholarly manner. “This morning’s service was quite enlightening.”
Jane cringed at the mention of the Christmas message. “Yes, well, Vicar Jones does have a way with words.”
“What was your favorite point from the sermon, Jane?”
She could have sworn the path between the vicarage and Juniper Hall contained nothing that could be compared to a hill. And yet her body strained with effort, her mind with panic. “Well, it is very hard to pick just one,” she began, looking at her companion.
Lord Needles appeared to be hanging on her every word.
Blast. “If pressed, I would choose the donkey, near the manger. And his …” It appeared lying was every bit as exhausting as tromping through fresh snow. “And his humble, yet pure spirit.”
“You weren’t listening, were you?”
Jane stopped and released her skirts, resting her hands on her hips. “But there’s always a donkey in the Christmas story.”
“The vicar spoke on chapter two of the book of Luke,” Lord Needles explained, offering his arm a second time. “And the importance of the shepherds as messengers.”
Jane should have known the vicar would reuse last year’s Christmas sermon. She accepted Lord Needles’s kindness this time, looping her arm through his and allowing herself to rest against his bulk.
“You weren’t listening because you were far too busy pretending to not be in love with Mr. Cavanaugh,” Lord Needles continued, patting her hand with his.
All was not lost. It couldn’t be. Not yet. “A passing fancy, my lord.” Jane strove to adopt a light, dismissive air. “Nothing more than an infatuation from our youth that rears its ugly head from time to time.”
“I don’t believe you,” he replied, his hand warming hers. “I’ve seen a woman look at a man like that. You love him. And if I’m not mistaken, he loves you.”
Jane stared at him, aghast, her mouth moving, though no words came forth. “Wh … I … Bu …” She tugged Lord Needles to a stop and squared her shoulders. “You are mistaken, my lord. As mistaken as one ever could be.”
“Jane,” he said in a kind tone. “I would like to court you—perhaps even marry you one day. I am almost sure we would have a good life together—a splendid life, even. But doing so would rob you of the greatest gift this life has to offer—love. Are you willing to give up what you so greatly deserve? Forget everything else and think only of your heart. And then give me your answer.”
Jane’s panic, so recently rising in her throat and threatening to make away with her senses, suddenly cooled. Mild, relief-riddled acceptance took its place.
She looked at Lord Needles intently, imagining a life with him. There would be laughter and companionship. Comfort and the blessing of children. A strong and true affection born of genuine appreciation. But not love.
“Miss Jane!”
The cry carried from around the bend, followed closely by the appearance of Robby astride Fickle, the draft gelding.
Jane and Lord Needles watched the elderly man draw near. He balanced precariously upon the massive horse, his wiry frame bouncing up and down in time to Fickle’s hoofbeats.
“Miss Jane, there you are!” Robby exclaimed, bringing Fickle to a sliding halt in front of her and Lord Needles. “Beggin’ your pardon, but it’s Reg. He’s gone missing again. And I fear for him in the coming storm.”
Jane gasped at this closer view of Robby. Her old friend was wrapped in a hand-me-down coat she’d thought ripped to bits for rags years ago. He was shaking from the cold and his teeth were literally chattering.
Jane removed her hand from Lord Needles’s and reached for Fickle’s reins. “Come, Robby, off you go.”
The footman obliged and carefully slid his small, wiry frame down the side of Fickle until both his feet touched the ground.
“How long do you believe he’s been gone?” Jane asked, stepping around to Fickle’s left side.
“Close to three hours.”
She gestured for Robby to give her a leg up.
“Miss Merriweather, though it is not my place,” Lord Needles said, rounding the big horse to reach her, “I do not think it wise of you to be out in this storm any longer than is absolutely required.”
Jane glared at Robby until he knelt down and took her foot in his hands. “Lord Needles, though you’ve no reason to do so, I would ask that you grant me one last kindness.”
He stood motionless, neither agreeing nor disagreeing with her request.
“Take Robby to the vicarage and ask Vicar Jones to see that he’s given a blanket and a bit of warming broth,” Jane continued, throwing her leg over the draft as gracefully as she could, considering her attire.
Though she would appreciate Lord Needles’s kindness until the day she died, Jane needed to be away from the man and the secure future that he would take with him.
“And my answer is no, my lord. I am not willing to give up. Thank you for reminding me of who I am,” she added, backing Fickle away before turning him ’round on the path and setting off in search of Reginald.