Andrea Pickens - [Lessons in Love 01] (17 page)

"Ooooh, Miss Jane," said Peter. "Why, you are beautiful! Isn't she, Uncle Edward?"

"Indeed." The grin had been replaced by some more inscrutable expression.

"You see, Peter. A gentleman must always be polite," she said to mask her embarrassment. To her dismay, she could feel the color mounting in her face, just like some schoolroom miss receiving her first compliment. She quickly began fumbling for the pins and twisting her hair back into a thick rope.

"Leave it down," murmured Saybrook.

Her hands paused.

"Just this afternoon. The rules, remember, are suspended." There was a strange, poignant appeal in his look, something that made her release the mass of curls.

"Just for this afternoon."

He smiled again and she tried to ignore the fluttering she felt inside.

"When can I see what's in your basket?" Peter had suddenly spied the mysterious bundle sitting on the ledge.

"Go ahead and look, brat."

"A kite! It's a kite! Will you show me how to fly it?"

Saybrook scrambled to his feet. "We must go out into the field where there are no trees." He turned to Jane, but she waved them both on their way.

"The two of you go along. I shall pack up everything here." What she really needed was a little time along to sort through her tangled emotions.

* * *

The sun was beginning to set as they rode back towards Highwood. Peter wore an expression of complete bliss but Jane could tell by the way that his chatter had died down and by the tilt of his shoulders that he was struggling to stay awake. Even she had to admit she was not unhappy to see the pale limestone facade of the great house through the trees. She and Saybrook had spoken little on the way back, but it was a companionable silence, comfortable and easy as they exchanged smiles over some of Peter's more exuberant observations.

Though the grooms were waiting for them, it was Saybrook who reached up to help her from the saddle, his strong, lithe fingers around her waist, lifting her effortlessly. As Peter slid off his pony, it seemed as if he would keep going, right to the ground until Saybrook's arm shot out and caught him about the waist. Hoisting the boy to his shoulder, he remarked how it was time for imps to be in bed.

"I'm not tired," protested Peter, as he wrapped his arm around the marquess's neck. "I don't want to go to bed. I don't want today to end."

Jane was walking alongside Saybrook, carrying the baskets. She reached up and ruffled the boy's hair. "There will be other days."

"As nice as this?"

"I certainly hope so."

From the drawing room window Mrs. Fairchild and Glavin watched them approach.

"Such a lovely picture they make, don't they? If only it was possible..." she sighed and let her words trail off.

Glavin nodded. "Haven't seen His Lordship this happy since his mother was alive."

Jane went around to the kitchen entrance and handed the baskets to the scullery maid. She caught up with Saybrook in the main entrance hall, where the footmen were struggling to keep straight faces at the sight of the marquess, disheveled and mud-spattered, with a sleepy little boy entwined around his neck.

"My lord," called Jane as he began to climb the stairs. "Let me take Peter to bed. You needn't..."

"I don't mind." He kept going, giving her no chance to argue.

She fell in step behind him, feeling a little grateful that she didn't, in fact, have to manage carrying the boy. Peter was fast asleep when Saybrook put down on the bed and held him up while Jane unbuttoned his shirt and slipped his nightshirt over his head. She slid off his muddy pantaloons and shoes, then tucked him under the covers. Saybrook had lit the candle on the boy's nightstand. He guided her into the empty hallway and shut the door behind them.

"Do you care to sup tonight?" he inquired.

Jane shook her head. "No, I think I shall retire, too. It has been a long day."

He made no reply but walked—slowly, it seemed to her—by her side. His shoulders were so close to hers that she could feel the warmth from them. It made her think of how wide they had looked this morning, how the muscles had shown through the thin fabric of his shirt. And she thought as well of how the shirt had been open, revealing the tanned neck and hint of dark curls on his chest. All at once, her stomach was aflutter and the warmth was coming not just from his presence but from deep within her.

They had reached the door to her room and Saybrook turned to face her. He was close, almost touching her.

"Thank you, Miss Langley, for a special day," he said softly, in barely more than a whisper. The candlelight played off his tousled hair and his eyes, which were fixed intently on her own with an expression that made her feel a bit dizzy.

"It was kind of you to come. It... made Peter very happy," she managed to stammer.

He nodded, but made no move to leave. Neither did he speak. He seemed to be lost in thought as he regarded the flickering candle.

"Good night, my lord." Jane's hand went hesitantly to the door latch.

"Wear your hair loosened from now on," he said abruptly.

Her hand flew from the latch to where her hastily pinned locks hung in disarray around the nape of her neck. "Oh, sir! I couldn't. It wouldn't be at all proper."

"Perhaps not, but... please do it." His hand reached out and slowly brushed a tendril away from her cheek.

Jane nearly gasped aloud as his fingers, barely touching her skin, sent sparks throughout her whole being. As she breathed in, she was acutely aware of his scent, a mixture of bay rum, the faint spiciness of wine and the earthy masculinity of exertion. She quickly averted her eyes to the floor, hoping that in that brief moment he hadn't read her desire for him to keep touching her.

His hand seemed to linger just an instant, then dropped to his side.

"Good night, Miss Langley." He turned and walked quickly down the corridor.

* * *

Saybrook paced in front of the library fire, feeling much to agitated to take comfort in his favorite chair. He sighed and gave thanks that he hadn't encountered any of his servants, for his physical arousal was all too obvious. Miss Langley was affecting him like no other woman—not even Elizabeth. He took a long swallow of his brandy. They had both been so very young. What had he understood of love? On that point, at least, his father had been right.

Elizabeth had radiated a fragile innocence.

But Miss Langley! She radiated forthrightness, honesty and a generosity of spirit. Yet there was also a passion lurking beneath her surface that inflamed his senses. She had ideas, opinions, feelings—he smiled ruefully at the thought of how her chin jutted out when she was arguing, how her sapphire eyes flashed when she was angry or espousing some point of view.

And tonight had he detected a flicker of some other emotion? He groaned aloud. When he had seen that look, he had barely been able to contain his desire. He had wanted to crush her to him, to cover those expressive lips with his own and explore her mouth with his tongue. His hands ached to feel the contours of her firm breasts, to see if her hips were as slender yet rounded as he imagined...

The throbbing in his groin told him he must stop such thoughts or he would go mad!

How miserably he had failed a woman before. How could he ever be sure it wouldn't happen once more?

But he couldn't deny that Miss Langley made him feel alive again. For weeks, there had been, almost unconsciously, a bond forming between them. More and more, he was drawn to her presence. His pulse quickened when she was around. She had penetrated the hard shell he had carefully constructed around his emotions. She made him want to rant, to shout, to laugh, to scream in exasperation—and to love again. He had fought acknowledging what was happening, but today forced him to admit it.

Yes.
In spite of all his carefully crafted defenses, he had fallen in love, something he had vowed would never happen again.

As he watched the dying flames, he wondered what she would say if he asked her to marry him. Why, did she even care about him? Or would it be only the title and the money that would sway her?

Or would she think him mad?

Society certainly would. But he didn't give a damn for their opinion. There was only one opinion he cared for, yet he was also terrified of what it would be.

What would it be if she knew the truth about him?

The answer frightened more than he could admit.

All at once, the stem of his glass snapped in his hand. He stared mutely at the shards of glass on the carpet. Flinging the remains into the fire, he collapsed into his armchair, burying his head in his hands.
Broken dreams, a broken life.
Could he ever come to terms with what had happened in the past?

Could his life ever be whole again?

* * *

Jane somehow managed to walk to her bed. The blood was pounding in her ears and though the room was chilly, she felt a prickling heat at the back of her neck. She brought her hands to her cheeks and they were burning. Slowly, her pulse returned to normal and her breathing became less ragged. What was happening to her, that the merest graze of his hand could affect her like this? Her hands dropped to her lap and she stared at them, amazed to see they were knotted together in a tight fist.

She forced herself to take a few deep breaths.

The moon had just risen and its silvery light crept through her window, silhouetting a bouquet of flowers arranged in an old stoneware jug that sat on her dresser. The same kind of flowers that she had clasped to her breast that first afternoon she had run into the marquess.

It was strange, thought Jane with a soft smile. She had long ago ceased to think of him as proud and unfeeling. Infuriating, yes, and puzzling, too. But on seeing his relationship with Peter blossom, she knew of his depth of feelings, though he seemed to want the world to think otherwise.

And he was devilishly attractive! For some time now, every time he looked at her with those sea green eyes or flashed a lazy smile, she had felt a curious twinge deep inside. She had found herself thinking what it would be like to entwine her hands in his long, silky locks, to feel his lips on hers—shocking, she chided herself. But with an ironic smile she finally admitted to herself that she had fallen head over heels for Edward Sebastian Fleetwood.

She was in love with the maddening marquess.

How ironic, she thought bitterly. She hadn't thought it possible to want to give herself up to someone else and still be left whole—more than whole. And yet that was what she felt. Somehow she trusted he wouldn't trample her ideas, her spirit.

Saybrook had certain feelings for her as well, that she could sense. He had nearly spoken to her tonight, but what would he have said? A marquess could not think of offering a governess anything but a
carte blanche
.

The thought of him asking her to be his mistress made her feel ill.

Yet hadn't he made himself perfectly clear on how he felt about marriage, and aristocratic females in general? She bit her lip in distress. If she revealed her true identity, how could he feel anything but revulsion at her duplicity?
Honesty. Forthrightness
. That was why he held her in esteem. Certainly not for her looks or sweet disposition—she cringed at how many times she had verbally boxed his ears. He must think her a veritable shrew!

A knot formed in the pit of her stomach. If he knew the truth, he would think her no different than all the scheming Mamas and simpering young ladies in Town. She didn't think her pride could bear that.

Tears began to form as she wrestled with her thoughts. In a wild moment she thought of throwing on her cloak and leaving that instant. It was dangerous to remain. If he never knew the truth, at least he would never despise her, like he did all the other ladies of their class. But when she considered Peter, she knew she could not wound his innocent trust in such a cowardly manner.

Until she had sorted out just what do to, she must feign coolness towards Saybrook. She must never let him guess her true feelings.

Chapter 8

The next morning Jane awoke feeling tired and empty. The mirror revealed hollows under her eyes that betrayed how little she had slept. At breakfast, Mrs. Fairchild had voiced her concern, but accepted the excuse of a headache. Jane refused to accede to the suggestion that she return to her bed and insisted she was certainly well enough to give Peter his lessons as usual.