Andrea Pickens - [Lessons in Love 01] (18 page)

Even the boy seemed to sense that something was troubling her, for he was quieter than usual and quick to follow her every request. As she sat with him, working out sums on a slate, a shadow loomed in the doorway.

"Uncle Edward!" greeted Peter, twisting around in his seat.

"Good morning, brat."

Saybrook had just returned from riding. His hair was windblown and his face ruddy from the wind, which only heightened the color in his eyes. He was smiling, though tiny lines around the corners of his mouth hinted at a lack of sleep. His wardrobe had recovered from the ravages of yesterday. A cravat was knotted perfectly at his throat. His buckskins were spotless and snug enough to reveal every curve and muscle. The boots were a different pair and shone brightly, despite a powdering of dust.

Jane studiously avoided meeting his gaze.

"I thought after lunch you might like to ride over to Smythe's farm with me. They are breaking some young horses."

The boy's eyes shone. "Oh, may I, Miss Jane?"

She nodded, still not looking at the marquess. "Yes, you may, provided you apply yourself to these sums for the next hour."

"I thought you might like to accompany us too, Miss Langley," he added, giving a pointed look at her hair, wound in the usual tight bun.

"No, thank you, my lord. Not today," she answered, her voice cool and even. "Now Peter, twelve plus fifteen...."

A puzzled look crossed Saybrook's face as he turned to go.

Jane was relieved to have the afternoon to herself. Her thoughts were still in a whirl of confusion. She was almost tempted to take Mrs. Fairchild's advice and slip back into bed. But instead she donned her oldest gown and took refuge in the gardens, toting a wicker basket and a pair of shears. The soft colors and delicate perfumes of flowers always had a calming effect on her. She wandered through the paths, carefully clipping a lush bouquet from the profusion of plantings. The soft hum of the bees and the scent of lavender and roses made her feel better, if not happy, as she began cutting from a patch of gladiolas.

"Let me take that for you."

Jane felt a low thrill at the sound of the familiar, deep masculine voice. She turned in surprise, having not heard him approach, and dropped her shears in the process.

"I'm sorry I startled you." Saybrook bent to pick them up. "Still stealing the manor's flowers, I see," he grinned.

Jane didn't dare meet his eyes. Surely now that she had admitted her own feelings to herself, they would be more than obvious on her face.

"Thank you, my lord." She reached for the shears and turned quickly back to the flowers, studying them as if particularly engrossed by one of the stems.

Again a puzzled look came over Saybrook's features. "Is something the matter?" he asked quietly. "Have I given you any cause for... offense?"

Jane forced her voice to be steady. "How absurd, sir. How could a servant feel any such thing?"

He took her gently by the arm and turned her around. With a searching look he studied her averted face. "Look at me, Miss Langley. Something is wrong. I would hope that we have become good enough... friends that you will tell me what it is."

His hand was still on her arm, and she was achingly aware of it. Why, his very touch was making her tremble. As he sensed the tremors running through her, he pulled her closer in a protective manner. She should run, she told herself, and yet she was rooted to the ground. Against her conscious will, she found herself looking up at him.

His head came down slowly, and his lips met hers, gently but firmly. His mouth tasted warm and spicy, unlike any of the other kisses she had occasionally allowed a gentleman to steal. With those she had felt nothing but amusement, but now her senses were so overwhelmed that her knees might have given way if he hadn't slipped his arm around her waist and drawn her tight to him.

His muscular thighs crushed against her, the hard ridge between them pressed up against her. Instinctively she arched against him, drawing a soft groan as his mouth became more demanding. His tongue urged her mouth open, and when she responded, it thrust deep inside, tasting her, sending waves of fire through her every nerve.

It was her turn to moan. Without thinking, she dropped her shears and reached up to twine her fingers in his long hair, reveling in its thick silkiness. Their kiss deepened. Her own tongue hesitantly began its own explorations, surprised at how quickly it wanted more. Her whole being was aflame. There was a throbbing centered between her legs sending hot waves of desire throughout her entire body.

Saybrook gave another hoarse groan. "Jane, Jane, do you know what you are doing to me?" he murmured as he released her mouth to trace a path with his lips down to the hollow of her neck. "God, I want you so badly, I want to make you..." He paused as if unable to say the next words.

Jane forced herself to come to her senses. "Stop it," she cried, pushing him roughly away. "How dare you!" Her worst fears seemed confirmed. "You want to make me what—your mistress? Just because I am a lowly governess, do you really think I would stoop so low as to tumble into your bed on command!"

The hurt showed in Saybrook's eyes. "Jane—Miss Langley—you misunderstand. I want..." He faltered. "That is, I assure you my intentions are honorable...."

Terrified of what he might say next, that she might be forced to admit her secret, Jane flung the most cutting words she could think of at him.

"And were your intentions honorable towards Peter's mother? What has become of her?"

Saybrook recoiled as if she had struck him. His face drained of all color and, for a moment, there was a look of infinite pain in his eyes before they became steely, impenetrable. He stood rigid, not a muscle twitching. It was all Jane could do to keep from throwing herself at his feet and begging forgiveness for wounding him so deeply. Oh, for she knew she had cut him to the very quick.

But she told herself it was better that he should hate her rather than despise her.

There was a dead silence between them. Finally Jane spoke up in a voice hardly audible. "I will be leaving Highwood tomorrow morning. I think it best."

Saybrook's jaw clenched and unclenched as if he might speak. Instead, he spun on his heel and was gone.

Numbly, Jane gathered up her basket and shears. The array of freesia, lilies, roses and gladiolas, a moment ago so gay and colorful to her eyes, now seemed lifeless—poor stems cut off to wither away. She walked slowly towards the house, hardly able to take in that this would be the last time she would tread that path.

As soon as she entered the kitchen, Mrs. Fairchild's hands flew to her face. "Goodness, child! Are you alright? Did something happen?"

"It's nothing, really," she lied. "My headache has come back, that's all." She put her basket on the table. "I shan't be down for supper."

Mrs. Fairchild nodded sympathetically. "You go right up to rest, my dear."

"I'll fix you a nice tisane," added Cook as she came round from the pantry.

At that moment, Henry burst through the back door. "Is there something amiss here?" he inquired, a troubled look on his broad face as he surveyed the three of them.

Mrs., Fairchild and Cook exchanged concerned glances. "Why, not that we are aware of," answered the housekeeper. "Why do you ask?"

Henry shook his head in dismay. "It's the master. Just now, he came to order Hero saddled—in a rare mood, I might add. Then, why, he pushed little Jimmy outta the way in order to mount." He paused, still shaking his head. "I've never known His Lordship to touch a servant, not ever! And the look on his face—it was enough to make your blood run cold." He looked around. "Something must have upset him something terrible."

Jane turned and left the room without a word. Mrs. Fairchild regarded her retreating form with a concerned look.

"Oh dear," breathed the older lady, twisting a handkerchief in her thin fingers. "Oh, dear."

* * *

Jane sat on her bed staring at the trunk filled with her meager possessions which now awaited a footman to carry it down when the carriage arrived. A curt note had accompanied her supper tray informing her that it would do so at eight in the morning. As she glanced out the window she saw that William Coachman was indeed pulling to a stop in front of the main entrance. She heaved a heavy sigh and collected her reticule as a knock sounded on the door. She would never see Highwood and its people again, and that stabbing thought nearly brought on the flood of tears that wouldn't come last night.

Last night had been beyond tears. She knew that she had to tell Peter herself. After she heard Mrs. Fairchild bring him upstairs to bed, she went to his room. Enfolding his small form in her arms, she haltingly explained that she must be leaving. No reasons of course, just simply that she must go. Instead of crying or begging her to stay, as she expected, he had reacted as inscrutably as his father. He merely stared at her with the same sea green eyes and held her hand very tightly. It had been infinitely worse than any words.

This morning the deep smudges under her eyes revealed that she had found but little sleep during the rest of the night. She paused to look in the small mirror one last time.

Goodbye. Goodbye to Jane Langley.

Downstairs, Mrs. Fairchild dabbed at her eyes, then took Jane's hands in her own. "We shall all miss you very much, my dear," she said. "Promise that you will write to assure us you are well-settled. I wish that you might reconsider..."She trailed off with a questioning look.

Jane shook her head. "It isn't possible," she said in a voice barely audible.

The housekeeper withdrew a large purse from her apron. "His Lordship sends you your wages," she said hesitantly, holding it towards her.

Jane took it slowly, noting its weight. "Why, it's far too much," she whispered. Opening it, she counted out exactly the amount that had originally been agreed upon. "That is all that is due me," she continued and placed the purse on one of the carved hunt chests.

"But Miss Jane," remonstrated Mrs. Fairchild. "You'll need funds to live on while you find a new position. And you'll need this, have you forgotten?" She placed a crisp envelope in Jane's hand. "A reference," she added. "You must have one in order to secure work."

"Oh. Yes, of course." Jane took the proffered letter and mechanically pushed it into her pocket. "I shall manage," she added, forcing a smile.

Turning her head, she saw that the parlor maids, the scullery girls and the footmen—even Cook and Glavin—had gathered in a subdued group. Quietly, one by one, they wished her well. At that, she finally felt the sting of tears.

"Thank you," she stammered, then fled outside.

William nodded a greeting to her as he opened the carriage door.

"Can you take me to Hawley where I might catch the mail coach?" she asked.

"His Lordship says I am to take you wherever you wish to go, Miss."

"Hawley will be fine."

"Ain't safe for a female to travel unaccompanied," said William doggedly. "Let me take you wherever you're going."

Jane shook her head. She glanced around, feeling quite low that Peter hadn't come to say goodbye. But maybe it was better that way. She noticed that the curtains on the library were still drawn shut from the evening, but for a moment she thought she detected a slight movement there. She must stop that, she told herself.

It was over.

She turned and quickly climbed into the carriage. William shut the door and climbed to his box. With a flick of the reins, he sent the team off down the drive at a brisk pace. Highwood was soon left behind.

* * *

Saybrook remained at the library window long after the coach had disappeared. What a mull he had made of trying to declare his feelings, he thought grimly. And what a gudgeon he had been to think she would have anything but disdain for him—she had guessed the truth and thought him no better than a hardened rake! Why, she had even thought that he had wanted to make her his mistress, so badly had he expressed himself. No, not badly, he corrected himself. Cowardly. He had been afraid to say the words, afraid of...

Lord, he hadn't meant to kiss her, but she had seemed so in need of comfort. And for a few perfect moments, it had seemed that she had returned his feelings. How wrong he had been!

Again.

And now she was gone. He turned his gaze to the purse now lying on his desk. She had refused it, as he feared she would. How would she get along with so little money and no position? Would she be forced to return to her father and marry? A tight knot formed in his stomach. Well, if William carried out his orders, he would see to it that Miss Langley need not fear for anything, even though she would never willingly accept his help. In fact, if she knew of his plan her eyes would flash in indignation.

He smiled crooked at the thought of those flashing eyes, that defiant chin. Lord, he would miss her. The reality of it was just beginning to hit him. Last night he had kept himself numbed with brandy to dull the searing pain. But now he faced the prospect of day after empty day. Only the thought of Peter—his son—kept the grief from being unbearable.

He slumped into his chair and buried his face in his hands. To his amazement, he felt tears on his cheeks. He hadn't cried since he was in short coats. Not at his mother's death, not even eight years ago. But he made no effort to stem their flow.