Elizabeth Mansfield (16 page)

There was no way, of course, that Lady Martha could have suspected that her precious Jane was going to leave this place.
Dash it all, your ladyship,
she cried to herself,
I'm going home! Tomorrow!

But there was nothing to be gained by falling into— what had Adela called it?—an apoplexy. She had to think rationally, to find a way to deal with this troublesome situation. And troublesome it was. Poor Adela had come all this way for nothing.
How dreadful she'll feel,
Jane told herself guiltily,
when she learns that my bag is packed and that I intend to leave this house first thing in the morning.

"Just think, Jane," Adela was saying, jumping up from the sofa in excitement, "a whole fortnight in town! Tomorrow I'll be able to walk to the Pantheon Bazaar! And cross London Bridge! And oh, how I long to stroll down Old Bond Street and see the shops! Mama asked me to find a shop called Berry Brothers and buy their tea. She says it's her favorite, and she's missed having it all these years. And do you know the very best thing? Geraldine's given me a note of introduction to her aunt who lives in Mayfair and is very well to pass. She says that her aunt will surely invite me to dinner, and perhaps even to a
party!
She threw out her arms and twirled about in ecstatic delight. "It's going to be the most
wonderful
fortnight of my entire
life!"

Jane watched her sister with troubled eyes. How could she tell this bedazzled girl that her dream-bubble was about to burst... that there would be no Pantheon Bazaar, no London Bridge, no party in Mayfair? She'd break Adela's heart.

There was, of course, another solution. For Adela's sake, she could remain at her post in this house for another few days. She could bear it, she supposed. Not for a fortnight, of course—that would be too much to ask of herself—but for two or three days. It was not a solution she liked, but...

With a sigh of defeat, she got to her feet. "I
am
glad to see you, Adela, despite my ungracious greeting," she said, putting her arm about her sister's shoulders. "We'll talk about plans in the morning. Right now, you'll surely wish to get some sleep."

"Yes," Adela said, leaning her head on her sister's shoulder, "the journey was tiring."

As they left the sitting room, Jane asked, "Where is your luggage? And, by the way, I hope you won't mind sharing my bedroom."

Parks was lingering in the foyer. He'd been upset by Jane's earlier alarm. Now, observing the affectionate way the two sisters were entwined, he felt relieved. "Joseph has the young lady's boxes," he said with a smile, "and, Miss Jane, we can surely find another room for your sister."

Adela was looking about her, wide-eyed. Overcome with awe at the magnificent surroundings, she whispered to her sister with unwonted shyness, "I'd prefer to stay with you, Jane, if you don't mind. We've shared a bed before."

Jane nodded and led her to the staircase. Then, releasing her hold on the girl, she turned to the butler. "Will you ask Joseph to bring her things up to my room, please? And I'd be obliged to you, Mr. Parks, if you'd show my sister the way."

"My pleasure, Miss Jane," he said, taking up a candle and heading up the stairs.

"But aren't you coming, Jane?" the girl asked.

"I'd better remain here and wait for his lordship. It wouldn't be right to install someone on his premises without his permission."

"Oh, heavens," Adela gasped, "do you think he might not wish for me to—?"

"No, no, miss, don't concern yourself about that," Parks assured the girl as he led her up the stairs. "Lord Kettering is very hospitable."

Jane sat down on the stairs to wait for his lordship. She hoped she wouldn't have to wait very long. She knew he'd gone to the boxing matches—she'd overheard the footmen talking about all the famous boxers who were fighting that night. But since it was already past eleven, she suspected that the bouts would all have ended by this time. He'd surely be home soon.

But an hour passed without his arrival. The candles guttered in the sconces. The foyer and stairway grew dark. Bone-weary, Jane rested her head against the banister. Before the clock struck one she was fast asleep.

Luke came in quietly. No one could have told by his appearance or his manner that he was badly foxed. He felt his way in the dark to the table where a candle and a flint were always waiting for him, and he lit the candle with only the faintest tremor in his fingers. It took three tries, but when the wick caught fire, he picked it up and walked—almost steadily—toward the stairway. At the sight of the sleeping figure on the stairs, he stopped short. "Miss Douglas!" he exclaimed. "Wha' on earth—?"

Her eyes flew open. "Oh! Your lordship!" She scrambled to her feet. "I've been waiting for you."

"Tha's kind of you," he said, squinting at her. "Wha' for?"

From where she stood on the second stair, Jane could look down on him. His hair was disheveled and his neckcloth slightly askew, but there was otherwise no sign of disorder. His eyes glittered a bit strangely, but that might be caused by the candlelight. She rather liked the gleam. It made him seem boyish and vulnerable, and she wished, as she had so often before, that she could put out her hand and smooth back his hair. She clenched her fingers tightly, to fight off the effect of his nearness. "I only wished to inform you that your mother has sent my sister to stay with me. I hope you will not find it an imposition."

"Sister? You have a sister?" He lifted the candle higher to get a better look at her. "Are you sayin' there are two of you?"

The question puzzled her. "Yes, my lord. Is there something strange about my having a sister?"

"Good God,
two
of you? An' both under m' roof? 'S too much."

She didn't understand him. 'Too much? What do you mean?"

"I mean too much. Too much... prudence. Too much smugness." He waved his arm in the air in a wildly exaggerated arc. "Too much so—sober-riety."

She was so badly stung by his words that she failed to recognize his inebriated state. "I assure you, my lord," she said tightly, "that my sister is neither prudish nor smug. She is not at all"—she gulped back a sudden clench in her throat—"not at all like me."

"Thank goo'ness f'r that. One bad influence 's enough."

She blinked. "What did you say?"

He tried to enunciate more clearly. "I said... one bad in-flu-ence is e-nough."

"Bad influence?
M-me?"

"Yes, you! Who else?"

She was stunned. "In what way am I—?"

"Who kep' me from buyin' that sweet little gray at Tatt's, eh? Who's to blame for my absence at the gaming tables? Who's makin' me feel ashamed, right now, of admittin' to losin' a monkey tonight?"

She didn't understand. "A monkey? Did you have a monkey... for a pet? I never saw one here—"

"No, no, not a'
animal,"
he said impatiently. "A monkey. Five hundred pounds."

"Good God!" She gaped at him, appalled. "Are you saying you lost another
five hundred pounds
tonight?"

"I did. An' you needn't look at me with tha'... tha'
look!
That's just the point."

"What's the point?" she asked bewilderedly.

"You're the point!
You!
You, who've made me a laughingstock afore half the wort'!" He lifted his arm to point to her, but the effort made him stumble. "Who else bu' you?" he managed as he righted himself.

This time she could not miss recognizing his condition. "Viscount Kettering," she exclaimed, "I believe you're
drunk!"

"Yes, ma'am, I am. Verti-gi-nous. Bewottled. Cup-shotten. Raddled and ploughed. But not so crocked tha' I don' know whut I'm sayin'. An' I'm sayin' tha'
you,
ma'am, are a
bad influence"

Though she knew he was not in a state to be reasoned with, she could not help herself. "My influence evidently wasn't strong enough to keep you from losing a monkey tonight," she declared, drawing herself up to her full height, "but if it was indeed my influence that kept you from gambling and profligacy for a
few
days, I don't see how it can be called bad."

"You don'
see?"
He tottered to the stairway and, although worked up into a drunken fury, carefully placed his candle on the flat-topped newel post to free his hands. Then, with his teeth tightly gritted, he climbed up the one step below her and grasped her shoulders in a painful grip. "You don' see how you spoiled my pleasure in my usual ac-activ'ties... an' how you've ruined my rep-reputation?"

They were nose to nose, eye to eye. He seemed to be drinking in the details of her face, hungrily, angrily... and yet his eyes showed hurt.
How can he be hurt,
she asked herself bewilderedly,
when it's he who's saying all these cruel things to me?

And he hadn't finished yet. "You don' see that you've taken a devil-may-care, audacious, reckless gamecock," he accused, "an' turned 'im into a spineless jellyfish?"

Frightened though she was, she had to laugh. "A spineless jellyfish?
You?
"

"Yes, I! Even now I feel unmanned." He pulled her closer, so close she could feel his heart pounding. "A fortnight ago I wouldn't have hesitated to... to..."

Her heart, too, began to pound. "To wh-what, my lord?"

'To do
this."
Abruptly, in one quick movement, he lifted her off her feet, crushed her to him, and kissed her with an unexpected and breathtaking ardor.

She wanted to resist him. She wanted to beat him with her fists. She wanted to slap his arrogant, cocksure, un-regenerate face. But she could not. She'd never dreamed that being held in a man's arms and feeling his lips pressed on hers would stir her like this. Something within her melted, bubbled, churned with yearning. Without any direction from her brain, her arms crept up to his neck and clutched him tightly. There was no thought in her mind at all, only sensation... an excitement of her blood, a tingly warmth that spread itself throughout her body to the very tips of her fingers and toes, an overwhelming desire to be closer and closer and never to let go.

But soon, too soon, he did let her go. He lifted his head and stared at her as if he'd never seen her before. For some moments they both were shocked into immobility. At last Jane, although still breathless, broke the silence. "I do not believe," she said in an awkward attempt to make light of the incident, "that
that
was the act of a spineless jellyfish."

He dropped his eyes from hers. "I'm sorry," he muttered thickly. "I'm... quite drunk."

"Yes, my lord. I'm sure you are."

"I would not otherwise have... in my own house... to someone in my employ..."

"I understand."

He put a hand to his forehead. "My brain's utterly befuddled. I barely remember what I've said or done. I hope you will forget it, also."

"I will try," she said, but she knew she would not. Girls did not always remember their first kiss, she supposed, but there was no doubt about this one. This one would be remembered. This one had left a mark on her—an indelible mark.

He went up another step and then paused. "I seem to recall your saying something about... about your sister?"

"Yes. I was asking your permission to—"

"To have her stay? Of course. You needn't have asked." He sounded suddenly sober, and very depressed. "She is quite welcome. If there's any problem," he said as he turned to continue his climb, "we can deal with it in the morning."

"Yes, my lord. Here, don't forget your candle." She held it up to him, wondering at the same moment where she might find another after he'd taken this one away.

"No, you take it," he said. "I can find my way."

"Thank you," she said in surprise. But the words in her mind were not grateful.
Damn you, Luke Hammond,
she thought as she watched him climb wearily upstairs,
another act of thoughtfulness? How do you dare to be kind, when I'm trying so hard to hate you?

She sank down on the stair and pressed her hands against her mouth. She could still feel him there. In fact, her entire body still tingled with excitement.
Good God,
she thought with an ironic laugh,
I'm in a state!
This would not do. She had to find some way to soothe her agitation before going up to her room. But she didn't know how. In the past, good sense and reason had always come to her aid. But when it came to dealing with her feelings toward Luke Hammond, they failed her. Was this what love was—a state of unreason? Was love a temporary loss of sanity? And was what she felt for Luke love? If so, it was not what she'd expected. Love, she'd always believed, was bred from two people who shared values, whose characters were harmonious, and who felt a mutual affection. How could she love someone who was, in every detail, the opposite of what she imagined a lover should be?

But, in truth, she didn't want that imaginary lover anymore. It was Luke she wanted. And, judging from the passion of his kiss, he must want her, too. Could that be possible? Could Luke care for her?

She knew the answer before the question had fully framed itself in her mind: he could not. He thought of her as a sobersides—a smug prude who'd robbed him of his audacious manliness. Those acts that she believed were signs of improvement in his character seemed to him nothing more than weaknesses. How could a man possibly fall in love with someone who was undermining the very qualities he admired in himself?

Had she really done that—belittled and disparaged those very traits that made him manly and charming? Perhaps she had. The mere possibility that he might be right was a blow to her soul. Wincing in inner pain, she pressed her hands to her mouth. "Oh, God," she murmured as the tears began to trickle down her cheeks and through her fingers, "can it be true? Can I really be a bad influence?"

TWENTY

Luke closed the door of his bedroom and leaned against it, feeling ill in body and soul. It was dark in the room, and he had no candle. He could shout for his valet, he supposed, but it was not his habit to demand that Varney wait up for him. He'd told the fellow years ago, when Varney had persisted in hanging about, sleepy-eyed, into the wee hours, that he was not to wait up past ten. "I'm perfectly capable of undressing myself," he'd said then. Well, he did not feel capable now.