The Perfect Lady Worthe (6 page)

“Tomorrow.” Holbrook’s automatic answer only served to agitate Gareth more.

“And if she meets a gentleman she fancies tonight?”

Holbrook coughed. “She won’t.”

“How do you know?”

This time it was Holbrook’s turn to throw his hands up in aggravation. “Do you have a candle clogging your ear? She already knows she won’t marry so there will be no gentlemen she fancies.”

“She has accepted this?”

Holbrook’s face went red. “I’d say she has,” he snapped. “There is no other option for her and she knows it as well as you and I do.”

Gareth was confused. Overwhelmingly so. “But if she attracts a suitor—”

“
Then I’ll kill him!”

Based on the sheer volume and amount of rage behind his friend’s words, Gareth truly believed him and Holbrook’s threat was reason enough for him to stay away from Jane indefinitely.

Unfortunately, fate wouldn’t be so kind as to heed the warning he’d just received from Holbrook…

Chapter Eight

Jane couldn’t ever remember a time she’d been as violently ill as she was when her brother carried her into the carriage.

“Miss Cavanaugh,” he said with a wink, placing her as gentle as was possible for him on the seat. He exited the carriage and handed Charlotte up. “Miss Charlotte.”

With an excited giggle, Charlotte took a seat next to Jane. “I’m so excited, aren’t you?”

No.
“Yes, of course.”

“Mrs. Fairchilde,” Michael said, handing Mrs. Fairchilde into the carriage.

Mrs. Fairchilde pulled her hand away from Michael’s, then stilled.

“Is something wrong Mrs. Fairchilde?”

The older woman bit her lip. “No. It’ll be all right.”

At the appearance of Michael’s head coming into the carriage, Mrs. Fairchilde quickly took her seat.

“Are you sure?” Jane asked.

“Yes, of course.” Mrs. Fairchilde scooted over to make room for Lord Worthe in the carriage.

Lord Worthe sat down across from Jane.

She smiled at him.

As if he thought she’d just caught him staring at her, he jerked his eyes away.

Odd.

Odder was the way Mrs. Fairchilde kept fidgeting.

“Mrs. Fairchilde are you sure everything is all right?” Jane asked again once the carriage started rolling forward.

“Yes, of course,” Mrs. Fairchilde repeated just as unconvincingly as before.

“Do you need more room?” Charlotte offered, scooting closer to Jane.

“No, dear. It’s not that,” Mrs. Fairchilde said, patting Charlotte’s hand.

“Then what is it?” Charlotte asked.

“Nothing.”

Lord Worthe snorted.

Jane’s eyes darted back and forth between the two. What was going on between the two of them? “Lord Worthe?”

“Hmm?” was his only response.

“Do you know what’s wrong with Mrs. Fairchilde?” she asked, trying in vain to ignore the hurt she felt at his refusal to so much as look at her.

He shrugged, amplifying her pain tenfold. What had she said or done that had caused him to be so cold to her? Moreover, why did she care so much? Truly his opinion of her mattered very little. Besides, her main concern should be for whatever it was that was causing Mrs. Fairchilde to behave as if she were sitting on a cushion full of straight pins.

“We’re at the edge of the property,” Lord Worthe said quietly.

“Are you boasting?” Jane teased, hoping to elicit some sort of response from him.

“Jane,” Michael warned in a low tone.

Defeated, Jane leaned back against the squabs, but not before noticing the slight twitch in Lord Worthe’s lips.

On the other side of Charlotte, Mrs. Fairchilde’s fidgeting increased. Too much more and her perfectly coiffed curls would tumble down. As it was, her skirt was on the verge of resembling a fan with so many folds and wrinkles.

Though usually patient, Mrs. Fairchilde’s movements were starting to irritate Michael. Poor man. He’d never say such, but his clenched jaw and blatant staring at her as if she were a madwoman gave him away.

“Jemma,” Lord Worthe prompted.

“I forgot my smelling salts,” Mrs. Fairchilde blurted out in a tone that might suggest there was a large fire not three feet from where they all sat.

From across the carriage, Michael stared at her as if she were completely addled. “That’s what all that fuss was about?”

Mrs. Fairchilde licked her lips. “Well, they’re very important to me, my lord.”

“We’ve taken notice,” Michael muttered under his breath.

“You can share mine,” Charlotte offered.

“Thank you, dear, but mine had lavender in them.”

“Oh.” Charlotte turned toward Jane, lifting her eyebrows just a little.

“Should we go back?” Jane asked quietly. She doubted anyone else in the carriage wanted to return to Castlemoor anymore than she did, however, leaving behind Mrs. Fairchilde’s blessed lavender smelling salts seemed to be bothering her something fierce. As Lord Worthe had subtly hinted already, if they needed to go back, this would be the time to do so.

“No, no. It’ll be all right.” Mrs. Fairchilde’s voice lacked any conviction whatsoever.

Michael grunted. “You’d better tell your man to go back, Worthe.”

Lord Worthe twisted his lips as if he were in deep contemplation then shook his head. “No, I don’t think I will.”

Jane blinked at the man. Last night he’d been so… accommodating of her needs which were far more demanding than ordering the carriage to turn back to retrieve something that seemed so important to his relation—even if she, too, felt it was trivial. Perhaps she’d been wrong and he
wouldn’t
be a good match for Charlotte.

Her frown deepened. Though kept inside and sheltered for most of her life, she’d always considered herself a good judge of character. Apparently she was wrong.

“For gracious’ sake, Jemma,” Lord Worthe burst out, reaching into his breast pocket. “Do you really think I’m that unkind?”

Silence filled the carriage as Lord Worthe withdrew his hand from his pocket holding a little bag of lavender smelling salts.

“I saw you set them on the table by the…”

Whatever the remainder of Lord Worthe’s explanation, Jane couldn’t hear it over the blood roaring in her ears. She
hadn’t
been wrong about him. He was just as thoughtful and considerate as she’d imagined, and all the more endearing he made no qualms as to who knew he wasn’t a heartless cad. Charlotte would be treated well, indeed.

The remainder of the ride to Lange’s dinner was filled with quiet, meaningless chitchat among four of the dinner guests in the carriage while one—Jane—sat quiet, plotting…

~*~

Gareth fisted his hands and commanded his eyes to look anywhere but at Jane.

Unfortunately, his eyes did not heed his brain’s orders. And the result was pure torture.

She was beautiful. Absolutely beautiful.

Her light blue satin gown was a perfect complement to her fair complexion and hazel eyes. Some gentlemen in the room might think it was a waste of a gown to be worn by someone who must stay seated. But they were fools. Instead of floating and swishing as she walked, it flared out and surrounded her where she sat like a pillow made for royalty.

When he’d first stepped into the carriage, she’d stolen the air straight from his lungs. It had been excruciating for him to pretend she didn’t exist. So much so he’d purposely sat at the back of the Lange’s drawing room so he could stare at her shamelessly during the entire musicale.

It had become quite clear he was the one thing he should not be: besotted.

Damn and blast!

Holbrook’s earlier warning reverberated in his mind:
tear him apart with my own hands
; but still Gareth couldn’t take his eyes from her perfect form. Beautifully curled hair, fair skin, and hazel eyes, the delicate line of her nose and jaw. Oh, and he could never forget her smile. And her lips…

He shifted in his chair. He should not be thinking about her lips. Particularly not about kissing them.

Gareth jerked his eyes away from her before he gave himself away.

More unfortunate luck for Gareth, the first thing his gaze collided with was her brother’s steely stare.

Gareth held it, unwaveringly.

“It’s interesting how beauty varies based on the beholder.”

Gareth still held his gaze. “Yes, it is. But it makes it no less beautiful.”

“I suppose…” Holbrook gave a slight shrug, his face relaxing. “While you seem to be quite entranced by this—” he gestured toward the front of the room where four musicians were squeaking out a series of indistinguishable notes at a pace and decibel that could deafen a man— “I cannot stand another moment.” He stood abruptly then walked to the balcony.

Gareth didn’t know whether to be relieved or annoyed that Holbrook had completely misunderstood where his attention had really been. Relieved, he supposed. And yet, still annoyed. Why was it no one could see her as more than a piece of furniture?

Shaking off his irritation and accepting a reprieve for what it was, he considered joining Holbrook on the balcony. Had he not had something else to fixate his interest on, thus making the horrendous noise more tolerable, he’d have gone home after the fourth bar. But he did find something of interest, and for the sheer pleasure of being able to get his fill of Jane’s perfect form, he stayed rooted to that uncomfortable chair until the final C was screeched out by the young man dressed as a canary.

Applause, undeniably borne of sympathy, filled the room for but a moment before everyone carried out the same goal: get out of the room with instruments as quickly as possible to avoid being tortured any longer.

Gareth stood and moved off to the side.

In the corner, Jemma, Charlotte, and Jane remained seated amid the chaos.

From where he stood, Gareth couldn’t hear what was being said, but Jemma’s hand gestures told him enough. She was expecting Charlotte and Jane to stay there for a moment. Gareth knit his brow. Where was Jemma going?

Just then, one of the musicians, the skinny one with spots, gripped the back of Jane’s chair and shoved it forward.

Jane lurched forward, and simultaneously, so did Gareth’s heart.

“I’ll take that,” Gareth said tightly, reaching for Jane’s chair.

Jane turned her head to face him, shocked. She schooled her features and offered him what he interpreted as a grateful smile.

He smiled in return. “Where shall I escort thee, Miss Cavanaugh?”

“Wherever my sister would like to go.” She turned to her sister. “Charlotte?”

Charlotte bit her lip. “Mrs. Fairchilde.”

Jemma wrung her hands. “See… um…” She moved her hands to idly run her fingertips over the strap of her reticule, and gave a quick glance in the direction of the salon across the hall where all the other guests were congregating.

Dread built in Gareth’s stomach as understanding settled over him. Charlotte and Jemma wanted to go mingle with the other guests, but with such a crush it’d be hard for Jane’s chair to navigate the crowd with them. That’d leave her to have to sit alone in the corner. A bitter taste filled his mouth.

“Go on, then,” Jane said suddenly, as if she’d just puzzled it out as well. “I’d rather not be forced to stare at the bottoms of such a large crowd anyway.”

Jemma’s mouth fell open.

Charlotte’s face flamed red.

And for as much as he tried to hold it inside, Gareth chuckled. She did have a point.

“Jane,” Jemma said coldly. “Be mindful—”

“There’s no use, Mrs. Fairchilde,” Charlotte cut in. “Jane thinks it’s the privilege of her throne chair to say such scandalous things.”

“Well, it’s the only privilege I have,” Jane replied quietly.

Gareth’s heart squeezed painfully for her. Even she thought marriage wasn’t in her future. “You two are missing prime husband-seeking time,” he said, reaching for an empty chair nearby. “Don’t worry about Miss Cavanaugh, she’ll have her own handsome gentleman to keep her company.”

Quickly, too quickly, for Gareth’s liking, the pair was arm in arm and making their way to the others. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to spend time with Jane—he certainly did. But no good could come of it.

“I hope you don’t mind…” Gareth placed the chair near Jane then took a seat.

“No, not at all.”

Gareth smoothed his hair, unsure what to say to her. Her expression seemed cool and impassive, but even he knew that had to be a veneer. Nobody would be unaffected by the exchange that had just taken place. He cleared his throat. “Would you like to play cards?”

“Oh, I didn’t see any card tables.”

“That’s because they weren’t set up.” He reached a long arm over toward another empty chair and gripped the seat, then pulled. “We shall set up our own.”

Jane smiled at him. A true smile. One that sent a jolt of lightning straight to his groin.

Shifting uncomfortably, he reached into his breast pocket and withdrew an old, well-worn deck of cards. “I’d ask that you forgive the wear around the edges, but after being next to the lavender smelling salts, the softness might be welcomed if you have an urge to sniff them.” Why he’d uttered such a stupid statement, he’d never know. However, the way his companion grinned and shook her head in pure bewilderment made his momentary feeling like a simpleton well worth it.

Gareth shuffled the cards. Then again.

“Should we recruit a few of the musicians to play with us?” Jane teased, clearly aware that he was having difficulty thinking of a game that only two could play.

“Only if they play cards as poorly as they play their instruments.”

“Oh, it wasn’t so bad.” She reached for the cards and he let her take them. “I took lessons on the pianoforte for more than six years and play worse.”