Chloris caught her slippery kipper, stabbing at it with vigor. “Ungrateful creature! To even want to toss your widow’s weeds aside with such quick disregard.”
Jane clenched her fists at her sides until they grew numb, bloodless. A thousand angry retorts flashed through her mind. Heat stung her cheeks as she recalled the myriad of indignities she suffered at Marcus’s hands. True, she had barred him from her bedchamber, but only after a year of marriage, and only after finding him in her bed with one of the upstairs maids. _Her _ bed. The humiliation still burned hot, haunting her even now—a dog forever nipping her heels that she could not outrun.
It was one thing to know your husband conducted affairs all over Town, but quite another to be presented with that fact. She would forever recall the scorn twisting his face, his grating laughter when she demanded he end his indiscretions, end making a fool of her.
Banishing him from her bed only earned her further laughter. His words rang bitterly in her head.
I’ll not miss your frigid body. What need do you fill? I already have a son. And there are far better women to warm my bed.
Pushing that ugly day far from her mind, she rose to her feet. Through cold lips, she declared firmly, “No one would accuse me of being less than circumspect.” Striding from the room, she paused briefly at the door to direct Barclay to order a carriage around.
Once inside her chamber, the small bedroom she had been banished to when Desmond and Chloris claimed the master bedchambers for themselves, she stripped off the black bombazine.
Flinging open her armoire, she pushed unremitting black aside and removed a gray serge day gown from the far back. With sharp, angry movements, she dressed herself, sick unto death of black and determined to have no more of it. No matter what Desmond or Chloris said.
Ungrateful creature!
With a snort, she yanked the dress into place and turned to inspect herself in the mirror.
Don’t tell me you intend to be one of those widows who gives the barest due to the passing of a husband.
Patting her hair in place, she frowned at the gray serge. Somehow it didn’t look much better than the black bombazine. Less severe, but still dismal. Sighing, she turned from the sight of herself and exited the room, taking comfort in this small defiance, a reclaiming of herself… if only in small measure.
She advanced down the corridor, intent on waking the girls, hesitating when she spied Chloris leaving what had once been Jane’s bedroom. A ridiculous confection of feathers and ribbons sat atop Chloris’s head, all the more obtrusive with her blunt, scowling features.
Her pale gaze fell on Jane. “I see you’ve disregarded my wishes.”
Jane lifted her chin.
“I shall take the matter up with Desmond when he returns from his clubs,” Chloris threatened, a feather quivering over her nose.
Jane fixed a brittle smile to her face. “No doubt you will have to wait. That could be some time from now. At his clubs again, you say?” She bit her cheek to keep from saying more, from suggesting that he was likely engaged in one of his aberrant pursuits.
“Yes,” Chloris sniffed. “A good many connections among gentlemen are made at clubs.
Desmond is ever the astute businessman. He’s hoping to attain a political appointment in the next year. Perhaps Undersecretary of War.”
“Indeed,” Jane replied with a deliberately vague air, trying not to grimace at the idea of Desmond in a position of power. Moving to Bryony’s door, she grasped the knob. “I’ll wake the girls and see that they have their drive.”
And try to enjoy myself in the process.
With a quick nod, she ordered herself to forget, to pretend, if only for one afternoon, that her life did not stretch before her in a long row of tiresome days until Matthew reached his majority.
That she did not live the life of a servant ordered about and demoralized by her relations… with nothing to look forward to. And even less to look back on.
Chapter 8
“Isn’t this… nice?” Seth murmured, forcing a cheerful ring to his voice as he glanced at his sister beside him. Outfitted in sprigged yellow muslin and matching bonnet, Julianne looked like a ray of sunshine—the only light in a gray, sunless day.
As he found himself the subject of fascinated stares, countless activities preferable to a carriage ride along Rotten Row crossed his mind. The speculation had already begun. The wide-eyed, calculating expressions, the heads bent toward one other in rapt discussion.
He took special care not to look at any single individual lest they take that as an invitation to strike up a conversation. Although he had vowed to begin his wife hunt this day, he was not keen on idle chitchat… especially when everyone they passed examined his scarred face as if it were some specimen beneath a microscope.
He shifted uneasily, averting his gaze from one apple-cheeked matron who elbowed the girl beside her and jabbed a plump, bejeweled finger in his direction. He could guess at their conjecture. Seth Rutledge, second son, officer, man of little worth was now… somebody. A coveted commodity for the mamas of the ton.
The image of his golden Aurora rose like a flame in his mind. He had thought about her into the long hours of the night. Had wondered, despite his avowals of indifference, what had possessed him to ever let her go. It had been years since a woman had aroused feeling in him. And he had let her get away.
He should have pursued her, claimed her, possibly even set her up as his mistress. He could still taste her kiss, intoxicating and oddly tender, artless for the courtesans and experienced ladies that attended Fleur’s galas.
“Nice doesn’t describe it, Seth.” Julianne’s voice pulled him from his thoughts. “I cannot thank you enough for bringing me to Town with you.”
He glanced at his sister. She stared straight ahead, eyes empty. Always empty. Her smile, however, eclipsed the glitter of the sun on the Mediterranean. And in that moment, he knew it was all worth it. A carriage ride, a name-only wife. Whatever the cost. He owed it to her.
“No thanks necessary. I’ve missed you. And how could I even consider choosing a bride without your vital assistance?”
“Oh, Seth.” She frowned. Her eyes stared vacantly into the air beyond his shoulder. It was the blankness that got to him, dug a knife in his heart every time. No matter the years that had passed since the accident, he could never evade that particular wound to his heart. Could never view what happened as a mere accident. His conscience refused to let him. In the same way that his father had.
“Only you can know whom you should wed. The answer will lie within your heart. Not me.”
Seth grimaced. Such sentimentality. His sister was so innocent. Untarnished by the world, the ton in particular. It was one of the things he loved most about her. And that sweet innocence was the very thing he intended to protect. His marriage would be the first measure he took in accomplishing that.
“Whom I choose is equally important to both of us.”
Julianne laughed dryly, the sound far too old and wise for her. “I fail to see how. You are the one marrying.”
He opened his mouth, then closed it. No sense explaining that _she _ motivated his decision to wed.
Julianne would not understand. It was enough that he did.
Returning from abroad to discover Albert dead had been bad enough, but to find his sister alone and unprotected with their cousin Harold breathing thickly down her neck still made the blood run cold in his veins. Seth had to wed. Had to marry someone who could look after Julianne in the event of his demise. Someone he respected and trusted with the well-being of his sister.
Surely a few women existed to accept a marriage the likes of which he proposed. A marriage based on respect. Duty. A marriage void of love.
He had loved once. And once had been enough. Never again would he be so foolish. Never again would he allow himself to _need _ a woman. A loveless marriage founded on respect. He sought no more than that. That, he feared, would be hard enough to find.
“I only hope you’re fortunate enough to marry someone you love.” Julianne paused, releasing a wistful sigh. “I remember what you were like in love—”
“Don’t,” he cut in, hands tightening on the traces.
“Still bitter, are you? I had hoped you let all that go.”
“I have. But that doesn’t mean I’m fool enough to succumb to irrational sentiments again. I’ll leave that…” Seth froze, his eyes catching sight of a hauntingly familiar face in an approaching carriage.
“Seth? What is it?”
“It’s…” his voice faded as he examined the woman who wrenched old memories from the arid corners of his soul.
“What?” Julianne prompted.
Jane. She had changed over the years, but he knew her instantly, would know those changeable eyes across any distance.
Her nut brown hair was the same, as was the creaminess of her skin. The angles and hollows of her face were new, reminding him more of her sister. The realization both repelled and intrigued him.
Her body had matured. Full br**sts pushed at her snug, high-necked gown, concealing yet displaying enough to make his palms prickle in masculine appreciation.
In his mind, Jane had stayed forever the same.
The wild freckled girl whose infectious laughter had lured a smile from him under any circumstance.
“Seth?” his sister demanded, a plaintive edge to her voice.
“It’s Jane Spencer,” he drawled, his gaze darting to the three girls crowding her in the carriage.
Daughters? The idea of Jane with children and the requisite husband—a man permitted to put his hands and mouth on those luscious br**sts any time he wished—settled like a heavy stone in his chest.
On closer inspection, he decided the eldest girl appeared too old to be her daughter. Two years his junior, Jane would be six and twenty now. The girl beside her looked no more than ten and three. The other two not much younger.
“Jane?” Julianne cried happily, reminding Seth how fond his sister had always been of Jane, trailing after her and Seth as they roamed the countryside. Happy days. Before the accident.
“Yes,” he replied.
“I heard she married. I believe she’s Lady Guthrie now.”
Lady Guthrie. Seth grimaced, the stone back in his chest as he looked his fill at the lady that had once been his childhood companion.
Jane Spencer, or whatever her name now, had grown into a tasty morsel, not beautiful to be sure, but the voluptuous sort of female that made men think of sex. Sweaty, copious amounts of sex.
And some bastard was lucky enough to experience it— her—firsthand.
Suddenly the way he remembered her—full of life and intensity—took on new possibilities.
Possibilities he had never considered. The prospect of stripping her of her matronly frock and giving his hands free rein to explore those curves, to taste and caress her and discover whether the intensity he had appreciated in her as a child had transferred into other arenas, tantalized him.
“Please, let us say hello, Seth.”
“I don’t think…”
But it was too late. Jane had spotted them.
Her eyes flared wide and color flooded her cheeks, no doubt recalling how poorly things had ended between them.
She fidgeted beneath his gaze and said something to the driver, motioning with an elegant wave of her hand that he should turn the carriage around.
Does the sight of my scarred face repulse her that much?
Annoyed that she should seek to flee him, Seth slapped the reins and hastened his phaeton forward, before her driver had time to fully turn their carriage.
“My lady,” he greeted with a stiff nod, his voice a crack on the misty air.
She gave a jerky nod. “Lord St. Claire, Lady Julianne,” she replied, her voice small and breathless.
Apparently she knew of his return and acquisition of the title. Like her father and sister, titles and rank likely meant everything to her. His lip curled, causing his scar to tighten uncomfortably.