“You think to protect everyone, don’t you? You would protect Alex from himself and his once roguish ways. And you’d protect me and Philippa by seeing us wed to proper gentleman who would not abuse us.” She paused. “You would protect me from the truth about Philippa’s uncertain condition.”
He stiffened and then turned back.
She arched an eyebrow. “Do you believe I would not know about Philippa and her unborn babe?”
“I…” What could he say? Any defense he’d make would likely be met with a thousand and one arguments of why he’d been wrong in shielding her from Philippa’s complicated pregnancy.
“You what? Wished to protect me?” Chloe took a step toward him. “Don’t you see, you protect people in the hopes of protecting yourself from caring.” She motioned behind him to Jane’s chambers. “To protect yourself from loving, but you cannot shut yourself off from feeling. No matter how much you may will it.”
With that, his sister left him, as he’d been for thirty-two years—alone.
Chapter 25
One Week Later
One week after her marriage and her husband’s subsequent abandonment, Gabriel had provided Jane tutors and dance instructors and gowns and well…everything, with the exception of himself. They broke their fast together, in relative silence, and took their evening meals together in even greater silence. For the times Jane had attempted to speak to Gabriel, he’d proven the aloof, distant figure she’d first met, so that she didn’t know what to do with him. In fact, if it wasn’t for the company of Chloe, Jane was certain she would have gone mad days ago with the tedium of her own company. Until now. Now, she thought she might go mad for altogether different reasons. Is this to be my life? This cold, distant relationship with a man who, despite of what they’d shared, had become more of a stranger than ever before?
Standing beside her sister-in-law, Jane stared wide-eyed down at her bed. “They are pink.”
“Well, they are not all pink.”
The “they” in question were in fact the gowns selected, ordered, and now delivered by the fashionable modiste once upon a lifetime ago. The color preferred by Jane’s mother and a shade she’d detested for the endless packages sent by her father—or rather her mother’s protector. She’d sworn to never don a pink dress. Then, she’d done all manner of things now that she’d sworn never to do.
Chloe picked up a satin creation. “See, this one is not pink.”
Jane angled her head and studied the garment in the young lady’s fingers with dubious eyes.
Gabriel’s sister shook it. “It is mauve.”
Mauve, which was very nearly pink. With a sigh, she brushed her knuckles over the soft fabric. “It is lovely,” she conceded.
The young woman beamed. “See. You will look splendid at the Duke and Duchess of Crawford’s upcoming ball.” She dropped the dress atop the others and spun around. A duke’s ball? “Of course, you’d look splendid in anything you donned,” Chloe continued without breaking her stride.
“What ball?” Jane called out.
Chloe paused and turned around. “The Duke and Duchess of Crawford’s. The duke and duchess attend few events and host even fewer. An invite to their ball is the most sought after.” She paused. “Everyone will be there.” Bloody wonderful. “Which will be the perfect place for you to confront the ton. All you must do is force a smile, dance a handful of sets with your husband, Alex, and Lord Waterson for support, and then we shall be on our way and the gossips are free to move on to their next victim.” A handful of dances. She’d have as much luck in navigating through one set as she did having the circumstances of her birth reversed.
At the prospect of not only facing down the vultures of high Society but also dancing before them, Jane curled her toes into the soles of her slippers. “But…” Her mind raced. Of course she would have to be presented to the ton. Those were, after all, the terms of her arrangement with Gabriel.
Chloe looked at her expectantly.
“But…” But she’d not believed her introduction would take place so quickly. Montclair slipped into her mind, as he’d been at the theatre—cruel, relentless—then she imagined a ballroom full of the Lord Montclairs and the young ladies she’d known at Mrs. Belden’s. “I can’t…” Go. “I can’t…” Do this. “Dance,” she finished lamely. Jane drew in a slow breath and smoothed her palms over her skirts. “I still do not know how to dance.” There had never been a need to master those steps reserved for ladies and gentlemen who’d flit from balls to soirees. Now, however, there was a need and she’d proven herself a rather poor study.