That Scandalous Evening Page 21

  “Yes.” He pinned her to the cushion. “You’ve got to realize I’m stronger and—”

  “Sh!” She shushed him forcefully.

  “Jane?”

  Then he heard it, too. The creak of the stairs. A rap on the door. And Adorna’s bright voice as she opened it, saying, “Reverend Rydings, Mr. Southwick, Lord Mallery, Mr. Brockway. I had no idea you gentlemen were so interested in art!”

  Beneath Ransom, Jane whimpered.

  “This is my aunt’s new studio. Aunt Jane is supposed to be in here somewhere…” Adorna’s footsteps moved into the chamber. “I don’t know where she went. Oh, look. A gentleman’s boot.”

  Beyond the screen, silence reigned.

  Then Mr. Brockway said, “Blackburn’s boot.”

  “Do you really think so?” Adorna asked. “Yes, how silly of me. I recognize the tassels.”

  Horror etched Jane’s face in stark lines.

  “There’s another boot.” Adorna might have been an explorer on an expedition of discovery. “And his coat, and waistcoat, and shirt, and…” She paused.

  “Trousers.” Blackburn recognized Lord Mallery’s voice, witty as ever. “Miss Morant, those are called trousers.”

  “Oh.” Adorna sounded surprised. “What do you suppose this means?”

  Chapter 25

  Marriage. That horrific scene in the studio garret had meant marriage, and as quickly as possible by special license. Between Adorna and Violet, they had made sure of it. Jane had been in an artistic daze that day, but she was no fool. She recognized a well-planned feminine scheme when she saw one.

  And Lord Blackburn—Ransom—had gone along willingly. If she hadn’t personally seen his dismay, Jane would have thought that he had been in on that disgraceful arrangement.

  Blast them. On the very day, almost at the very moment, when she resolved once more to live for her art, to seek her fortune abroad, those conniving women had sent her nemesis to vanquish her.

  She looked into the mirror in her new bedchamber, at the half-dressed woman framed there.

  Vanquish her, he had since their wedding a week ago. Repeatedly, and with great vigor. With all her will she had resisted. She had ignored him. She had pretended to be elsewhere. She had silently recited poetry.

  She hadn’t won. Not once. With charm and grace and a devastating knowledge of her body, he had forced pleasure on her. Each time a little of her resentment had been chipped away. Each time she had responded.

  Her response apparently did not satisfy him. He knew she hid within the sanctuary of her mind, and he wanted her, all of her, in his arms.

  “My lady.”

  Jane paid no attention.

  “Lady Blackburn.” The aging maid spoke a little more firmly.

  Startled, Jane realized she was being addressed. Looking away from the reflection, she stared at the gown Moira held up.

  “Will you wear the gold dimity?”

  Jane scarcely refrained from shrugging. “As you wish.”

  “Yes, the gold dimity.” Blackburn leaned against the doorjamb, smiling at her with odious confidence.

  What was he doing here, looking so at ease and so completely clad in austere black and white? Always he made her uncomfortable with his proprietary air and his everlasting watchfulness.

  “The gold gives a warm cast to your skin, and you must look your best this afternoon. Susan would be insulted with anything less.”

  Her clothing, or lack of it, put her at a disadvantage. “I am not dressed, my lord.”

  “So I see.” His gaze flirted with the lacy top of her chemise, then slipped across her shoulders, down the slender line of her petticoats, and tickled her stockinged feet. “Most enchantingly undressed.”

  “If you would leave, I would endeavor to finish.”

  “My dear Lady Blackburn. It’s not necessary that I leave. We are wed, remember?”

  He was being charming.

  Charm was not a trait she trusted from Ransom Quincy, Marquess of Blackburn. “I can hardly forget.”

  “Besides, it’s not what you think.”

  “What do I think?”

  “You imagine I am an insatiable libertine, intruding into your bedchamber because I am always lusting after you.”

  Moira twittered.

  Jane uttered a soft, shocked sound of protest.

  “But that’s only half the truth.”

  “And the other half?”

  “I come to help you because, unless you are properly gowned, you will slip in the tricky shoals of society.”

  Her skin prickled as she watched him in the mirror. She had that uncomfortable sensation again—the one that said he was chasing her, even though he had not moved from his station at the door. And why? He already had her trapped in every way possible. “Your nobility overwhelms me.”

  “So I should hope.” He sighed with extravagant weariness. “The sacrifices one must make…”

  Jane refused to respond to his bantering. She refused to acknowledge it at all. “It is kind of Lady Goodridge to turn her planned tea into a wedding reception.” And indicate her approval of their hurried nuptials.

  “It will be a crush.” A smile played around Blackburn’s mouth as he strolled toward Jane. “Everyone in the ton wants to see if I truly have fallen for Miss Jane Higgenbothem at last.”

  Stepping behind her, he bent and with his lips softly brushed the nape of her neck. “I will make my adoration clear.”

  Moira stirred restlessly, clearly unsure whether to go or stay. It was a dilemma she had faced several times in the last week.

  “It would not do for us to be late,” Jane said.

  His hands settled on her shoulders, cupping them gently. “Again.”

  Heat swept her from the tips of her breasts to her forehead, and he watched the colorful display with satisfaction.

  But she answered him tartly enough. “Yes. If we arrive late and leave early again, the disgrace will never completely fade.”

  He started. His fingers tightened, and his smile became nothing more than clenched teeth. “Which disgrace?”

  “They found us in my studio a fortnight ago, my lord, and we were married a week later. That is the latest scandal in a long line of scandals involving us, is it not?”

  “Oh.” He relaxed, easing from his previous tension so quickly she might have imagined it, and tossed that ignominy away with a flick of his finger. “You’re a Quincy now. What the ton thinks is of no consequence to us.”

  He sounded sincerely scornful, yet she hadn’t studied him so thoroughly without knowing when something disturbed him. Not passion, but some emotion had indeed held him in its grip—and it involved her.

  Sliding out from under his grasp, she turned to face him. “Why did you look concerned when I mentioned the scandal?”

  “Did I?” He looked past her into the mirror and adjusted his cravat. “You’d think I was used to scandal by now.” Briefly he smiled at her as if to ease the sting. “But we do need to hurry.”

  “I thought we were Quincys and had no need to fret about such common things.”

  “True, but we do have to fret about Susan. She would not take our tardiness with equanimity.” He snapped his fingers at the maid.

  Moira came forward with the gown and would have dressed Jane right there, in front of Blackburn, but Jane led the way behind the screen.

  “And we have Adorna to steer through the season.” Blackburn’s voice sounded closer, as though he would not allow even so simple a thing as the screen to separate them.

  Adorna had been thrilled with the wedding, and more than willing to stay with Violet during the brief four-day honeymoon to Tourbillon. But Jane couldn’t leave her niece with the Tarlins indefinitely, and in her new position as Lady Blackburn, she could shepherd her through society with as much influence as any society maven. Moira placed the gown over her head, and Jane hurriedly yanked it into place. “Do you mind dealing with Adorna?”

  “Not at all. She’s a charming g
irl, but we can’t have her growing impatient.” Blackburn stepped into view. “She might take it into her head to go on without us.”

  Jane faced him, holding the neckline up while Moira hurriedly fastened the back. “She wouldn’t do that.”

  “Of course not.” He pulled a droll face. “Since her arrival here, I have been much struck by her good sense.”

  Adorna had moved into Blackburn’s household three days ago.

  She had been creating havoc ever since.

  Not that she meant to. But the marriage of her aunt to the Marquess of Blackburn made an already acceptable maiden positively desirable, even to the most critical of mamas. The gentlemen’s morning visits had doubled, the crowd at the balls could not be penetrated, and Jane recognized that expression of wild infatuation on several suitors’ faces. She feared another abduction attempt loomed.

  Or something worse, for Adorna had been rather pensive and quiet, as if she were deep in thought—an unusual place for her.

  “I am almost ready,” Jane said.

  As they descended the stairs arm in arm, Blackburn glanced down toward the study. “What’s he doing here so late in the day?”

  Monsieur Chasseur stood in the entry, his fists clenched and his head down. “I don’t know.” When they reached the entry, Jane called, “Is there a problem, monsieur?”

  The French tutor’s head snapped up. “Lady Blackburn. Ah. Non. I simply came by to assure myself Mademoiselle had learned her French phrase perfectly.”

  “How dedicated,” Blackburn drawled. “Had she?”

  Monsieur Chasseur’s tight smile fairly radiated frustration. “Miss Morant is a challenge, as always, my lord, but we proceed néanmoins.” He bowed. “You are ready for the reception, and I must go.”

  “Au revoir, Monsieur Chasseur.” Adorna stood in the doorway of the study and waved at him limply. “Until tomorrow.”

  “A demain,” he said.

  “A…what?” Adorna wrinkled her nose.

  “A demain. That means, ‘Until tomorrow.’ I have told you before, a demain means—” Monsieur Chasseur halted, finger lifted, a ruddy flush on his pale face. “Pas importe, mademoiselle. Never mind.”

  Blackburn coughed as the tutor stormed out of the house, and Jane knew he did it to cover his mirth. “It’s not courteous to laugh,” she said.

  “But you want to, too,” he answered.

  It was true. She did. But if she gave in and laughed with him, it would undermine her justifiable resentment. And if she lost even a smidgen of her rage, that irrepressible hope would burst forth. She’d start to remember…remember how much she worshiped Blackburn, how a mere glance from his somber eyes thrilled her, how his conversation always fascinated her.

  How she loved him.

  If she let those memories loose, and gave in to the hope and the love, she would be vulnerable once more. And if he spurned her once again, she didn’t know how—or if—she would recover from the blow.

  “I never know what Monsieur Chasseur is talking about,” Adorna said, clearly suffering from a frustration of her own. “He’s so intense. He never smiles. And he teaches me the stupidest things to say.”

  “Like what?” Blackburn took Jane’s redingote from his butler and helped her into it.

  One of the footmen rushed to help Adorna into her fashionable cropped jacket. “Today I am to say, Une maison bleu de près le pain de miche a beaucoup les habits rouge.”

  Blackburn took Jane’s hand.

  She took it back to put on her gloves.

  He translated, “The blue house near the round loaf of bread has many scarlet coats.”

  Jane looked up at him sharply. He had once claimed not to speak French, yet he interpreted like a native.

  “Are you finished?” he asked her.

  “With what?”

  “Your gloves.”

  “Yes.”

  He took her hand again, and said to Adorna, “That does sound odd. Are all the phrases he teaches you so unusual?”

  “Yes! If I must take French, I want to be able to say, ‘I need that silk gown’ or ‘You’re such a big, strong man.’ ” The last was accompanied by a flutter of lashes and a practiced coo. Then Adorna’s eyes flashed indignation. “Something useful. Not this nonsense.”

  Recalling Adorna’s ineptitude with the language, Jane suggested, “Perhaps you’re simply not remembering your daily phrase correctly.”

  Adorna stomped her dainty foot. “I am! Besides, when the gentlemen ask me what I learned, no one corrects me.”

  Blackburn’s hand tightened painfully on Jane’s. “Gentlemen?”

  “Yes. They ask me, and I tell them.”

  “Who asks you?” Blackburn insisted.

  “Everyone. It’s the style to ask me.” Adorna shrugged as she tied her bonnet under her chin. “I don’t know why. I think it makes them feel superior because no matter how bad they are, I’m worse.”

  “It can’t be that!” Jane protested.

  “Can you think of a different reason?” Adorna asked.

  Jane couldn’t.

  “The carriage is at the door, my lord,” Blackburn’s butler announced.

  Whent wasn’t the same butler Blackburn had engaged eleven years ago. Indeed, none of the servants, regardless of the length of their employment, seemed to remember Jane’s first visit. She had been treated with the greatest of respect and the first glimmerings of affection, and that added to the burden of hope within her bosom.

  Wretched, undying hope.

  Blackburn kissed Jane’s gloved palm, then released it to offer his arm. She didn’t hesitate, but laid her hand on it at once. To hesitate might indicate apprehension, and she would not have him think she was aware of him in any but the most superficial way.

  He then offered his arm to Adorna. With a pretty smile, Adorna accepted, and he led them onto the street and assisted them into the carriage. When the horses were under way, he said, “Adorna, I’ll teach you a new phrase, and you can use it instead of that absurd one Monsieur Chasseur taught you. Would you like that?”

  “Oh, yes.” Adorna leaned forward.

  Blackburn turned his attention to Jane. “Do you have any objection?”

  “Not at all. If it helps her learn French, I would be glad. I only wish I had thought of it. Starting tomorrow, I will instruct Monsieur Chasseur to teach her phrases she wants to learn,” Jane said. Blackburn looked so very stern; what was he thinking?

  “You are a very intelligent woman, Jane.” With a hint of his old brooding, he said, “I don’t know if I admire that or not.”

  No, he wouldn’t. Men didn’t admire intelligent women, and Jane stifled an indecorous sigh.

  Adorna missed the undertones, and chimed right in. “She is smart. She’s smarter than anyone I know. My mother used to say Aunt Jane was so smart it was going to get her into trouble one day.”

  Adorna’s praise seemed to deepen Blackburn’s cynicism. “So it has.”

  “Yes, but you married her anyway.” Adorna beamed impartially at both of them.

  “So kind of him,” Jane said astringently.

  Blackburn studied her with that nerve-racking concentration. He was looking for something, Jane couldn’t say what, but she stared back at him with a haughty lift of the chin. Let him make of her as he wished. She didn’t care.

  “Very well, then,” he said. “I will speak to Monsieur Chasseur. Leave him to me.”

  “As you wish.” Turning to Adorna, she said, “ ‘I want to buy a gown for me’ is Je voudrais acheter une robe pour moi.”

  “How about Une maison bleu de près le pain de miche a quelque-uns les habits rouge,” Ransom suggested.

  Adorna frowned in suspicion.

  Jane took a breath, then let it out. She felt as if she were missing some vital clue that would tell her his intent. “ ‘The blue house near the round loaf of bread has few scarlet coats’? How will that interest Adorna?”

  “We have so little time before we reach the receptio
n.” Blackburn contemplated Adorna intensely, seeming to compel her with his conviction. “Such a small change will be easy for her to remember.”

  That didn’t make sense to Jane, but Adorna nodded. “Une maison bleu de près le pain de miche a quelque-uns les habits rouge,” she repeated. “I can remember that.”

  Chapter 26

  “You’re a good friend of Blackburn’s. You were his best man. How long do you really think she can hold him?” Lady Kinnard asked, sotto voce, then leaned forward to hear Fitz’s answer.

  Fitz indicated Blackburn, standing at the far end of the receiving line and accepting congratulations with an air of smug complacency. “I don’t know. Why don’t you ask him?”

  Lady Kinnard drew back with a hiss, then rearranged her face into a smile and stepped on to Miss Morant. “So lucky for you that your aunt married well,” Fitz heard her say.

  “Lucky for Lord Blackburn to have found her again.” Miss Morant turned to Lady Goodridge. “Isn’t that right, my lady?”

  “Absolutely,” Lady Goodridge proclaimed. “I have schemed for this moment since I realized Jane’s good breeding marched hand in hand with her great artistic talent. She’s worthy to be a Quincy”—her gaze bored into Lady Kinnard’s daughter who followed close to her mother—“which is more than I can say for other unmarried young ladies who made their curtsy this year.”

  As the offended and effectively silenced Lady Kinnard moved on to Lord and Lady Tarlin, Fitz looked toward the last arrivals in the line that, at its height, had stretched across the main floor of the hideously pink ballroom, up the stairs, and, as far as he knew, out the door. Now they hurried to the tables, anxious to quench their thirst, eat, and gossip with their friends over this most curious of unions.

  Yet none of the guests, Fitz knew, could compete with the approaching couple for sheer oddness. The Vicomte de Sainte-Amand, always so well dressed, always so scornful, stood with his arm around an enfeebled man of indeterminate years. The man, whoever he was, had the waxen complexion of one who faced a not-too-far-off death, and he leaned on a cane with the dedication of one who would fall without its support.