Destitute On His Doorstep (10 page)

Her answer was said without thought, as if it had suddenly been born in her heart and not her mind. ‘Badly enough to return it to me?'

‘No.'

He said the word dispassionately, without hesitation, without regret. Jane sighed. ‘Oh, well, you cannot blame me for trying.'

‘No—it is your right.'

‘As for the kiss—well—I don't know what came over
me,' she murmured, her eyes tender as they caressed his face, and her lips curved in a wistful smile.

‘Perhaps it was the heavy scent of Gwen's herbs—of lavender, sage and rosemary that still permeated the air of the room—that bewitched you, or maybe it was the very essence of her spirit casting a spell on you so that you would have welcomed the Devil himself had he stepped through the door.'

‘Yes,' she laughed, ‘perhaps that's what it was. But I will never know.'

His eyes fastened on her lips once more. ‘You might, if we were to repeat the kiss.'

Jane stepped back, shaking her head and laughing lightly. ‘I think enough kissing has been done for one day. Now if you will excuse me I have to go and have a look in those trunks you told me about, otherwise I shall be forced to shock your guests by sitting down to dine in my red dress.' Without another word she walked away from him and down the length of the room, her slender hips swaying with unconscious regal grace.

Despite the fact that she'd only glanced at him in passing as she went to the door, Jane had registered the odd light in his eyes and the indefinable smile lurking at the corner of his lips. She had no idea what was behind it, she only knew his smile completely eclipsed the unhappiness in her heart.

 

Jane was apprehensive about the forthcoming evening. She now knew how it felt to be an outsider in her own home, for ever longing to belong and to be secure and safe. To be denied. She had considered staying in her chamber but then, taking hold of her pride, she braced herself. She would have to face people sometime, and
a Lucas never cowered. By the time she left her room to face everyone, she was sufficiently wrought up to do battle.

Moving gracefully down the stairs, on reaching the bottom step she paused to rearrange the folds of the deep blue gown she wore. She had found it in one of the trunks in the attic along with several others she had not taken with her when she had left Bilborough. She had gone to great lengths over her appearance, and it was all on account of Francis Russell and his guests whom she had never met, but she was determined to put her mark on the night.

She had a moment to observe Francis conversing with his guests. He was so attractive, exuding the kind of strength and masculinity that women found extremely appealing. And he looked as if he had the perfect knack of making a woman feel special. He was bending close to the younger of the two women, listening attentively and watching her with those deep blue eyes—the same eyes that had smouldered when he had looked at her in her shift on the landing when she had almost knocked him over, and again when he had kissed her.

Attired in black, the only relief a startling white neck-cloth, he looked so poised, with dark hair feathering the nape of his neck. A slow half-smile curved his lips, and she saw him give a careless shrug. He was finally alerted to her presence when the woman he was speaking to glanced beyond him to where she stood. Francis looked in her direction as she rested her slender hand on the wide staircase's heavily carved newel.

Momentarily transfixed, he stood watching her in silent fascination, his gaze missing nothing. Her body
was rounded and disturbing in its femininity, the swell of her hips outlined softly beneath her gown, the curve of her breasts beneath the bodice hinting at their firm shapeliness. How she had looked when she had collided with him in her nightgown and how sweet her lips had tasted beneath his own had been dwelling on his mind ever since. Now, persistently, that memory in the dark of the night haunted him like some wilful, tormenting apparition determined to haunt his sleep. From that moment he suspected that his mind had been seared for evermore with an image of her delectable form.

Their eyes met and he excused himself, quickly striding forwards to meet her, a slow smile of admiration sweeping over his face.

Jane was delighted with the effect produced. Though he offered her a warm smile, she regarded him coolly. He held out a hand invitingly, desiring to have her near. When she remained where she was, he went to her and his hand reached towards her. He took one of her own, which she had folded in front of her, and by greater strength alone won it. Smiling casually, he brought it halfway to his lips.

‘Playing host has its rewards,' he murmured, placing his lips lightly on her fingers.

‘Play the host all you like, Francis,' she murmured, slowly withdrawing her hand from his grasp, ‘but I am apprehensive about sitting down to dine with your family. I am doing so with as much enthusiasm I would feel for a public flogging.'

He grinned. ‘That bad!'

‘I'm afraid so.'

There was something about the amused tilt of his
eyebrows, the sudden mischievousness in his eyes, that a tentative smiled tugged at her soft lips as he led her forwards to be introduced to his guests. ‘Try not to worry,' he murmured quietly. ‘They will not judge you because of your allegiance to King Charles during the War.'

Colonel Russell's brother and his wife were not at all what Jane had expected. Richard Russell was tall and sandy haired with a pleasant demeanour. His gait was awkward and he walked with the aid of a cane, which indicated that he was just another wounded participant from the Civil War.

Elizabeth, his wife, was extremely pleasant and went out of her way to be friendly. Her eyes were clear grey and calm under perfectly arched eyebrows. She was sympathetic about Jane's situation and most interested in knowing all about her background and upbringing at Bilborough. In no time at all it was as if they had been acquainted for years.

Alice, Elizabeth's sister, was another matter entirely. She was about three years older than herself and there was much about her to admire, for she was overflowing with physical assets. She was of medium height and neatly built, with pale gold hair and liquid green eyes, and though her firm mouth turned down at the corners it lent no hint of dejection to an expression that looked habitually pleasant. Wispy curls framed her youthful face to good advantage beneath a white lace cap.

But Jane was certain that the green eyes were calculating. It was as if their owner was impersonally taking note of all her smiles, gestures and mannerisms and listing them to be ticked or crossed—more often than not crossed, she was convinced, at her leisure. It was
plain to Jane from the first that here was a woman who wanted Francis for herself, and saw Jane as a rival. Jane didn't like her in the least, but she gave no hint of this.

‘This certainly is a beautiful house, Jane,' Elizabeth remarked, ‘and I can well imagine your resentment when you found out it had been sequestered—a resentment I am sure you must have felt for its new owner. I would have been quite devastated.'

A moment of strained silence passed. Half-smiling, half-frowning, Francis considered Jane carefully. ‘Resentment? Yes, it is to my regret that Jane had every right to feel resentment, Elizabeth. Considering that when she arrived I shocked her out of her wits, I feel responsible for her present condition.'

Jane smiled benignly. ‘Please don't let there be any argument on my account. A man can hardly find favour in being reminded that he purchased a property which the owner had no idea was up for sale.'

‘Well I can't say that I'm in favour of Parliament taking people's property. What say you, Richard?'

‘Whatever I say will not change the way things are, Elizabeth,' her husband replied. ‘This is a fine house, I grant you, Francis, but Russell House hasn't been the same since you moved out.'

‘It would seem Bilborough, with its rolling acres, is his preference, Richard, for him to rear his horses,' Elizabeth remarked, smiling fondly at her brother-in-law. ‘I fear I've never felt confident about them myself, and prefer to ride in the carriage. Although I can understand, with your vast equestrian skill, why you joined the cavalry. You certainly proved your worth many
times—just like your dear brother before his injury.' She patted Richard's arm affectionately.

Richard tossed a grin towards his younger brother. ‘I'm afraid you put me to shame with your many exploits and daring-dos, Richard. I wish I could have been there at the end.'

‘Let us hope that Worcester was the end of it.'

‘By all reports, your troop of horse proved itself as valiant in the battle as any in the Model Army.'

‘I was fortunate to command men of exemplary courage,' Francis assured his brother. ‘Whatever tribute has been laid on me, I owe the greater part to them.'

Richard flipped a hand towards his brother's gloved hand. ‘I observe you still cover your hand, Francis. How did you fare in battle? It must have been difficult—hampered with just the use of one hand.'

Francis glanced at the injured member. It had taken months for it to heal—as much as it was possible for a hand that had been crushed and badly burned to heal—but it had continued to pain him for longer. It was so badly disfigured he would never be able to use it properly, and, conscious of its deformity, to spare people's sensibilities he wore a glove whenever he was in company. He had closed his mind to the torture inflicted on him by Jacob Atkins, who had set about it with an intent look on his face—lit up, like when a man is looking at a pretty wench he's attracted to. Francis had blocked out his bitter hatred of the man and devoted himself to learning how to use his left arm.

‘It was, at first, but I followed some sound advice given to me by a very brave lad who risked his life to help me escape my torturer—who, I have no doubt,
would have become my executioner.' His expression was sombre as he spoke, his eyes cast down at his gloved hand. ‘The lad—Tom, his name was—reminded me that I had another hand, a good hand, and that I should learn to use it. I took that advice and I shall be eternally grateful to the lad. He also gave me his horse to make good my escape.'

Jane was all attention, though she tried not to show it as she asked casually, ‘And what happened to the horse?'

He looked at her and smiled. ‘He's in the paddock. His name is Arthur. He served me well and is deserving of a long retirement.' He could not know what joy this knowledge brought to the young woman, who truly thought her beloved Arthur must have perished long since on some battlefield or other, as he said on a more cheerful note, ‘Now please come and be seated, or we shall find ourselves eating dinner at breakfast.'

Favouring Jane with his attention, he escorted her across the hall. Alice walked with small, mincing steps and demure little smiles, and glided along beside her sister and brother-in-law. When Jane glanced behind her and met her steady gaze, she sensed Alice's antagonism, which she was determined to ignore.

They entered the dining parlour in which Jane's family had dined for generations. It brought back so many memories for her. It was a room where they had enjoyed conversation and restful pleasantries, a mug of ale or a small draught of a stronger beverage. It was a room where Gwen had stitched her tapestries, or played a tinkling melody on the harpsichord. Now it glowed
golden from the lighted candles in sconces around the room, and strangers sat at the table.

It was these tender, cherished memories that tore into her consciousness and rekindled all the resentment she felt for this usurper, Francis Russell.

The customary place of honour for the Lord of the Manor had always been at the head of the long dining table. It had been that way during her father's time, and it seemed destined to be so under Francis Russell's authority. Jane hardly expected him to escort her to a place immediately on the right of his chair, but that was indeed where he led her. Richard was directed next to her, Elizabeth and Alice seated across from them, Alice, by design, next to Francis.

It was not until they had all taken their seats that Jane glanced around the room and saw that the painting that had been a favourite of her father's—an equestrian scene, the artist having used Bilborough Hall as a backdrop—was still hanging in a prominent place on the wall above the fireplace, between two silver sconces. The tapers cast a warm glow on it, setting it off to perfection.

Her surprise was so complete that she gasped and turned to look at Francis. ‘I see you kept the painting. It was my father's favourite.'

‘What can I say?' He grinned as he shrugged. ‘You father had excellent taste. I liked it well enough to keep it. Of course I shall be happy to reimburse you—or return it to you if you so wish. There are other paintings I had removed to the attics, which I consider still belong to you. You may go through them at your leisure.'

‘Thank you. I will.'

‘This is indeed a comfortable house,' Richard
re marked, looking to his wife for agreement. ‘I certainly envy you the solitude—unlike Russell House, which is far too close to Cambridge for my liking.'

‘I would think that it is more comforting to live here than chase Royalists up and down the country,' Jane said with sudden impudent defiance as she tried to fight the power of their host's charm. He seemed amused as he studied her.

She saw the twinkle in his eye, the twist of humour about his firmly shaped mouth. ‘Each to his own, Jane. There are more discomforting experiences than chasing Royalists. Here, for instance, in this very house, is one that could prove to be far more dangerous and troublesome than a whole troop of Royalists.' His eyes narrowed with mockery and more than a little humour.

Jane stared at him, wondering if she should take offence, then, seeing the teasing expression in his startling blue eyes, allowed herself to smile. ‘I do believe you jest with me, Francis. Since you are so clever, I am surprised you did not make it to major and buy a house to equal that of Whitehall Palace.'