Elizabeth Powell (13 page)

She stiffened; Sebastian tightened his arms around her. In a loose cluster on the walkway stood a group of fashionably dressed bucks, watching and chortling among themselves. The viscount recognized a few faces; these fellows must have seen the argument, then followed after him and Jane in the hopes of seeing more. And they had, indeed.

“Bundle yourselves off, you pack of jackanapes, or face me in Hyde Park at dawn tomorrow,” he snarled.

The young men laughed; some jeered. A few made mocking bows before sauntering on their way.

Sebastian looked down at the woman he held in his arms. She rested her forehead against his chest and hunched into his embrace.

“You realize what this means, don’t you?” he asked quietly.

She drew a long, shuddering breath. “Yes. It means we are utterly ruined.”

“How could you do this to me?” Lady Portia shrilled. “You selfish, ungrateful girl—I vow you did this on purpose, to disgrace me. I shall never be able to show my face in public again!”

Jane stood in the middle of the drawing room floor, her spine straight and her head held high, blinking furiously at the tears that pooled on her lashes. She would not cry. She must not. If she showed any weakness, her mother would make mincemeat of her. Not that the situation could get any worse; her dignity was in shreds, and she felt a deep, overwhelming sense of shame.

She had predicted that Lady Portia would fly up into the boughs when she and Sebastian—Lord Langley—returned and explained what had happened. But she had not expected the cold, cruel, deliberate rage that gripped her mother. The fact that they had not been able to locate Penelope and Mr. Havelock right away only served to fuel her fury. Though Lord Nigel had gallantly volunteered to stay behind and look for them, it had not placated Lady Portia one whit.

Viscount Langley had taken Jane and her mother home, then retired to his house next door, with the promise
that he would call on them the next afternoon. Jane supposed she should be happy; Sebastian was going to offer her the protection of his name. Not that either of them had any choice after this evening’s debacle.

Why on earth had she let him kiss her? He had teased, patronized, and humiliated her, then pursued and waylaid her when she had made it clear that she wanted nothing more to do with him. Or had she? She should have protested with greater vehemence. She should have run straight back to the supper box. She should have—

No. What was done was done, no matter how much she might regret it. She must stand and face the consequences, not the least of which was her mother’s furious tirade. But nothing Lady Portia said could make Jane feel any more miserable than she did already. She had stolen Penelope’s beau, a man she loved. She had betrayed her own sister in the worst possible way.

“Are you listening to me, Jane?” demanded her mother.

Jane jumped. Her heart leaped into her throat.

Lady Portia crossed the Aubusson carpet with deliberate steps, her blue eyes glittering, her expression livid. “You have always been a selfish, jealous, thoughtless creature. Penelope did nothing to merit this hateful deed.”

“I have never been jealous of my sister,” Jane replied tightly.

Her mother stiffened. “Of course you have. You resent her because she is beautiful and has greater prospects than you could ever hope to have. I will see to it that she makes a brilliant match, which is certain now that you will no longer be here to poison her against me.”

“I would never do anything so vile,” she insisted.

“Do not lie to me, you little vixen. I know what is best
for Penelope, yet you have subverted my authority at every turn.”

“I have done no such thing!”

“Have you not?” Lady Portia reached into her reticule and pulled out a small, familiar, leather-bound journal.

A yawning pit seemed to open up beneath Jane’s feet. Her mother had found the List.

Lady Portia waved the book in her face. “This is your fault. Penelope knows her duty to me. She would never have considered doing something like this if not for your malicious influence.”

“Pen is not a doll, Mama, for you to dress up and manipulate at your whim,” she replied through clenched teeth. Anger blazed through her; her head felt as though it no longer rested on her shoulders. “Whether you like it or not, she has a mind of her own, and she will not allow you to bully her into marriage as compensation for your own disappointments.”

“How dare you speak to me that way!” her mother snapped. “I have made countless sacrifices on your behalf, and
this
is how you repay me? You should be thankful I gave birth to you at all.”

Jane’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”

“I never wanted you,” Lady Portia declared with a cold, superior air. “Penelope is perfect in every way; I wanted no more children after she was born. You have been nothing but a burden, you with your plain face and willful ways.”

She blinked away an angry barrage of tears. “Papa never thought so.”

Lady Portia sniffed in disdain. “Your father was a countrified fool, just as you are. Do you really think you will be able to retain the interest of a Corinthian like Viscount Langley? In no time at all he will grow weary of
seeing your mousy countenance every morning at the breakfast table and take up with a string of mistresses. And I, for one, would not blame him.”

The angry retort slipped out before Jane could stop it: “Is that what you did to Papa, once you grew tired of him and the farm? You did not make all those trips to London just to visit your ailing cousin.”

Lady Portia landed a stinging slap on Jane’s cheek.

Jane took the blow in silence, though her ears rang with the force of it. “Papa knew,” she said, her voice rough. “He knew everything. Why else do you suppose your widow’s portion is so small?”

Her mother paled, her lips compressed into a bloodless line. “I have nothing more to say to you. Go to your room, Jane, and stay there until I call for you. I shall remain here and wait for Penelope. I should never have allowed her to go off with that ill-bred tradesman.”

Jane departed from the overheated drawing room, her back ramrod straight, then marched up the stairs. A sigh of relief escaped her when she escaped her mother’s oppressive presence.

She raised a trembling hand to her still tingling cheek. Her mother’s words had flayed her to the quick—with one exception. Her mother seemed convinced that Lord Langley would be a worse husband to her than he would to Penelope, simply because Jane was not beautiful. Did she really believe that physical attractiveness had any effect on a husband’s loyalty and respect for his wife? From what Jane had seen, a man’s character did not fluctuate according to the beauty of the woman he married. One had but to observe the way he treated others to know what sort of person he was. And, for the most part, Viscount Langley seemed to be an honorable gentleman.

He had not meant to compromise her. It had just—happened….

No. That was not true. She was no more the victim than he. They had both allowed matters to progress this far. And she could not for the life of her imagine why.

No, that was not true, either. She knew why she had done it—she loved him. Despite her best intentions, her agreement with Augustus, and her devotion to Pen, she had fallen in love with Viscount Langley. His charm, his amiable nature, and his irrepressible roguish grin had proved too much for her to resist.

She loved him, and he knew it. He had seen through all her attempts at pretense. But he must feel something for her in return; his kiss had seared her soul. Even now she could feel the warmth of his hands on her body, the taste of his mouth and tongue. She shivered. What would it be like to be married to such a passionate man?

She shivered again, this time from apprehension. Augustus. What would she tell him? He deserved to hear about this from her, not from a society gossip column in London newspapers. She would have to write to him tomorrow and explain matters in person when they returned to Leicestershire. Her hasty marriage would put a strain on their neighborly relations, but that could not be helped.

When Jane reached her bedchamber, she thought about ringing for McBride, but decided against it; her mother’s dresser would be no less censorious than Lady Portia herself. She took off the white satin gown, her fingers lingering on the tiny rosebuds along the neckline. Tears spilled over her lashes, and she made no move to stop them. Oh, God, what was she going to tell Pen? She loved her sister above all else in the world; she could not bear to lose her. Would she believe their mother’s story,
that Jane had done this on purpose? No, Pen knew her too well to credit such gammon. Jane would simply have to tell her the complete truth, as painful as it would be for both of them, and hope that her sister forgave her.

She laid the dress gently over the back of a chair; she would return it to Pen in the morning—that is, if her sister was still speaking to her. She brushed out her hair, changed into her night rail, then climbed into bed.

Apprehension made her restless, and both her body and her mind refused to relax enough to sleep. She sat up and rearranged the pillows on her bed. Perhaps reading would help.

She reached into the drawer of her bedside table and retrieved her book. Strange … there seemed to be something inside it.

What in the world … ?

Jane pulled forth a small, unmarked envelope. Where had this come from? She opened it, frowning. Inside was a letter, written in her sister’s neat and elegant hand.

Questions crowded Jane’s mind. Her plans? What was she talking about? When had she put this letter in Jane’s book? And where in heaven’s name was she? She pursed her lips and read on:

Gretna Green? Penelope had eloped!

Jane set the letter in her lap and stared blindly into space. Who would have thought … Sweet, shy Penelope would never … She couldn’t…
Elope
? And with Mr. Havelock? She forced herself to read that portion of the letter again; no, she had not misread it. And there was more …

Jane remembered her sister’s swollen lips and dazed expression the night of the ball and her troubled demeanor afterward, and everything fit together. Oh, if only Pen had told her!

“Of course I do,” Jane murmured. An ache began deep in her chest.

Your loving and devoted sister,

Penelope

A tear trickled down Jane’s cheek before she realized she was crying. Pen … in love. With a man she found worthy—who
was
worthy, even though he had no title. And she had defied her mother to be with him. Pen, who
had rarely stood up for herself, had found courage in her love for Mr. Havelock. Jane wanted to cheer, but the sound that emerged from her throat was half-laugh, half-sob.

Dear, dear Pen. Oh, how she would miss her! Jane hiccuped, then forced herself to draw a deep, even breath. Her gaze alighted on her sister’s dress, and realization struck her. Lady Portia would not want anything more to do with her after this scandal. With Pen gone, she was alone. The loss struck her like a physical blow. Even after the death of their father, Penelope had always stood by her, her loving support true and unwavering. Now she had no one.

No, that was not true. She had Lord Langley. But would a worldly gentleman such as he be interested in a place like Wellbourne?

Jane hugged her knees to her chest. She could rely upon him, couldn’t she? For all his condescending manner, he had seemed genuinely concerned about her managing the farm by herself. Once they married, Wellbourne Grange would become his by law. Surely he would not take the farm and its assets to do with as he pleased. He was heir to a great earldom; he had no need for her estate or the income it produced.