Elizabeth Powell (23 page)

Sir Roger bowed slightly. “I sincerely regret my part in this disastrous incident, my lord,” he said. “Allow me to wish you a very speedy recovery.”

“Thank you, Sir Roger,” Sebastian murmured. “I am certain that you shall be seeing more of my wife and me in the future.”

“I look forward to it.”

Mr. Talbot turned Sebastian’s cravat into a makeshift sling for his arm, which eased some of the throbbing pain. Then, with the assistance of Mr. Monk, Jane and Mr. Finley managed to get him to the dogcart. He lay with his head pillowed on Jane’s lap. It felt like heaven.

As the dogcart started off his wife smoothed his hair back from his forehead, her eyes clouded.

“What is it, imp?” he croaked.

She bit at her lower lip. “Did you make love to me in order to keep me distracted from the duel?” she asked, her voice soft and anguished. “Please, Sebastian … I need to know.”

He smiled, reaching up with his good hand to caress the softness of her cheek. “No. I made love to you because I wanted to before I died. Because I loved you.”

Tears swelled in her beautiful eyes. “Oh, Sebastian …” She kissed him.

The dogcart jolted; he groaned against her lips.

“Are you all right?” she asked anxiously.

He grinned. “I’m fine as long as you kiss me. So keep it up, love. It’s a long ride home.”

Her apprehension melted. “You are incorrigible, sir,” she murmured.

“And you prefer me that way. Kiss me.”

She smiled and did as he asked.

*    *    *

The butler appeared in the doorway of Jane’s bedchamber, his face pale. “Ah—Miss Jane—forgive me for interrupting you and his lordship, but…”

“Hand me that pillow, Meg.” Jane gently propped another bolster behind her husband’s head, then turned toward the door. “Yes, what is it, Huxley?”

Before the manservant could reply, a shrill, strident voice echoed from the vestibule below.

“Will
someone
tell me what is going on here? I demand to know this instant. How dare you treat me like a stranger in my own home!”

Huxley cleared his throat and looked as though he wished himself far, far away. “Lady Portia has arrived, ma’am.”

A shiver skittered its way up her spine. Jane and Meg exchanged significant glances; Meg winced.

“Wha—? What’s all this?” Sebastian lifted his head and frowned. “That sounded suspiciously like your mother. Have we been invaded? Shall I call in the troops?”

Jane smoothed her fingers across his forehead. “Nothing to worry about, my love. Rest, and I shall deal with her.”

He tried to sit up. “Deal with that harpy? Alone? Oh, no. I am going with you.”

“You, sir, have a hole in your shoulder, and I refuse to let you out of this bed.” She pressed him back into the pillows. “I will go and talk to my mother.”

“Are you certain?” he asked, clearly troubled.

“The battle between us has been brewing for a long time, my love. And I need to fight it alone. If I do not do this now, I will never be able face myself in the mirror.”

He nodded and relaxed, a slight smile on his mobile mouth. “I understand.”

“Lady Portia wishes her bags brought to her room,” the butler said in an apologetic manner. “Shall I have the footmen see to it?”

“No, Huxley.” Jane rose and smoothed her skirts. “I must speak with my mother first.”

She descended the stairs with slow, deliberate steps. Her mother stood in the center of the vestibule, surrounded by her multitude of baggage, as fashionably dressed as ever in her carriage ensemble of sea-green corded muslin with fine Mechlin lace at the collar and cuffs. The ostrich plumes on her bonnet bobbed as she stamped her foot in frustration.

“Good day, ma’am,” Jane said in a studiously neutral tone.

Lady Portia looked up and scowled, her lips pinched. “Well, it’s about time. Gracious, look at you! You look like something the dog has dragged through the mud.”

“How lovely to see you, too, Mama,” Jane replied quietly. She halted on the bottom step.

“And what is that on your sleeve? Goodness, do you know how much that habit cost me?”

Jane glanced down; Sebastian’s blood stained the cuffs and one sleeve of her riding habit. She swallowed hard. “It’s blood.”

“Blood?” Lady Portia pulled off her kidskin gloves. “Heavens, Jane, I do not know what I am supposed to do with you. What now, some sort of accident in those ghastly stables?”

“No, ma’am,” Jane retorted. “What brings you here?”

Her mother grew livid. “How dare you use that tone with me! Wretched, ill-mannered girl. You are fortunate
anyone deigned to marry you at all, much less the man I had in mind for Penelope.”

Ordinarily she would retreat into silence when faced with Lady Portia’s anger, but what she had been through today gave her courage. She had withstood seeing her husband shot; she could withstand her mother’s temper tantrums. “If you have come here simply to intimidate me, Mother, then you have wasted your time.”

Lady Portia’s eyes hardened to chips of blue ice. “I will thank you to keep a civil tongue in your head, my girl.”

“You need not speak to me as if I am a green miss, Mother. I am married, after all. Now what do you want?”

“What do I—? Of all the effrontery. I have come home. Now, where are all the dratted servants? I want my bags taken up to my rooms directly.”

Jane swallowed hard. She must not waver. She straightened. “This is no longer your home, ma’am.”

“Well, of course it is,” Lady Portia scoffed. “I belong here.”

Jane clenched her fingers in her skirt to still their shaking. “Do you? Then where were you when we lost five pregnant mares to disease in one season and struggled to pay the staff? Where were you when Pharaoh threw Papa and trampled him? Where were you this past month, when my husband was in London and I was left alone to manage this estate by myself?”

Lady Portia’s nostrils flared. “How dare you! I am your mother!”

Jane stood her ground. “Yes, and for that I owe you my gratitude. But the way you have treated Penelope and me over the years, along with the abominable disdain with which you treated my father, does not entitle you to my love or my respect. You are welcome to stay here until the
rest of your things can be transported to the dower cottage. After that, Lady Portia, I no longer want you in this house.”

“Why, you impudent little baggage, how dare you—”

“I must remind you, ma’am, that my father left Wellbourne Grange to me in his will, just as he left you the dower cottage and the rooms in Bath.”

Tears began to well in her mother’s eyes. “How can you be so unfeeling?”

“On the contrary—I have a great many feelings, and I will not let you take advantage of them. I will no longer allow you to badger me or bludgeon me with guilt to get what you want.”

Lady Portia’s tears vanished in a trice. “I will not permit you to treat me in this shameful manner. You are my daughter. You should be grateful I gave birth to you at all.”

“You have already played that card, ma’am. I am through with your selfish bullying; it will not fadge.” She hoped she sounded as brave as her words.

Her mother glared at her, the full force of her malice shining from her eyes. “This is
my
house, and I am still mistress here. I am your mother, and I will thank you to remember your place. Now go upstairs to your room. I shall deal with you later.”

Jane quailed beneath the force of that stare; she could feel it eating away at her resolve. Her stomach roiled.

“
Your
house, ma’am? I beg to differ with you.”

Jane whirled. Sebastian stood at the top of the stairs, his arm in a sling, his face pale, his eyes ablaze with blue fury.

Lady Portia gaped at him. “What are
you
doing here? I thought you were in London.”

“I live here. This is my home. When I married your
daughter, her property became mine by law, a fact which you seem to have conveniently forgotten.”

Jane climbed the stairs to stand beside him. Had he suspected that she could not stand up to her mother? Tears of shame stung her eyes; she blinked them away. “What are you doing here? You should be in bed.”

Sebastian grazed her chin with the pad of his thumb and gave her the lazy, lopsided smile that first won her heart. “I merely came to show my dear wife how much I love her and that I will support her no matter what difficulties she may face.”

Warmth flooded Jane’s soul. “I love you,” she whispered.

“I know. I will always be here for you, Jane. What strength I have is yours.”

“What is all this?” Lady Portia demanded. “What are you whispering about?”

Jane turned and lifted her chin. “You must excuse my husband’s appearance; he is recovering from a wound he received defending my honor.”

“A duel?” Lady Portia gasped, one hand to her breast. “Oh, good gracious! Whatever will the neighbors think? Oh, the scandal! Well, all I can say is that it’s a good thing I came when I did. With my connections, I can save us all from complete and total ruin.”

Sebastian’s silent presence at her back bolstered her flagging courage; Jane knew what she had to do. “No, Mother.”

“What do you mean, ‘no’?” Lady Portia demanded.

“I should not expect you to recognize the significance of that word, since you have not heard it often. It means you shall not be staying here. I will ask Michael and Thomas to take your things to your rooms, and then instruct
Huxley to begin moving your belongings to the dower cottage.”

“You wretched little hussy—”

“Before I do,” Jane continued quietly, “tell me one thing—why do you despise me so?”

“I cannot fathom your meaning,” Lady Portia replied with a sniff.

“‘Tis a simple enough question. What have I ever done to offend you?”

Her mother’s eyes narrowed. “How could you not offend me? How could a woman of my beauty and breeding not be offended by giving birth to such a—a plain and ungainly creature?”

Jane began to tremble. “You hate me because I am a blot on your pride?”

“I do not expect you to understand. Your father never did, either, but he was a fool. You take after him in that respect.”

Understanding flared. “That’s it, isn’t it? You were jealous of the affection Papa felt for me, when you had deemed me unworthy.” Jane stared at her mother, stunned. “You hated me for diverting his attention, and you hated him because you were no longer the sole focus of his love. You could forgive Penelope, because she was beautiful like you. But you could never forgive me.”

“Believe what you will,” huffed Lady Portia. “It hardly matters to me.”

“But it matters to
me.
It matters very much. All my life you have belittled me, told me I was ugly and worthless. I am none of those things, and my husband’s love has made me see that.”

Jane felt Sebastian move closer to her; his warm, calloused hand enveloped hers.

“Well, this is outside of enough!” Lady Portia
snapped. “I refuse to remain under the same roof with a heartless, presumptuous girl who is no better than she should be. I wash my hands of you, something I should have done a long time ago.” With that, she turned on her delicate slippered heel and marched out the front door to her carriage.

Jane sagged against the stair railing. She had lost her father three years ago; now she had just lost her mother. She straightened. No, that was not true—she had never really had a mother. She had a cold, selfish woman who never truly cared about anyone but herself.

Oh, Pen, you would be proud of me. I finally stood up for us both.

Sebastian smiled at her. “Well done, Jane.”

She shuddered. “I cannot believe I just threw my own mother out of the house.”

“You did not throw her. She walked of her own accord. For that I would salute the conquering heroine, but if I did I suspect she would have my guts for garters.”

Jane smiled back, although she felt drained. “I am too weary for much of anything, I fear.”

He slipped his good arm around her shoulders. “Come here.”

She allowed him to pull her close, careful not to jar his wound.

“You did what you felt you had to do,” he murmured against her hair.

“I wish…” Jane bit her lip. “I wish it had not come to this. She is my mother.”

“Yes,” Sebastian agreed, “but she was poisoning you. My father told me the reasons behind his treatment of me; I can appreciate his motives, if not the way he acted on them. We might be able to understand each other some day. But your mother … I do not think she will ever
admit that what she did, the way she treated you and your sister and your father, was wrong.”

She nodded. Although the thought made her unhappy, she knew Sebastian was right. Her mother would never admit any fault, even when confronted with the facts.

“Besides,” he continued, “I don’t think she would be able to get over the scandal of a viscount working in the stables. Though I fear I will not be able to hold a pitchfork any time soon.”

“That’s quite all right,” Jane replied, and traced a finger over his lips. “You need never use a pitchfork again, if you so choose.”

“What, you have other plans for me?” He winked at her.

“As a matter of fact,” she murmured with a wicked grin of her own, “yes, I do. And I think you will approve of them.”

Sebastian sobered, his blue gaze searching her face. “You will always have me, imp.”

Jane smiled. “We will always have each other.” And she kissed him.

September 1814

Two months later

“I just received a letter from Nigel,” Sebastian announced.

Jane rolled her eyes and put another dab of marmalade on her scone. “What is he up to now? Blinding the populace of London with a new waistcoat? Making fun of the latest crop of wallflowers?”

The viscount grinned. “You do not think very highly of Nigel, do you?”

“He called me a mousy little antidote on more than one occasion. He is smug, arrogant, rude, and insufferably pompous. And those are his
good
points.”

Sebastian’s grin did not waver. “Are you not the least bit curious as to what he has to say?”

Jane set down her scone. “Oh, all right. You won’t stop grinning at me until you do.”