The Unlikely Lady (20 page)

“Might I further hope that you don't dislike me as much as you pretend to?” he asked.

She allowed the hint of a smile to play across her lips. “That entirely depends.”

“Upon what?”

“Upon whether you're willing to admit you don't dislike
me
as much as you pretend to.”

He grinned at her, she knew even without her spectacles. She felt it in her knees.

“With pleasure,” he replied.

“Very well, then I admit it. And I must thank you, also,” she said.

“For what?”

“For your help today. You quite came to my rescue.”

“Any time, my lady. I ask for only one small favor in return.”

Her fingers stilled against the sheets. Her heart fluttered in her chest. A favor? “What's that?”

“Call me Garrett.”

 

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Yesterday, he'd brought her a book. Today he brought her … flowers. Bloody flowers. Textbook, poetry-inducing flowers. Would she mock him? Would she laugh? Damn it. Garrett didn't know how she would react. The lilacs had bloomed early this year and he'd gone out into the gardens and gathered them himself. Daphne Swift had helped him find a matching lavender ribbon to tie around the stems and here he was on his way back to Jane's bedchamber to deliver them. He shook his head. Flowers? He was turning into a walking verse of bad poetry.

Garrett stood outside Jane's door and thought for a moment. The odds were quite high that she would mock the flowers. She was a mocker, after all, and they were flowers. Daphne had assured him, however, that all ladies enjoyed flowers, even Miss Lowndes.

He took a deep breath. There was more to discover behind that door than whether Jane would enjoy the flowers.

Did she love him?

Why couldn't he stop thinking about that? Despite Cassandra's insistence, nothing in Jane's demeanor up till now indicated it. Yesterday, they'd got on well enough. Admitting she didn't dislike him and asking him to admit he didn't dislike her was still a far cry from
love
. So here he stood, bloody gullible fool that he was, outside her bedchamber door, clutching a bouquet tied with a bow. That's right, a bow.

He couldn't linger in the corridor all morning and risk someone seeing him pay a call to her bedchamber. It was a precarious thing to do as it was.

He knocked.

“Come in,” Jane called.

He pushed open the door and strode inside. She was sitting up in bed wearing a new white night rail, still of the grandmama variety, but her hair was down around her shoulders. It was splendid and lush and dark brown with a slight curl to it. His mouth went dry. He licked his lips.

Her spectacles were back, perched upon her nose. The book he'd given her was propped upon her lap, but as soon as she saw him she pushed it aside.

“Upton,” she said, and blushed—actually blushed. Jane!—and then more softly, “Garrett.”

He strode to stand before the chair that still sat next to her bed. “These are for you.” He held out the flowers at a ninety-degree angle.

A small smile wiggled its way onto her lips. She took the bouquet and hugged them to her. “Lilacs are my favorite.”

“Mine too,” he murmured.

“I find it difficult to believe you have a favorite flower.” She pressed the blooms to her nose, closed her eyes, and inhaled deeply.

“Likewise.”

She opened her eyes again and blinked at him. “I suppose that's fair.”

They both laughed.

“I'm beginning to wonder about you,” she continued. “You know my favorite food is teacake and my favorite author is Mary Wollstonecraft, and now you know my favorite flower is a lilac. If I didn't know better, Upton”—she paused for a moment and he could have sworn that she blushed again—“I mean, Garrett, I'd say we were becoming … friends.”

Friends? Being a friend was a far cry from being in love. He took a seat and leaned back in the chair next to the bed. “You didn't even mention the fact that I've been sneaking into your bedchamber to get a glimpse of you in your unmentionables.”

“That
is
quite friendly,” she agreed, studying her night rail that covered her more decently than any gown she'd worn at the house party so far.

“What would you say if I told you I also know your favorite color is blue?” he asked.

Jane's eyes widened. “Now, that is
much
too personal. Seeing me in my grandmotherly night rail is one thing, but knowing my favorite color is altogether indecent.”

He grinned at her. “But it is, isn't it? Blue?”

“Yes,” she replied, setting the flowers on the coverlet next to her. “Appropriate for a bluestocking, is it not? Now that you know so much about me, it's only sporting if you tell me something about you.”

“Really?” He arched a brow. “Like what?”

“The obvious things, of course, like what is your favorite food?”

“Beefsteak.”

She nodded. “A bit predictable, but very well.”

“Predictable?”

“I was hoping you'd name something outlandish like turtle soup.”

He grimaced. “I abhor turtle soup.”

“So do I, but it's an interesting favorite food, you cannot deny it.” She didn't pause for his response. “What is your favorite book?”

“Candide.”

She sucked in her breath. “You've read Voltaire?”

“I have.”

“You're teasing me.” She plucked at the ribbon on the flowers. She'd been doing a great deal of plucking in his company of late. He'd never noticed that about her before.

“No, I'm not teasing,” he replied. “I've read
Candide
at least three times. If you care to quiz me on its contents, my lady, I'm at your disposal.”

She paused for a moment before saying, “Oh, no. That's silly.”

“Yes, but you considered it just now, didn't you?”

“How could you tell?”

“You had a certain look on your face. A competitive look. I've seen it before.”

She pushed her nose into the air. Very fetching, that. “I only considered it because I enjoy discussing books.”

His grin returned. “As do I.”

“You do?”

“Don't look so surprised. Contrary to what you might think, I actually enjoy books.”

She bit her lip. “Books have always been my closest friends. At least they were when I was a child. They were my only friends. Though now, happily, I have Lucy and Cass.”

“And me.” His voice was soft.

She averted her gaze, still plucking at the ribbon.

Garrett spoke again to fill the silence. “Why were books your only friends when you were a child?”

Her fingers stilled. “You don't want to hear about that.”

Settling back in his chair, he crossed his booted feet at the ankles. “Yes I do. I've got all the time in the world. They're planning a hunt today and I'd rather be boiled in oil than go hunting.”

Jane shook her head at him. “That may be, but would you rather sit here and listen to me? You could be doing a host of other things.”

“I'm delighted to sit here and listen to you.” If he didn't know better, he could have sworn she blushed again. He could get used to making her blush. She was adorable when she did so. “Tell me, Jane. Why were books your only friends?”

She sighed and her shoulders lifted and fell. “Suffice it to say, I wasn't a popular child.”

“I wasn't either.” He snorted. “I only had a small set of friends I ran with at Eton and—”

“No. I mean to say I had
no
friends. None whatsoever.”

He wrinkled his brow and looked at her. “None?”

“Not one. I was an only child and the house was quite lonely. Mama and Papa sent me to school at first, but the other children made such awful fun of me … Then Papa was knighted and I was tutored at home and I was so much happier.”

Garrett narrowed his eyes on her face. “Why did the other children make fun of you? Because you were so much more intelligent than they were?”

She resumed her ribbon plucking. “No.” The way she said the word made his heart tug. “When I was a child, I didn't allow anyone to know I was intelligent. I desperately wanted to be accepted, and being intelligent was not the way to become admired, especially for a girl.”

“Then why did they make fun of you?”

This time there was no mistaking the pink blush that crept across Jane's pretty freckled cheeks. “I didn't look like the rest of them. They didn't like that.”

He furrowed his brow even deeper. “Didn't look like the rest of them? I don't understand. Were they all blond?” How could she not look like the rest of them?

The edge of her mouth quirked up. “I was quite a portly child. Mama called me plump, but portly was a much more apt description.”

Garrett uncrossed his ankles and sat up straight. He couldn't imagine it. Jane? Pretty, intelligent, simple, sarcastic Jane? Portly?

“I don't believe it.”

“I can assure you it's true.” She sighed.

“Your mother called you plump?”

“Quite often, actually. She thought it was a kind word.”

“It's not kind at all.” There was a slight growl in his voice. Where had that come from?

“Yes, well, I ate even more teacake as a girl than I do now, I'm afraid, and it didn't melt away the way it does now when I take a good healthy walk every day. Cass will most likely have to roll me from this bed when my ankle has healed.”

He was still trying to conjure the image of Jane being portly. He knew she'd been a wallflower. She'd been inordinately pleased about that fact ever since he'd met her. He'd believed she preferred to be a wallflower, was one by choice. “You said the other children … They … made sport of you?”

Jane tugged at a dark curl that had fallen over her shoulder, and Garrett had to resist the urge to reach out and stroke it too. “They did indeed,” she replied. “That's why it was so much better after I remained at home. I only had to endure their teasing when I went out with Mama or at church on Sundays.”

Garrett lurched in his chair and planted both boots on the floor. “They made sport of you at
church
?”

“Oh, my, yes. At every opportunity. Being a portly child is a grievous sin.”

“No it's not, Jane.” His voice was low. He met her gaze.

She glanced away and laughed a shaky laugh. “Tell that to those children. I suppose they're all hideous adults now. I see some of them from time to time and I want to hide from them.”

“Still?” The rough edge to his voice remained.

“Yes. You know what the worst part is?” she asked with a wry smile.

“What?”

She scrunched up her nose. “The truth is it makes me want to eat even more teacake.”

Without thinking, he reached out and squeezed her hand. “Those children were wrong, Jane. You are even more lovely than the lilacs.”

Her breath hitched a bit and she slowly pulled her shaking hand away and placed it on her lap. “Yes, well, that's why books have always been my closest friends. They never tease you, they're always there for you, and they couldn't care less how many teacakes you have gobbled.”

He looked at the flowers where they rested on the white coverlet. “I should have brought you teacake instead of lilacs.”

She laughed. “It's probably best that you did not.” She waved a hand in the air. “Enough about me and my sad past. Speaking of hideous adults, has Mrs. Langford asked about me?”

He shook his head. “Only to inquire as to whether you'd be able to attend the wedding. I assured her you would.”

“I'm certain she's delighted.” Ah, Jane's sarcasm had returned full force.

“I truly wish she hadn't come here,” Garrett murmured.

Jane met his gaze with her own steady one. “I think she sees me as competition for you. You say she's not your mistress, but what exactly is she to you, Garrett?”

He expelled his breath. Hearing his name on her lips did something unexpected to his insides, but how had this conversation taken this turn? “It's complicated.”

Jane nodded softly. “But it's not … intimate?”

“No, nothing like that. She's Harold's widow.”

“It seems she would like to be more,” Jane replied. “Do you want more too?”

Was that regret in her voice? Or was he merely reading that into it? “No. I've been sending her— I feel a responsibility toward Harold. That's all.”

Jane nodded. “I see. So you've been kind to her, and she's interpreted that as opening the door to a courtship.”

“I don't believe I've done anything to lead her on, to allow her to hope … The widows of deceased soldiers have been treated poorly by the government. That's why I'm in support of Swifdon's new bill.”

“A noble cause to be sure,” Jane murmured. Once again, she looked him directly in the eye. “What happened over there, Garrett? Were you with Harold Langford when he died?”

 

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Garrett hadn't answered. He'd said something vague about war being hell and promptly left the room. But Jane was certain Garrett knew more about Harold Langford's death than he wanted to say, something that tied him to Harold's widow.

Frankly, Jane had her suspicions about the widow when it came to the accident. She'd seen Mrs. Langford's footman in the stables and wondered if he'd done anything to tamper with her saddle. Tampering with a saddle and then challenging your opponent to a race? A bit predictable, was it not? Of course there was no way to prove it without accusing Mrs. Langford outright. Perhaps that was what Jane deserved for being so quick to race that woman. She shouldn't have trusted her for a moment. She wouldn't make that mistake again.