The Unlikely Lady (26 page)

Jane's mouth fell open. “Upton.” She gasped. “This is really beyond the pale. You think you can fix all of this by proposing to me?”

“I'm not trying to fix it. I'm telling you that I love you and I want to marry you. Please say yes, Jane. Please.”

He could have sworn there were tears in her eyes, but her face quickly reverted to stone.

“No, Upton. Never.”

He searched her face, lowering his voice. “What about what we did the night before the wedding?”

She blushed but anger remained etched in her features. “Yes, as to that, thank you, that was informative, but I don't want to repeat it and I certainly don't intend to marry over it. No one
needs
to marry. I consider it a learning experience only, Upton. Good day.” She turned away from him.

“What the devil are you talking about, Jane? I thought we had something together,” he said as she left him kneeling by the hedgerow.

She whirled around to face him and shrugged even though he could tell she was fighting back tears. She carefully limped back closer to him, no doubt so her mother wouldn't overhear. “Something? What something? You're experienced, Upton. Far more experienced than I. Do you propose marriage to every lady whom you kiss in a drawing room?”

His head snapped to the side as if she'd slapped him.

“No.” His voice was harsh, hard.

“We suffered a bout of temporary insanity, you and I.” Jane's voice crackled with ice. “I promise you it will never happen again.”

 

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

London, two days later

Garrett rubbed the top of the dog's head. He sat in the wide leather chair behind his desk in his study. It was nice to be home, back into the routine of things. He had a stack of correspondence half a foot high. He'd thrown himself into his work like a madman, anything to keep from thinking about Jane.

Jane. What the hell had happened with Jane? Would he ever understand women? That woman in particular? Why had her defenses reappeared so quickly? She hadn't even allowed him the chance to explain. Not that it mattered. He had asked her to spend the night with him without a promise. That had been poorly done. But he'd done the right thing as soon as he'd been able. He'd fallen to his knee on the bloody front lawn of the Morelands' estate, and she had thrown it in his face as if it meant nothing.

He scrubbed his hand through his hair. Somehow he'd lulled himself into believing something special had developed between them.

She was frightened. He knew that. She was feeling things she'd most likely never felt before. Perhaps her refusal of him had been her way of keeping him at a safe distance. Wasn't that Jane's specialty? The entire world was at a distance from her, viewed from behind those silver-rimmed spectacles or from behind the pages of a book. She hid from people, hid from the world, hid behind her cloak of intellectual superiority. Only he'd been able to coax her out, just a bit, but then she'd slammed the door right back in his face.

She'd been cold to him that morning she'd left. So cold. He'd never seen her that way before. But that cold woman wasn't Jane. Not truly. He knew how warm she could be.

He cursed under his breath. Why had he proposed? Because it was the right thing to do? Because he had developed feelings for her? But was it … love? He didn't know what love felt like. Damn it. Jane had supposedly been in love with him, or so Cass had claimed. Was that even true? Perhaps Jane was right. Perhaps they had both suffered a bout of temporary insanity. At any rate, it was over now. She'd been quite emphatic in her response. He would do well to forget about it and move forward.

The second dog came up and wagged his tail. Garrett patted him on the head as well. “Let's see to all of these letters,” he murmured, firmly pushing thoughts of Jane Lowndes from his mind.

On the top of the stack was a recent letter from Isabella Langford. He broke the seal and unfolded it.

Please pay me a call, Garrett. I must speak with you at your earliest convenience.

Yours,

Isabella

Garrett tossed the letter on the desk and stared blindly out the window. It was time to make it clear to Isabella once and for all that he would not be courting her. He owed it to her to say it to her face, confront the awkwardness of the house party. Tell her that her rudeness to Jane was untenable, and if he ever found out she or her dastardly footman had anything to do with the saddle on Jane's horse being tampered with, he'd make them both pay.

He'd briefly wondered if she had had anything to do with his being conked over the head in the wine cellar. But that made little sense. What possible use could she have for knocking him out and locking him in a wine cellar all night? Given her motives, if she'd been involved he would have no doubt awoken in her bed with her insisting upon a proposal. His gold pocket watch had been missing when he'd awoken. The culprit was likely some desperate servant. Lady Moreland had assured him she'd look into the matter. Apparently, she hadn't yet been able to find the thief.

Garrett ordered the coach put to and paid an afternoon call to Isabella. Her expensive butler ushered him into the drawing room. Isabella soon joined him and asked the butler for tea.

“Thank you for coming.” She gave Garrett a bright smile.

“Isabella, I—”

“No. Let me speak first, please.”

He nodded. “Very well.”

“I know you don't have tender feelings for me, not in the same way I do for you. But I think it makes sense for us to marry, nonetheless.”

He opened his mouth to interrupt her.

“Hear me out, please.”

He nodded.

“We may not be a love match, but the children need a father. I need a husband. And you will need a wife, an heir.”

Jane's words echoed in his head.
No one needs to marry.

“I understand that, Isabella. Believe me, you are beautiful and I'm certain you would make someone a fine wife, but—”

Isabella took a deep breath. “I know you're hesitant because of Harold. Because of what you told me at the house party.”

“That's one reason, yes, but—”

Isabella's voice was strained. “There's something I must show you.”

 

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

“I sent your mother a note telling her that Mrs. Bunbury was feeling ever so much better. I even signed Mrs. B's name to it.” Lucy's announcement was accompanied by a wide smile as she served Jane tea in her London drawing room.

“Did you disguise your handwriting?” Jane dropped an extra lump of sugar into her cup. Since she'd returned from the countryside, her ankle had healed, but she was still sore on the inside. She was struggling to seem normal for Lucy's sake.

“Of course I disguised my handwriting,” Lucy answered. “Though I doubt your mother's taken much notice of mine over the years.”

“Show me,” Jane replied. “I'd wager I can tell it's yours.”

“You and your study of handwriting,” Lucy said with a laugh, as she stood and made her way over to the writing desk in the corner. She took out a piece of parchment, grabbed a quill, and scribbled away.

While Lucy wrote, Jane considered for the one-hundredth time telling her friend what had happened between herself and Garrett. Part of it at least. But she decided against it. Again. Telling one bit would necessitate telling the whole sordid thing and that was a complicated story Jane had no intention of repeating. It had been difficult enough convincing Mama that Mr. Upton had not, in fact, proposed. It was deuced difficult to come up with a plausible explanation as to why a gentleman would stop a coach in such a dramatic fashion, ask to speak to a young lady privately, and then fall to one knee, but somehow Jane had managed to convince her mother that Mr. Upton had simply wanted her recommendation on a book she'd been reading and had lost something in the grass while they'd been discussing it in earnest.

Of course, her father didn't believe it for a moment. He raised both brows over his spectacles, shook his head, and went back to his columns and figures. Thankfully, Papa had never believed that marriage was the goal to which every young lady should aspire. He wasn't about to interfere. Her mother, however, had taken a bit of convincing.

Lucy dropped the quill back into the inkwell and trotted over with the note. “I give you Mrs. Bunbury's handwriting.”

Jane set her teacup on the table and took the letter, eyeing it carefully. She quietly contemplated it for a few moments. “Aha. You've given yourself away.”

“Where!” Lucy demanded, craning her neck to look over Jane's shoulder.

“Right here.” Jane pointed to the top of a letter
p
. “The large circle here with the tail on the end of it is purely Lucy Hunt.”

Lucy scowled. “I do that?”

“Yes, but not to worry. While I noticed it, I doubt Mama would. I'd advise you never to attempt to disguise your handwriting in a message to me.” Jane laughed.

“You are quite clever. I'll give you that. Though I cannot say such a skill sounds the least bit worth suffering through something that sounds as dreadful as
Montague's Treatise on Handwriting and Whathaveyou.
”

“Graphology,” Jane said.

“Dull,” was Lucy's answer.

Jane set the letter on the table in front of her. She lifted her teacup and took a sip. She sighed. “At any rate, it seems the Mrs. Bunbury plot at the wedding worked well enough, and I see no reason why it should not continue to work for a good, long while. Mama expects me to begin attending the events of the Season and I intend to tell her Mrs. Bunbury is accompanying me. Then I shall come here and read books in your library all evening.”

“Yes, well, as to that…” Lucy's voice drifted off on a bit of a guilty note.

“What is it?” Jane asked, her teacup frozen in midair.

Lucy set down her cup and folded her hands in her lap. She looked so serious Jane's palms began to sweat.

“It seems there's been a bit of a complication.”

“Complication?” Jane echoed.

“Yes, I—”

“Out with it, Lucy. What is it?”

“I hate to be the one to tell you this and heaven knows I would have dragged Cass here with me to deliver this news if she weren't already off on her honeymoon, but it seems that…”

“Yes,” Jane prompted.

“It seems that you might have created the scandal you wished for after all.”

Jane blinked. “Scandal? Me?” The teacup remained frozen.

“Yes.”

“What scandal?”

Lucy patted her coiffure. “There's no easy way to say it so I'll just come out and ask you.” She pursed her lips. “Were you running about the bachelors' quarters in your dressing gown in the wee hours on the night of the wedding?”

Jane's teacup clattered to the tabletop, tipped over, and spilled its contents across the rug.

Lucy bit her lip. “I'll take that as a yes.”

Jane could barely breathe. She stooped to sop up the mess with a napkin, desperately trying to think of what to say. Finally, she righted herself again and faced Lucy. “How do you—”

“Apparently one of the guests thought she saw you and, well, I must admit, I wondered for a moment if it might actually be a good thing, the scandal bit, I mean.”

Jane counted three.
Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.
Lucy was being a good friend, not pressing her for the details, which was quite unlike Lucy, actually.

“I suppose my reputation has suffered,” Jane ventured.

“It's not good.” Lucy shook her head. “But at this point it's mostly just gossip. Apparently a servant did say he was under the impression that Garrett might have proposed to you. How preposterous is that?”

That was it. If Jane had still had the teacup in her hand at the moment, she no doubt would have tossed the thing in the air. “Garrett? Proposed?”

“Yes. One of the servants reported that Garrett appeared to be down on one knee in front of you in the drive the morning you left. I admit I was curious as to why he was so determined to see you.” Lucy fluttered a hand in the air.

Jane managed a shaky laugh. “At the house party, you did tell me he's in love with me, after all.”

“Yes, I know.” Lucy's voice was oddly high.

“Did you ever tell Cass about that ridiculousness?”

“No.” Something in the way Lucy refused to look at Jane made her suspicious.

“Lucy?” Jane dragged out the word. “What do you know?”

Lucy folded her hands in her lap. A bad sign to be sure. “First, I must tell you I was quite convinced of it.”

“Convinced of what?” Jane's voice took on a tremulous note.

“That it was true. That Garrett loved you.”

Jane planted both fists against her hips. “Lucy Hunt! You must tell me what you've done and tell me right away!”

Lucy pressed her lips together and finally met Jane's gaze. “We only told you because we thought— Again, we were quite convinced—”

“Who is
we
?”

“Cass and I.”

“What did you do?” Jane gave Lucy her most formidable glare.

Lucy twisted her hands together. Another bad sign. “We saw you together, the night of the masquerade, looking at the portraits in the upstairs gallery.”

Jane caught her breath. What else had they seen? “Upton and me?”

“Yes,” Lucy replied, still acting sheepish. “I was looking for Garrett and I followed him and … then you went into the drawing room together and shut the door. Well, we had to wonder—”

“Wonder what?” A sinking feeling spread through Jane's middle.

Lucy shrugged. “Wonder if you were, you know,
doing
anything?”

Jane forced herself to keep her face blank. “What did you discern?”