Heiress in Love Page 3

  The girls were heiresses, the boys titled and landed or next in line for that honor. The duke had deemed it expedient to quarter these significant orphans in one establishment—Harcourt—until he sent the boys to their respective estates.

  Xavier and Rosamund were the only true siblings among them, but they were all related, some of them only through several marriages. It was a connection so tenuous as to be barely there at all, yet the bond between them was strong.

  The Westruther family was so very old and very large that one cousin had made the history of this proud and powerful dynasty a lifelong study. Similarly, Montford had made it his life’s work to increase the wealth and stature of the Westruthers.

  Jane wondered where he’d draw the line. Certainly not at marrying her to Frederick with his dicky heart. A heart, moreover, Jane could never have hoped to win.

  Would the duke let her go this time? Hardly. Not unless she lost all her money on ’Change, or created a scandal of epic proportions.

  Oh, she might be legally her own mistress now, but Montford had a way of drawing unsuspecting pawns back into his game. She’d have to remain one step ahead of him to elude his stratagems.

  “Ah,” Cecily said. “Some new arrivals.”

  Feather, the butler, appeared, conducting those of the mourners who had some interest in the will into the music room. Ordinarily, the library would have been the proper place for such an occasion but that room had always been Jane’s sanctuary. She couldn’t yet accustom herself to losing it.

  Jane accepted their condolences with polite murmurs of thanks.

  The salon was filling rapidly. Gracious, how many were there? The strident tones of a woman with a very tall hat and an equally high opinion of herself rose above the crowd.

  Griselda, Countess of Endicott. One of Frederick’s aunts. Jane sank down in her chair, but the feeble attempt to escape notice proved useless. Lady Endicott surged toward her, her massive bosom plowing through the crowd like the prow of a ship.

  At her approach, the three cousins rose and curtsied.

  “Jane!” boomed the lady. “I hope you mean to tell me what you were about, ordering such a shabby coffin for poor Frederick. When the pallbearers took him out to the hearse, I didn’t know where to look!”

  Jane’s cheeks warmed at the attention the countess attracted from the other mourners. “The coffin was exactly as Frederick ordered it, my lady.” A handsome one, too, fashioned of polished mahogany with brass handles. What possible objection could there be?

  Jane had learned by now that the countess was bound to criticize whatever one did. She only wished Frederick’s aunt had chosen to do so in a less public forum.

  Lady Endicott’s slightly protuberant brown eyes popped. “Frederick chose that eyesore? What has he to say to anything?” She gave a dismissive wave of her hand. “My dear Jane, Frederick’s funeral is none of his concern. As his wife, it’s your duty to ignore his wishes and do what’s best for him. After all those years of marriage, I’d have thought you’d learned that.”

  Jane didn’t know what to reply to that speech, so it was fortunate that their neighbor, Mr. Trent, came up at that moment. He greeted them, then smoothly turned to the countess with his most attractive smile. “Ah, Lady Endicott. Resplendent as ever, I see. I believe the reading is about to begin. Shall we?”

  All fluttering compliance, the countess took his arm. As Trent led her away, he glanced at Jane over his shoulder. She mouthed Thank you to him, and he gave a nod, his lips quirked up a little at the corners.

  The small lawyer cleared his throat in a portentous manner. Finally, the reading began.

  Its convoluted legal wording made the document impossible to understand, and Jane’s attention wandered almost immediately. Of course, the will would contain few surprises. The estate went to Constantine Black—everyone knew that. There were innumerable small legacies to servants, dependants, and relatives. He’d left them the correct amounts, no more. Frederick had been a punctilious but not a particularly generous man.

  Memories rose, unbidden, of Frederick before they married, before everything went wrong. Frederick, visiting her at Harcourt on his school holidays, Frederick bringing her sweetmeats, taking her out in his spanking new curricle. He’d courted her for form’s sake. Foolish girl she’d been, she’d read much more into it than he’d intended.

  Groomed from childhood to become Frederick’s wife, she’d had such hopes for their future together.

  Now, there was no future left. He was gone.

  She sucked in a shaky breath.

  “Jane?” Rosamund whispered, but her voice seemed to echo from miles away.

  Jane shook her head. Tears stung the back of her eyes, hot and insistent. Confound it, she’d been determined not to weep for him. Why did those memories overset her now?

  But she’d blocked these thoughts, these emotions, for too long. Dry-eyed, she’d watched Frederick breathe his last, helped lay him out for the traditional vigil. She’d seen the gleaming coffin carried out of the house and loaded into the hearse and watched it drive away. No ladies allowed at funerals, of course. She hadn’t been obliged to endure that.

  She’d kept herself busy these last days—organized mourning bands for the servants, rushes for the drive, ordered her widow’s weeds, had some old black gowns made over in the meantime.

  And now, when she had no privacy for grief, the sobs gathered and clamored, threatening to burst from her chest.

  Frederick.

  Again, she gasped for breath. Her husband was gone.

  She heard Rosamund say, “Open the window, will you, Becks?”

  “No,” Jane whispered. “Please…”

  Beckenham glanced from Rosamund to Jane, then strode over to fling the casement wide. A strong gust blew the rain in, and a startled exclamation from a lady nearby made Jane flutter an imploring hand. “It’s all right. Truly, I am well.”

  Don’t fuss. Just … I need to get out of this room.

  Rosamund reached past Cecily and pressed a soft wad of linen and lace into her hand. Jane closed her fingers around it. The sympathy and love implied in that small gesture was too much. Finally, the dam burst, and it all spewed forth in a loud, ugly sob.

  Oh, God! Oh, no! She couldn’t! Not in front of all these people.

  A few furtive murmurs swelled into a buzz of conversation. Of course they were talking about her, speculating. She loathed scenes. She despised being the center of attention like this.

  A strong, firm hand beneath her elbow lifted Jane to her feet. Her cousin’s deep voice rumbled something placating as he guided her through the crowd. Thank God for Beckenham and his air of calm authority. Becks always knew what to say.

  Jane covered her face with Rosamund’s handkerchief, shutting out their intrusive gazes, the murmurs and whispers, the hiss of avid curiosity. Poor dear … Not surprised she’s distraught … Perhaps she’s with child … Well, I heard something rather shocking …

  In moments, she found herself in a comfortable armchair in the library. One of the long windows stood open and the chair was drawn up to it so that the fresh breeze cooled her face, scoured her laboring lungs. The terrace outside largely protected the room from the wet, but the dark crimson curtains streamed toward her as the wind blew in.

  When the storm of grief had passed, Jane looked up. Beckenham brought her a glass of water and pressed it into her hand.

  “Becks.” She gave an inelegant sniff as he lifted her bonnet from her head and set it on the desk. “How good you are.”

  His hard features were drawn in concern. But he needn’t worry. The worst was over. Now that she was at liberty to weep all she wanted, the well of tears seemed to have dried up.

  “How mortifying,” she said, wiping carefully at her cheeks. “I thought I was made of sterner stuff.” She filled her lungs with rain-scented air. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Don’t be. There’s no shame in showing emotion.”

  If only he truly believed
that. Perhaps then she might help Beckenham ease the burden of his own pain. But she’d learned never to mention it to him, or even speak a certain lady’s name in his presence. She sighed. Each of them had their own burden to bear.

  Jane sipped the water and handed it back to Beckenham. She laid her head against the chair and attempted a smile to cover her humiliation. “Please, go and rejoin them. I’d like you to be there so you can explain it all to me afterward. I don’t trust Montford.”

  He glanced in the direction of the music room, then back at her. “Shall I ring for your maid?”

  “No, don’t do that. I’ll go up when I’m ready. I want to sit here a while.”

  He knew her well enough not to press her. With an awkward pat on her shoulder, he strode off, so large and gruff and dependable, so dear. How lucky they all were. No true brother could have done more for them all than Beckenham.

  Jane let her eyes drift closed and listened to his footsteps retreat. The click of the door told her she was alone.

  She sighed as relief slowly set in. By degrees, the giant hand that squeezed her chest released its grip and her surroundings regained perspective. Her pounding heart slowed to a steady beat. She drifted for a time …

  Suddenly, Jane wrinkled her nose. What was that? Smoke? Ugh, not the chimneys again! She simply must do something about them.

  But she wasn’t mistress here anymore.

  Jane opened her eyes and a large form filled her vision—or at least, he filled the doorway—dark hair tousled beyond any recognizable style, heavy-lidded eyes trained on her, and a cigarillo clamped between very white teeth.

  She gasped. The rider she’d seen from the upstairs window.

  Now, he was close enough to reach out and touch. He smiled at her around that horrible cigarillo, Jane realized with dismay. Her heart lurched into a frantic dance.

  Jane’s mind fixed on the source of that smoke as a drowning woman might clutch at a rope. She shoved Rosamund’s handkerchief into her pocket and scowled up at him. “I hope you aren’t going to puff on that disgusting thing in here.”

  The man’s green eyes narrowed, observing her for a moment. Then his lips closed around the repellent object. The hollows in his cheeks deepened; the end of the cigarillo glowed amber. Deliberately, he removed the cigarillo from his mouth, tilted his head, and blew smoke upward. The stream of cloudy gray passed between his well-formed lips, lifting, clouding, curling in tendrils to caress the plasterwork.

  In that attitude, the slightly stubborn jut of his chin became pronounced. Despite her annoyance at his studied disregard for her wishes, Jane’s fascinated gaze traced the strong lines of his throat as they disappeared into a stark white cravat.

  The stranger turned and pitched the butt off the terrace in a sailing arc, into the rain.

  As if the heavens resented this wanton act, they opened, hurling water down in sheets. The wind gave a ghostly howl. Bloodred curtains billowed around him, and the fanciful image of a devil stepping out of hell popped into her head. The gentleman moved inside and closed the long window behind him, shutting out the storm.

  Jane shot from her chair, which brought her within discomfiting distance of the stranger’s tall form. He smelled—not unpleasantly—of horse leathers and rain and the exotic hint of Spanish smoke.

  They both moved at once, and she fetched up against him in a heady brush of palm to chest, side to muscular thigh. Two large, strong hands gripped her upper arms to steady her. “Whoa, there.”

  The heat from his palms and fingers seeped into her chilled skin. He seemed even larger than he’d appeared from beneath her window. She had to crane her neck to look up at him and his decided chin.

  A sudden fire glinted beneath those lazy eyelids. She expected him to hold her longer, but he unhanded her almost before she’d regained her balance. She took a hasty step backward and the backs of her knees hit her chair.

  The stranger smiled, another flash made brighter by the contrasting swarthiness of his face. “No, no! Don’t go on my account.” His voice, a husky tenor, plucked its way down her spine.

  Jane frowned. Who did he think he was? A gentleman did not barge into private rooms without an invitation. “Oh, I’m not going anywhere. You’ll find the other mourners in the drawing room, sir.”

  “I know. That’s why I’m in the library.” The corners of his eyes crinkled. “You don’t have the faintest idea who I am, do you?”

  She was beginning to think she did. “Of course not. We haven’t been introduced.” Despising her priggish tone, she turned slightly and picked at the armrest of her chair with fingers that weren’t quite steady.

  But surely he wasn’t … He couldn’t … If the stranger was Roxdale, he’d have attended the will reading, wouldn’t he?

  Jane pressed her fingers flat, stopping their destructive work. She was always ill at ease with strangers, but this man unsettled her exceedingly.

  Before he could speak again, she said, “I don’t care who you are. It’s improper for us to be here alone together. You must go.”

  “Must I? But we are getting on so famously.” Without a by-your-leave, he reached past her to move her chair from where it blocked his path and stepped farther into the room.

  Prowling by bookshelves and globes and maps, he rounded a large drafting table and homed in on the drinks tray that sat, stocked and ready, on the sideboard. He poured himself a brandy from one of the crystal decanters.

  She marched after him, blustering. “Just what do you think—”

  “It seems I have the advantage.” Turning, he wrapped his long fingers around the glass and tilted it toward her. “For I know who you are.”

  Jane halted. “How could you? You’ve only just—” Only just arrived, she was about to say. But she didn’t wish to allude to that handful of electric moments when she’d been trapped in his gaze like a fly in a honey pot.

  “Oh, I made a point of finding out,” he said softly. “Lady Roxdale.”

  As he sipped, the corner of his mouth quirked upward. An indentation beside it that scarcely merited the term “dimple” appeared. Jane found herself fascinated with the seductive contours of his lips as he savored the brandy. She shivered, blinked to clear her head. She seemed to be falling under some sort of enchantment.

  Then she realized what he’d said. He’d asked about her. Why?

  Societal dictates told her to leave the room immediately, rather than bandy ripostes with a complete stranger. They hadn’t been introduced and so could have nothing to say to one another. Jane was somewhat a stickler for the rules of polite society … when they allowed her to follow her own inclinations.

  But this time, her curiosity proved too rampant. Feigning disinterest, she waved a hand toward him. “And you are…?”

  A magician. A conjurer. A wizard, binding me with your spell.

  He set down his glass and made an elaborate bow. “I suppose I must be Roxdale.” A gleam of white teeth. “But you may call me Constantine.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  For an instant, the lady whitened, then a delicious flush bloomed across her cheeks. Her gray eyes stared up at him, caught fire.

  “You,” she said—and a world of contempt was contained in that one syllable—“are the new baron.”

  He bowed. “For my sins.”

  From the flattened lips with which she greeted that remark it was clear that his sins preceded him. Excellent. Now, the widow was offended by his presence in the specific, rather than the general.

  With a cynical smile, he retreated to the sideboard and picked up his glass. Cradling it in his palm, he swirled the amber liquid, warming it with the heat of his hand. Perhaps he ought not to have revealed his identity so soon. She’d be sure to put up her guard, perhaps even shun him, as any virtuous, well-bred lady ought to do.

  He raised his gaze to those disconcerting gray eyes. “I’m behindhand in offering my condolences. Frederick was a—”

  “Good man. Yes.” She said it through gritted t
eeth.

  Did she dispute the common opinion of her husband? Though her eyes were a trifle puffy she didn’t seem too distraught that Frederick was gone, but you could never tell with English ladies. Some were so astonishingly reticent that one made the mistake of supposing them cold-blooded. When in fact …

  Curiosity had always been his besetting sin. Or one of them. Constantine leaned his hip against the sideboard and crossed one leg over the other at the ankle. He couldn’t sit in her presence until invited, even in what was now his own home.

  She spoke first. “How well did you know my husband?”

  So, Frederick hadn’t mentioned their history. “We were childhood cronies, Frederick and I. But I haven’t laid eyes on him in, oh, seven or eight years. As a point of fact, I have no idea whether he was a good man. He was certainly a good friend to me when we were boys.”

  She tilted her head, considering that. “He was a good friend to me, too. Long ago.”

  On the last words, her tone turned hollow. Did she damn Frederick with faint praise or pay him the highest compliment? Not an easy thing to discern. The lady’s face gave nothing away. Her hands, however, clung and twisted together like two tortured souls.

  She was a contradiction, an intrigue. The urge to peel away her layers teased at him.

  Dangerous ground, my boy. Despite the risqué talk of her husband’s death by copulation—which, if one were honest, could happen to anyone, really—Frederick’s widow was undoubtedly a respectable lady, a member of that rarefied class of female with whom the infamous Constantine Black had no right to associate. He ought not to detain her. Imagine what an uproar there’d be over her tête-à-tête with an unrepentant scoundrel like him. On the day of her husband’s funeral, no less.

  But he was reluctant to leave without discovering more about her; even more reluctant to concede the territory. This library had always been the most pleasant, welcoming room in the house. And it had the added advantage of being one place where the rest of the mourners weren’t. Why shouldn’t he stay here if he chose? If she found him so objectionable, she could leave.