Her eyes flew open just as he slipped his hand from between her legs and lowered himself, no doubt intending to find out.
The wretch! The libertine!
Was every woman the same to him? To be bedded and discarded?
To be fed the same whispered words of passion?
A dark fury seized her. A strangled cry on her lips, she shoved down her skirts and pushed at his shoulder.
Seth staggered to his feet, eyes burning with a desire she now knew to be cheap and common, something he likely dispensed on women with disgusting regularity.
At sight of her face, his brow furrowed. “Jane? What—”
Indignation scalding a bilious trail up her throat, she sent her palm cracking against his face.
He fingered his cheek, the white imprint of her hand quickly appearing on his swarthy flesh.
“Forgive me,” he said, the fire in his gaze suddenly dead, buried, banked beneath cool brown again. “I misread the situation. I believed my advances welcome.”
“You were mistaken,” she lied, heat crawling up her neck and face to think that she had almost been seduced by a man who evidently thought women were as interchangeable as neckcloths.
“It won’t happen again,” he promised, taking several steps back, putting a respectable distance between them.
No, it would not.
Because she would never be foolish enough to be caught alone with him again.
“I think the performance has ended. I don’t hear singing anymore,” she murmured, sweeping past him.
“Nor do I,” he drawled, so quiet she barely heard him.
She stopped. “You better wait here for a short while. It won’t do for us to be seen returning together.”
He gave a stiff nod. “Or course.”
With a stiff nod of her own, she turned and left, determined not to look back at the man she was only beginning to see for his true self. Seth was not the loving boy of her youth. The sooner she accepted that, the safer her heart.
Seth watched Jane go, unsure what had just transpired, only knowing that he had gone too far with the proper lady.
He throbbed painfully, his erection pressing at his breeches, aching for her. His cheek ached, too. Only from the sting of her slap.
“Bloody hell.”
Shaking his head, he traced the burning imprint of her hand on his face. He should have known better. What was he doing tossing her skirts as if she were some common strumpet? Of course Jane would not be agreeable to such coarse treatment.
His thoughts drifted to Aurora. Jane was not so impulsive, not a creature ruled by passion. For a moment, he had forgotten, feeling only as he had at Vauxhall, determined to have, to possess the woman for which his blood burned.
He couldn’t understand it. Two women. Two desperate hungers. It had been years since he felt this way for one woman. What was he doing feeling this way for two?
Dropping his hand from his face, he vowed that he would leave Jane alone. He would concentrate his efforts on securing his bride…and attend every masquerade ball he could in hopes of finding Aurora again—a woman upon whom he could freely unleash his baser passions.
Chapter 16
Jane opened her eyes to bare slits. Morning sunlight stabbed her sensitive eyes and she flung the backs of her hands over her face, blocking the rude intrusion.
Too late. Darkness did nothing to help, did not offer the safe haven she sought. Nausea washed over her in violent waves, forcing her to move. Vaulting from her bed, she lunged for the washbasin. Gripping the sides with her hands, she emptied the contents of her stomach. Shuddering from head to toe, she retched in misery, tears streaming from the corners of her eyes.
Her stomach had been unsettled for days. Since the morning after Lucy’s musicale.
“Third morning you woke up puking your guts,” Berthe, the maid Desmond had assigned her, spoke from her side, her voice a grating scrape on the morning air.
Jane jerked, startled. She had not heard the maid enter the room. But it had always been that way with Berthe. Ever since Jane had first come into the Guthrie household, the maid had been there, always near, glaring, watching, smirking, letting Jane know that she knew Marcus. And even worse, that Marcus knew her.
Wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, Jane frowned at the woman Desmond had forced on her, wanting to shout at her to leave the room, the house, her life, once and for all. She had attempted to dismiss her while Marcus lived, but he had put a stop to that, declaring that Berthe served his needs. In ways Jane did not.
“Leave me,” she commanded in a shaky voice, giving no thought to courtesy when addressing the woman who had sneered at her for so long. “I can dress myself.”
“Very well.” Berthe nodded and turned for the door. Hand on the latch, she stopped. “You’re certain you don’t want me to send for the physician?”
“That won’t be necessary.”
“Perhaps Cook then?” Berthe’s eyes glinted with dark humor. “She’s a marvel at home remedies…especially for what’s ailing you.”
An icy finger trailed Jane’s spine as she shoved away from the basin. “And what might that be, Berthe?”
Blinking in mock innocence, Berthe replied, “Why you’re breeding.”
Her stomach pitched again, dropping to her bare feet before heaving back up. Pressing a hand to her belly in an attempt to still the violent reaction, she ground out, “That’s not possible. You’re mistaken.”
Berthe cocked her head sideways. “Not about this, I’m not. I was one of thirteen children. I can tell when a woman’s breeding.” Her dark eyes raked Jane. “I suspected as much, so I questioned the laundress. You’re well overdue for your courses.”
That Berthe should be the one to reveal something so intimate, something Jane should have realized herself—made her cheeks catch fire. “You’re mistaken,” she repeated, denial surging to life within her. Her mind worked, feverishly counting the days, grasping that the impossible was suddenly…possible.
Berthe shrugged. “Time will tell soon enough.”
Head swirling, stomach churning, Jane dove for the basin again as Berthe left the room. Only nothing remained in her stomach. After some moments, she lifted her head, panting, stomach and throat aching from the strain. Unsteady on her feet, she sank to the floor, her nightgown pooling around her like a milky puddle. Wrapping her arms around her knees, she huddled into a small ball, rocking slightly, shaking like a brittle branch in winter’s peak.
A child. She carried a child. Seth’s child. Horror and delight battled within her, churning her stomach into a queasy froth. A child. Someone to love. Someone who could love her back.
For years she had longed for a baby, had thought herself barren. She squeezed herself tighter, elation bubbling inside her chest. Then she remembered herself. She was no well-married lady in a position to bring a child into the world. Once word leaked, she would be ruined. Then what kind of life would her child have?
Berthe knew. As did the laundress. No doubt the servants were whispering about her below stairs even now. Soon Desmond and Chloris would know.
The desperate thoughts brought her to her feet. She dressed herself, barely taking the time to pull her hair into a knot at the base of her head. She must act quickly.
Foolish as it seemed, one face emerged. Seth should not be the visage her heart leapt upon, yet there he was nonetheless. In her mind. In her heart. Shaking her head, she called herself ten kinds of fool.
She had only one destination in mind. Hopefully, a solution would reveal itself with the counsel of her friends.
A chill blew through her heart when she imagined telling Seth the truth. That she was Aurora. That she carried his child. Burning moisture filled her eyes. Impossible. She could never bring herself to do such a thing.
“You know you must tell him.”
Jane stared grimly into Lucy’s blue-gray eyes. Beside her, Astrid nodded, the motion slight, reluctant, but in agreement nonetheless.
&
nbsp; “No,” Jane said, her voice trembling on the air. The idea of confronting Seth sent a jolt directly to her heart. She rose from the sofa she had collapsed upon not so long ago and began pacing. “Why must I?” she asked, her steps quick.
“Because he’s the father,” Astrid responded with her usual equanimity as she added another biscuit from the ser vice to her already overcrowded plate. “It’s his responsibility, Jane. You cannot go this alone.”
“Is it?” she snapped, her voice brittle as glass. “Is it his responsibility when he has no clue it was me that he—he—” she stopped abruptly and stalked to the window. Wrapping her arms tightly about herself, she stared out at the street. Dusk settled over the square. Desmond would know by now. And Chloris. Berthe would have seen to that. If she returned home, it would be to face them. The prospect held little more appeal than facing Seth.
Moistening her lips, she struggled for a steady tone. “Is it his responsibility,” she asked again, “when I deliberately set out to seduce him? When I knew he would have nothing to do with me had he known it was me?” She shook her head fiercely. “It’s not fair to him.”
“And denying your child a father is fair?” Lucy asked. “Denying your child both parents? A life of privilege free of scorn?”
Jane drew a ragged breath, squeezing her eyes shut as if physically struck. Count on Lucy to consider the child. A mother to the core.
“You cannot rely on Desmond or your parents,” Astrid’s voice, cool and calm as ever behind her, infused her with spirit. “You needn’t feel wrong taking the only option left to you.”
Jane opened her eyes to observe a nanny pushing a pram across the square in the fading light. The lace fringing the pram’s awning fluttered in the breeze. She closed her eyes tightly, the pain in her chest suddenly too much.
Lucy sighed quietly behind her and Jane realized she had moved close. Her hand landed on her shoulder, soft as a butterfly setting down. “Astrid and I will support you in whatever you decide.”
Turning, Jane smiled thinly at her friends, the bend of her lips almost painful. “I know. I’m lucky to have you both.”
Anna arrived then, bearing a tray of cucumber sandwiches. “Thought you might need replenishing.” With a knowing look at Astrid, Anna added three tiny sandwiches to her plate before setting the tray down on the ser vice.
“You’re welcome to stay with me,” Astrid volunteered, rearranging the food on her plate with strategic care.
Jane smiled, recognizing the true generosity of that offer. Since her husband fled the country over a nasty forgery charge, Astrid barely possessed the means to feed and outfit herself and few remaining servants.
Jane inhaled deeply, letting the breath fill her lungs and fortify her as she strove for some of Astrid’s mettle.
“Naturally you can stay with me, too,” Lucy added, “if that is your wish.” However, her gaze conveyed that she did not think Jane should make that decision.
Wish. Jane wished to turn back the clock.
Bittersweet memory flashed through her mind. A garden at midnight, a lover’s hot hands, burning lips, him, Seth, inside her, his hard flesh dragging against hers…
Did she really wish that night never happened? Would she take it all back if she could?
Rubbing her temples, Jane willed her head to cease spinning, willed herself to make a decision.
She looked at the three women staring so expectantly at her, waiting for her to say something, to do something. She had never anticipated that a single tryst could result in a child. Not after years of believing herself barren. A painful knot formed in her throat. “You know Marcus quit my bed after one year of marriage, claiming it wasn’t worth the effort. That I was barren.”
“Bloody ass,” Anna growled.
“More likely the difficulty rested with him,” Astrid muttered.
Jane shook her head. “His first wife conceived on their honeymoon.”
“I knew his first wife.” Astrid snorted as she lifted a sandwich to her lips. “Her fruitfulness may have had more to do with a certain officer that left for India.” Her dark eyes glinted meaningfully as she took a sizable bite.
Lucy nodded sagely.
Jane gazed at Astrid and Lucy. It was the first time she had heard such an allegation. It would certainly explain the lack of further offspring in Marcus’s first marriage.
With a shrug, she sighed. In any case, it failed to matter now.
For a moment, she considered accepting her friends’ offers and residing with one of them. But only for a moment. She could not be that selfish.
Astrid could barely feed and support her household. And Lucy. Well, Jane couldn’t bring scandal upon her. She stood as a pillar among the matrons of the ton. Jane would not sully her spotless reputation.
Her friends watched her, waiting. She could well imagine what they saw. A bloodless face. Haunted eyes staring into space. Eyes that desperately searched for an answer. Anything that would save her from doing, in her heart, what she knew she must do.
Seth looked up from the papers littering his desk at the knock on his office door and bade entrance.
Leaning back in his chair, he schooled his features to hide his surprise at the sight of his butler leading Jane into the room. He had not thought to see her again. Not after the Dowager Duchess of Shillington’s musicale and his imprudent advances had been so ruthlessly rebuffed.
With a quick nod for the butler, they were soon alone, staring silently at one another. Alarm hammered inside his heart at the sight of her. An alarm fed by his realization that he was glad to see her. Despite his avowal to leave her be, to forget her.
Why, he suddenly wondered, had Madeline stolen his heart when it had been Jane with whom he spent all his time? They had ridden together, swum, fished, explored the countryside. Yet he had chosen Madeline. He had allowed her beauty and bold gaze to weave a toxic spell around him. Callowness of youth, he supposed.
He took his speculation further, wondering what would have happened if he had fallen in love with Jane. Would she have betrayed him for a man of wealth and influence?
He closed his eyes in a long blink, eliminating such senseless thinking from his mind. One could not undo the past.
“Lady Jane,” he greeted, rising to his feet. With a wave of his hand, he indicated she take the seat across from his desk. “This is a surprise.”
She settled herself in the chair’s depths, a black crow against the blue damask.
“I believe my sister is in the garden with Rebecca,” he went on, assuming that would be the only reason she had come.
“Actually I’ve come to see you.” Her voice rushed forth as she tucked her hands within the voluminous folds of her skirts.
“Me?” He lifted a brow. After the musicale, he had thought she would never speak to him again—much less request a private audience. “What is it I can do for you?”
Moistening her lips, her gaze darted about the room, assessing, looking everywhere but at him. He found himself admiring the elegant slope of her nose, wanting to stroke its length with his finger before moving on to test the softness of her luminous cheek.
The impulse jarred him and he gave his head a hard shake. He had done more than enough touching of her person.
“I have been less than honest with you,” she hedged, voice gossamer soft, as if whispering the words would somehow lessen the impact.
“Have you now?” An icy finger landed at his nape and began a slow descent down his spine.
“Yes.” Dipping her gaze, she nodded, staring at her skirts as if transfixed, spellbound by the sinister-dark fabric.
“Jane?” he prompted after a long moment had passed.
“God,” she choked, the single word turning and twisting into a ragged sob. “I can’t do this.” Surging to her feet, she stumbled for the door in a graceless lurch.
In a flash, he was on his feet and moving. His hands seized her shoulders and forced her around before she was halfway across the room.
“What is it?” he demanded, panicked in a way he had not felt in years. In a way he had not thought to feel again.
Moisture swelled in her eyes, brimming in the hazel depths. She shook her head fiercely. A lock of nut brown hair fell loose, straggling over her eye, making her look suddenly young and achingly sweet. Tempting as hell.
His hands tightened, flexing on her yielding flesh. He pulled her closer.
A strange little sound escaped her lips. Not quite a cry. More like a moan.
“Sssh,” he soothed, dropping his forehead to hers, inhaling her scent, letting it surround him. Apples. Orchard fresh. Autumn on the wind. The scent of home. The scent of Jane. The scent of…
He pulled back, his heart jerking violently in his chest as he scanned her face.
Two women that smelled exactly alike. That stirred him in ways long forgotten. That filled him with a desire he had never known. What were the odds?
She watched him, dread crowding the fear that already gleamed in her eyes.
“Aurora,” he whispered, uncertain of the wild notion seizing him until her eyes flared wide, dousing him with a cold wave of comprehension. And he knew he was not wrong.
Color drained from her face.
He dropped his hands as if stung, nausea churning his gut.
She staggered backward, colliding into a side table. A vase fell, shattering, matching the noise roaring through his ears.
His hands curled at his sides, the urge to wreck something, to destroy, to shatter another vase overwhelming. Realization washed through him, acrid as gun smoke. The woman he couldn’t get out of his mind, the one he had searched for among the crowd at Vauxhall with a desperate fervor, who haunted his dreams…she had been under his nose all along. She had been the proper, starchy widow he had agonized over wanting—the lady he fought to resist because she was not that sort of woman. He shook his head as if he could shake free from the reality, the unwanted truth.