Season for Scandal by Theresa Romain

But—”
    “Could I help you, then? If this matter of business requires”—she paused—“ ingenuity , I might be able to move the process along.”
    So we can have a honeymoon.
    The unspoken words fit neatly into the silence that followed. But the suggestion? No, impossible. There was no room for Jane in this ancient tangle of betrayal. Especially not if she loved him—or thought she did. Which for now came to the same thing.
    As his silence stretched out, Jane turned to look out the window again. Her profile was as neat as a coin, her jaw set. Her eyes, though; her eyes betrayed her. She was blinking far too often. Tears? Surely not. Jane Tindall—no, Jane Ware, Lady Kirkpatrick—was far too strong to cry.
    “Jane,” he said softly.
    Her jaw became still more set. “If you don’t want me involved, just say so, Kirkpatrick. I’m strong enough to bear such a small revelation.”
    “I know you are.”
    As always, his agreement seemed to surprise her. She turned to regard him. “You . . . What?”
    “I don’t doubt your strength, Jane. Nor your ingenuity. This is simply . . .” He considered. “A confidential matter. I must respect the interests of others.”
    Perfect. He’d just made his family’s sordid affairs sound like a treasure hunt for gold bullion. He must think of a way to describe this in the most boring fashion possible.
    “You see,” he began, “certain people have entrusted their . . . er . . . trust to me. And I must fulfill that trust. And now is the time that the trust which they have entrusted—”
    “Oh, stop,” Jane cut him off. “You’ll do yourself an injury if you try to end that sentence.”
    Edmund blinked. “Ah. Well.”
    “So you’re telling me it’s a secret and I can’t help you and we can’t travel anywhere until it’s all settled.”
    “To put it briefly, yes.” She looked a little mutinous, so he added, “It’s not much of a secret. Business, you know. Family . . . things. Why, you’ve got a few secrets of your own, don’t you?”
    She looked at him as though he’d served her a plate of horse droppings. “Not anymore.”
    Edmund, I love you.
    They both turned scarlet at once.
    “Maybe,” he said in a rush, “we can do other things. Instead of traveling, I mean. Though this isn’t a good time to leave England, surely we can find amusements in London. A ball. Would you like to attend a ball? Or—or visit the Tower of London.”
    Jane’s hot color ebbed. “The Tower of London? Weren’t people executed there?”
    Edmund coughed. “Yes. Well. It was just a suggestion. I know it’s not very romantic.”
    “It’s bloodthirsty. I like it.” She nodded. “But you’re right. Maybe not during our honeymoon.”
    “I’m sorry about this. I’ll do my best to wrap up the . . . family matter . . . quickly. As soon as there’s a chance of travel”— of escape —“I will inform you, and you shall pick our destination.”
    “Will it be done before Christmas?”
    Christmas. Seven weeks away. Could he stand seven weeks of this cat-and-mouse game with Turner?
    If it meant seven weeks of respectability, yes. Seven weeks of safety for Jane, yes. Seven weeks in which to beget a child, innocent of all wrongdoing . . . God, how he hoped. “I’m not certain.”
    With a clatter, she shoved aside her egg cup. “But you are certain that it’s not something your man of business could attend to? After all, he settled your last debt.”
    Sheringbrook’s payment, she meant. “Unfortunately, no. The timing is inopportune, but—”
    “—you didn’t expect to get married this autumn. I understand.” A smile clicked into place, and Edmund had the odd feeling that she was humoring him.
    “Just because it was unexpected does not mean I am not delighted.”
    “No,” Jane said. “But it also doesn’t mean you are .”
    She shoved her chair back from the table, almost smacking into the footman who rushed forward to aid her. As she and the servant dodged one