another, startled, she caught a foot in the hem of her gown and stumbled.
Edmund rose, striding the length of the table and catching Jane’s arm. With a nod to the footman, he allowed the servant—still mumbling his apologies—to retreat. The man had only been doing his job; it was not his fault Jane didn’t react as expected.
Come to think of it, Edmund could say the same for himself.
She struggled to shake him off, but his fingertips cradled her elbow gently. “As you are now a baroness,” he murmured, “please do not cast aspersions on our marriage in front of the servants.”
“Why? Because it will cause a scandal?” She narrowed her eyes. “I don’t care about that.”
“No, it probably wouldn’t cause a scandal. But our servants work hard for us, and they will enjoy that work more if they think the household is harmonious.”
Her struggling ceased. “You ask for their sake, then. Out of kindness. How am I supposed to argue with that?”
“I rather hoped you wouldn’t.” His stomach twisted, and he added, “I’ve promised that I will do my utmost to make you happy. Won’t you allow me to try?”
Close enough to sense her every flicker of movement, to breathe in her clean scent, he waited for his wife’s reply. For the battle or truce to begin.
Her gaze found his. Those hazel depths held such disappointment, such sorrow, that he drew back from her. She knows . She knew the truth somehow: that he would betray her, just as he had everyone else.
He shook his head, trying to rid himself of the thought. When he looked at Jane again, her eyes were clear; no trace of that deep, dark emotion shadowed them.
“Yes,” Jane said, soft and low. “I trust you. And I’ll do my best to be the wife you deserve.”
Now, what sort of wife might that be?
“Thank you,” he replied, and her expression turned wry.
“Always so polite,” she said. “Well, then, husband. How shall you make me happy?”
He thought about this. Not the Tower of London, she had said. And she was no child, to be plied instead with sweets or a trip to the Royal Menagerie. She was a baroness. And she was ingenious.
Dumbly, he rooted about for ideas before seizing upon something that would please most young women. “Shall we attend a ball? Introduce Lady Kirkpatrick to polite society?”
Her smile was the brightest thing in the sunlit breakfast parlor. “Why, certainly. I’d love it above all things.”
Chapter 6
Concerning Preliminary Attempts at Happiness
It was an excellent plan, this truce of theirs. But not even Kirkpatrick could conjure a ball for Jane at a moment’s notice during the quiet of early November. London’s elite was only just beginning to trickle back into the city for a special session of Parliament, and the first ball to which they had received an invitation—hosted by that determined matron of the ton , the Countess of Alleyneham—wasn’t for another two weeks.
Two weeks for Jane to do—what? There was nothing but unaccustomed leisure. Kirkpatrick had kept every one of his promises to her.
She had a lady’s maid, Hill, who arranged Jane’s fine, sandy hair into elegant twists and somehow encouraged it to curl.
She had a set of emeralds, as well as beautiful gowns for every occasion. And when the weather turned cold and glum, there were fur-lined cloaks and warm capes and pelisses, as well as a carriage to shield her from the weather.
She had a mare, too; a bay with a white snip on the nose, kept in the mews stables behind Kirkpatrick’s house. Since Jane didn’t know how to ride, she visited the horse daily, but had a groom exercise Florence.
“One day,” she murmured to the mare, who huffed warm breath over Jane’s fingers. “One day we’ll ride together. And one day I’ll visit the city you’re named for.”
Florence bobbed her head, then took up a mouthful of hay. Jane smiled; the animal’s contentment was refreshing.
She could have told Kirkpatrick that she needed
Edmund rose, striding the length of the table and catching Jane’s arm. With a nod to the footman, he allowed the servant—still mumbling his apologies—to retreat. The man had only been doing his job; it was not his fault Jane didn’t react as expected.
Come to think of it, Edmund could say the same for himself.
She struggled to shake him off, but his fingertips cradled her elbow gently. “As you are now a baroness,” he murmured, “please do not cast aspersions on our marriage in front of the servants.”
“Why? Because it will cause a scandal?” She narrowed her eyes. “I don’t care about that.”
“No, it probably wouldn’t cause a scandal. But our servants work hard for us, and they will enjoy that work more if they think the household is harmonious.”
Her struggling ceased. “You ask for their sake, then. Out of kindness. How am I supposed to argue with that?”
“I rather hoped you wouldn’t.” His stomach twisted, and he added, “I’ve promised that I will do my utmost to make you happy. Won’t you allow me to try?”
Close enough to sense her every flicker of movement, to breathe in her clean scent, he waited for his wife’s reply. For the battle or truce to begin.
Her gaze found his. Those hazel depths held such disappointment, such sorrow, that he drew back from her. She knows . She knew the truth somehow: that he would betray her, just as he had everyone else.
He shook his head, trying to rid himself of the thought. When he looked at Jane again, her eyes were clear; no trace of that deep, dark emotion shadowed them.
“Yes,” Jane said, soft and low. “I trust you. And I’ll do my best to be the wife you deserve.”
Now, what sort of wife might that be?
“Thank you,” he replied, and her expression turned wry.
“Always so polite,” she said. “Well, then, husband. How shall you make me happy?”
He thought about this. Not the Tower of London, she had said. And she was no child, to be plied instead with sweets or a trip to the Royal Menagerie. She was a baroness. And she was ingenious.
Dumbly, he rooted about for ideas before seizing upon something that would please most young women. “Shall we attend a ball? Introduce Lady Kirkpatrick to polite society?”
Her smile was the brightest thing in the sunlit breakfast parlor. “Why, certainly. I’d love it above all things.”
Chapter 6
Concerning Preliminary Attempts at Happiness
It was an excellent plan, this truce of theirs. But not even Kirkpatrick could conjure a ball for Jane at a moment’s notice during the quiet of early November. London’s elite was only just beginning to trickle back into the city for a special session of Parliament, and the first ball to which they had received an invitation—hosted by that determined matron of the ton , the Countess of Alleyneham—wasn’t for another two weeks.
Two weeks for Jane to do—what? There was nothing but unaccustomed leisure. Kirkpatrick had kept every one of his promises to her.
She had a lady’s maid, Hill, who arranged Jane’s fine, sandy hair into elegant twists and somehow encouraged it to curl.
She had a set of emeralds, as well as beautiful gowns for every occasion. And when the weather turned cold and glum, there were fur-lined cloaks and warm capes and pelisses, as well as a carriage to shield her from the weather.
She had a mare, too; a bay with a white snip on the nose, kept in the mews stables behind Kirkpatrick’s house. Since Jane didn’t know how to ride, she visited the horse daily, but had a groom exercise Florence.
“One day,” she murmured to the mare, who huffed warm breath over Jane’s fingers. “One day we’ll ride together. And one day I’ll visit the city you’re named for.”
Florence bobbed her head, then took up a mouthful of hay. Jane smiled; the animal’s contentment was refreshing.
She could have told Kirkpatrick that she needed
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