An Unacceptable Offer Page 14

  “Amy is the strange one,” Sedgeworth said. “Very withdrawn and far too solemn for a four-year-old. Fairfax has been worried about her. Yet you seem to have befriended her to a certain extent.”

  “I showed her how to make daisy chains this afternoon,” Jane said, “and she was very excited.”

  Her thoughts turned back to Fairfax’s elder child as Sedgeworth directed his attention to the music being produced on the pianoforte. Honor was playing Mozart with precision though without flair.

  During the morning of the day before, after her walk to the lake and encounter there with her host, she had accepted Joy’s suggestion that they go up to the nursery to see the children. They had been besieged by three noisy youngsters all wanting to show their mother toys and books that they had found in this new nursery. Jane had moved away to observe Fairfax’s children. Amy was painting, swathed to the chin in a large apron. Claire was standing before a bowl of soapy water in which she was bathing a doll, watched by her nurse.

  “Say good morning and make your curtsies to Miss Matthews,” the nurse said.

  Amy muttered some words and bobbed a curtsy without looking up from her painting. Claire popped her thumb in her mouth and smiled around it. Jane crossed to her side.

  “Are you bathing your doll?” she asked. “She is being a good girl and not splashing the water. What is her name?”

  The child smiled around her thumb again. “Dolly,” she said, pulled out the thumb, and covered her eyes with both hands.

  “Perhaps her real name is Dorothy,” Jane suggested. “Sometimes Dorothys are called ‘Dolly’ for short. Are you going to dress her, sweetheart? She will get cold lying in the water like that.”

  “I think her paint might rub off too,” the nurse said with a smile at Jane.

  Claire lifted up one garment from a nearby chair. “You dress Dolly,” she said to Jane. And she stood in front of the chair watching wide-eyed as Jane complied.

  Finally it was wrapped in a shawl. Jane put it against her shoulder and patted its back. “I think Dolly wants to sleep,” she said. “Do you want to hold her?”

  Claire put up her arms and was soon holding the doll as Jane had and pounding its back. Jane crossed the room to Amy, who had made no move to join the noisy group around Lady Dart. Jane was careful to keep her eyes off the painting.

  “May I see your picture, Amy?” she asked. “Or is it private?”

  She did not think the child was going to answer. She continued to paint for a minute. Then she looked up with guarded eyes. “You may see it,” she said.

  There was the usual child’s band of blue across the top of the paper and green across the bottom. There was the usual yellow ball in the top corner. Huge across the blank space between was a black witch, arms outstretched, teeth yellow and jagged. Jane viewed it silently for a while.

  “Tell me about the picture,” she said. “That is a splendid large figure.”

  “That is her,” the child said quietly and primly.

  Jane reached down to touch the soft curls of Claire, who had put the doll down and come up to stand beside her and cling to her skirt. “Do I know her?”

  Amy looked up, her eyes stormy. “Is Papa going to marry her?” she asked.

  “Whom, sweetheart?” Jane watched the child intently.

  “Her,” Amy said. “The pretty lady.”

  “You mean Miss Jamieson?” Jane asked.

  “Mrs. Pringle told Nurse he is going to marry her,” Amy said.

  Jane could no longer ignore the insistent pulling at her skirt. She looked down. Claire held her arms up above her head.

  “Up,” she said.

  Jane smiled and stooped down to scoop the child into her arms. “I do not believe any such thing has been decided yet,” she said carefully. “Why do you not ask Papa, sweetheart? Would you like Miss Jamieson as a mama?”

  The child’s cheeks flamed. “I do not want a mama!” she said fiercely.

  Jane reached down with her free hand and touched the glossy ringlets reassuringly. It was at that point, while she was still searching for words to say to soothe the child, that Fairfax himself came into the nursery. Amy almost upset her chair in her haste to rush across the room into his arms. Claire smiled at Jane and pointed.

  “Papa,” she said, and Jane set her on the floor so that she too could scurry across the room to her father.

  Their eyes met across the room for a moment and Jane felt herself blush. What would he think of her, in the nursery like this, holding and talking to his children when he had not even invited her to be there?

  Claire had become almost embarrassingly attached to her, Jane thought, shifting her position on the harpsichord bench as Honor began to sing to her own accompaniment. That afternoon when they had all walked to the lake, adults and children alike, Honor had offered to carry the child. But Claire, thumb firmly in place in the middle of her smile, had scurried over to Jane and demanded with raised arms to be taken “Up.” And she had, as Joseph had pointed out a few minutes before, climbed into Jane’s lap during the picnic tea and fallen asleep there, though her father sat not far off, next to Honor.

  Amy too had relaxed somewhat when Jane showed her how to make daisy chains. She had been moodily watching her father out on the lake with Honor before that. But she had actually smiled with delight when Jane joined the finished ends of the daisy chain together and hung it around Amy’s neck. She had looked eagerly around for her father, seen that he was standing on the bank pointing out something to the elder son of Lord Dart, and rushed eagerly to show him her creation. Jane had been relieved to see that he immediately, stooped down, examined the chain, and kissed his daughter before taking her hand and leading her toward the beach where the tea was being spread out.

  And was he going to marry Honor? she asked herself now, looking from one to the other of them at the pianoforte. He had been attentive to her in the last two days, but his attentions did not seem quite like those of a lover. And would Honor accept him even if he did offer? The question would not even have been worth asking a mere few days before, but now Jane was not so sure of the answer. Honor had come to her room before dinner and sat to talk while Jane finished getting ready to go downstairs. It seemed that Honor was somewhat disillusioned with her handsome suitor—if suitor he was.

  “Jane,” she had said, “I begin to think you are right and Lord Fairfax is firmly attached to this home. I have never spent a more boring day in my life. Imagine being saddled with a parcel of children for a whole afternoon. I do not see why we should. Fairfax’s children have a nurse, and Joy’s have a governess with them. Why should they be with us?”

  “But Lord Fairfax took you in the boat,” Jane had pointed out.

  “And did not say one word that could be construed as flirtatious or romantic even by the wildest imagination,” Honor had said indignantly. “Really, Jane, I begin to think I am wasting two whole weeks of the Season. I am almost determined to say no when he offers for me. Your Mr. Sedgeworth has twice the charm of Fairfax. And is much more interesting. I think I might get him to elope with me. Would you mind very much?” She had giggled gaily. “But to be serious, Jane, it is mortally disappointing to find that the most handsome man in England is not also the most exciting man. I might have to settle after all for someone of lesser looks.”

  And Honor had been flirting quite shamelessly and quite harmlessly with Joseph, Jane thought. He very good-naturedly played up to her. Really, though, she felt that perhaps Honor was right. She should have stayed in London. She was not suited to be the second Lady Fairfax. And Jane hoped they would both realize the fact before taking the irrevocable step of marrying. She realized, of course, that her own opinion was not unbiased. The thought of Honor and Fairfax as man and wife was enough to make panic grab at her heart.

  Fairfax watched Jane across the room, obviously deep in thought. Finally he deemed it time to call on her to play. Miss Jamieson was coming to the end of her third song.

  “Miss
Matthews,” he said, raising his voice so that it would carry across the space between them, “will you play for us?”

  Her face brightened. “Oh, I would love to,” she said. “The pianoforte has a beautiful tone.”

  “Will you select some music?” he asked.

  “No,” she said. “I play all my favorite pieces from memory. Of course, it is a while since I have played seriously. I fear my fingers will be somewhat stiff.”

  “We will forgive a few mistakes,” Sedgeworth said with a smile. “Come, Jane. Miss Jamieson has told me that you are very good. You have not confessed any such thing to me, of course.”

  She pulled a face at him as she seated herself on the bench. She sat for a few moments, Fairfax noticed, very straight-backed, her head bent, her hands loosely clasped in her lap. Both he and Sedgeworth stood behind her. Miss Jamieson had wandered across the room and was looking at a large canvas hanging on one wall.

  Jane lifted her hands to the keys finally and began to play. It was a Beethoven piece that Fairfax could not identify. She did stumble over a few notes at the start, but then she played without error. And she played with feeling. She clearly loved deeply the music her fingers produced.

  “Your cousin did not exaggerate,” Sedgeworth said with admiration when she had finished. “You play extremely well, Jane.” He sat down at the end of the bench next to her. “Why did we never hear you in London?”

  “I do not play for an audience,” she said. “Except this evening, that is.”

  “An audience?” he said, laughing at her. “Do you call your cousin and me and Fairfax an audience?”

  She rose to her feet. “I want to hear Lord Fairfax play,” she said.

  Sedgeworth wandered across to join Honor before the large canvas while Fairfax seated himself and began to play, also without music.

  “It is a Constable, is it not?” Honor said, not turning around. “It is quite glorious the way he captures nature.”

  “Yes, I believe it is,” Sedgeworth said. “How did you know?”

  “Oh,” she said, “friends of Papa’s have one that I saw last year. I was enthralled by it. He has a very distinctive style.”

  “You are a fraud, you know, Miss Jamieson,” Sedgeworth said, amusement in his voice.

  She looked back at him, eyebrows raised.

  “How much have you studied about painting?” he asked.

  “Me?” she said, eyes wide with innocence. “You know me, sir. A perfect ninnyhammer. I leave all—”

  “—the reading and thinking to men,” he completed for her. “Yes, you have said so before, my dear. Yet you recognized and seemed quite knowledgeable about a Holbein and a Van Dyck in the portrait gallery yesterday. And when teasing Jane and me about our future travels this morning, you revealed some knowledge of the Sistine Chapel that one would not expect a ‘ninnyhammer’ to possess. Before you blushed and looked self-conscious, that is. I believe you are a fraud.”

  “Well,” she said with a bright little laugh, “I have always been interested in painting. Just one of my odd little amusements, you know.”

  “I wonder,” he said, looking at her so penetratingly that she tittered and looked self-conscious again.

  “Don’t tell anyone,” she said, “I had a governess once who criticized my watercolors by saying that they were too passionate. I would never attract a husband, she told me, if I appeared too knowledgeable or too emotionally involved in any activity. And she was right. Look at all the admirers I had in London. Jane did not have near as many. Oh!” Her hand flew to her mouth.

  “And do you value any of those admirers?” he asked. “If you were to ask me, I should say that if all their brains were mixed together, one healthy one could not be produced.”

  “But it is very pleasant to be so popular,” Honor protested.

  He looked at her with mock reproach until she giggled. “Well, anyway, it was fun for a while,” she said.

  “Have you seen the other Constable?” Sedgeworth asked her.

  “Here? In this house?” Honor asked. “Where is it?”

  “In the library,” he said. “You did not follow the rest of us in there yesterday. You said something about books boring you, I believe.”

  Honor blushed.

  “Do they, by the way?” Sedgeworth asked. “You probably read sermons each night to improve your mind, do you?”

  She giggled. “I do assure you I do not,” she said. “Not sermons, anyway.”

  “Shall I take you to see the Constable?” he asked. “It is best seen by daylight, of course, but if we take a branch of candles, we should be able to see it quite well.”

  “Very well,” she said. “But do not expect me to go into rhapsodies over the books.”

  Fairfax came to the end of his piece of music and looked up to smile at Jane, who had stood quite still to one side of the instrument throughout.

  “Men do have one advantage when they play,” she said. “You have so much more power in your fingers than I do. I have never heard Bach sound quite so exciting. Please, will you play again?”

  “Miss Jamieson and I are going to view the Constable in the library,” Sedgeworth called. “She thinks this one very pretty, Fairfax. We will see you later in the drawing room for supper?”

  “In half an hour,” Fairfax agreed.

  Jane smiled at her betrothed.

  “Bach sounds quite splendid played on the harpsichord,” Fairfax said, getting to his feet. “Do you play the instrument?”

  “I have only played it once,” she said, walking by his side across the room, “when we visited my great-aunt years ago. I have never had another chance.”

  “See if you agree with me,” he said, seating himself at the harpsichord and beginning to play. He stopped after a couple of minutes. “Do you like the sound?”

  “Yes, for bright, sprightly music it is perfect,” Jane said. “May I try?”

  She played Bach and appeared to have forgotten Fairfax after a few minutes. He crossed back to the pianoforte and picked up the same melody on its keys. He finished the piece with her.

  She looked up and laughed. “We finished together anyway,” she said. “The tones of the two instruments blend well together. Can we try something else?”

  They agreed on a tune and played it through together, first one and then the other stumbling in the effort to keep in time with each other.

  “I have another idea,” Fairfax said after they had finished. “Have you ever played a duet on the pianoforte?”

  “Goodness, no,” she said. “Is it possible?”

  “Come,” he said. “You sit on this side of me and play the higher keys.” He turned to pick a sheet of music from the pile on the table beside the instrument. “I shall play the lower part. It is not difficult most of the time. Just occasionally you have to encroach on my keys and I on yours. Shall we see if it can be done?”

  Jane examined the music carefully. “It does not look difficult,” she said. “I am ready.”

  He got to his feet suddenly. “I am not sure I would want this overheard by anyone but us two,” he said, crossing the room. “I see that Sedge left the door ajar. And I know why. One has to almost wrestle with it to close it and then is never sure it will open again.”

  He slammed the door shut, applying his shoulder to it as he did so, and turned back to the pianoforte with a grin. “Now for the performance of a lifetime,” he said. He seated himself on the bench beside Jane.

  They both kept their eyes on the music, playing carefully and without any finesse, concentrating merely on playing the right notes and staying in time with each other. Then they came to the parts where Jane had to slip her left arm beneath his to reach lower notes. By the time they arrived at the end of the music more than ten minutes later, they were both laughing helplessly.

  “I do not believe we would find a place on anyone’s concert bill yet, do you?” Fairfax asked.

  “Perhaps as a comedy team?” she suggested.

  “Act
ually,” he said, holding up his hands before his face, fingers spread, “I think we did remarkably well. I ended up with four fingers and one thumb on each hand. How about you?”

  She held her hands up also. “Remarkable,” she said. “I do believe they are the same fingers and thumbs as I began with, too.”

  “Let me see,” he said, leaning toward her and examining her hands. “Yes, you are right. At least I hope you are. I would not wish to lay claim to such slender, feminine fingers for my own.”

  He turned to laugh into her face, only inches away from his own. Jane. Jane with her eyebrows raised and her eyes dancing with merriment. Jane with her mouth curved into a smile. Jane flushing, the smile fading. As he could feel his fade too.

  There was perhaps a single moment when he could have prevented what was about to happen, when he could have pulled back and made another joke. A single moment. Although perhaps not, as he admitted later when he had time to think it all over. He would have had to be superhuman to resist the temptation of the moment. He was alone with the woman he had grown to love and in the near-privacy of a room with an unmanageable door. Quite without premeditation he was very close to her. And the space between them was a powerful magnet that was not to be resisted.

  He closed the gap between their mouths and kissed her. But the invisible magnet was far too powerful to be satisfied by that single action. His right arm went about her, his left hand along her jaw. And his mouth opened over hers, instantly demanding, instantly hungry for more than a mere outer touch. And she responded as instantly and as eagerly. Her shoulder dipped beneath his and her arm came around him. Her other hand reached for his shoulder. And her mouth opened beneath his without any coquetry, any coaxing. She gasped when his tongue plunged into her mouth, exciting him beyond thought.

  His hand was at her breast, a beautifully firm, small breast. He wanted the warm smoothness of it in his hand. He pushed ungently at the low neckline of her gown and she shrugged the fabric away from her shoulder and down her arm until he could lay his palm against her hard nipple and caress the warm softness around it.