An Unacceptable Offer Read online

  “Do you love Claire more than me?” Amy asked timidly.

  “No, I do not,” Jane said.

  “She is prettier than I am,” said Amy.

  “Yes, she is,” Jane agreed. “And you are more handsome than she. But I will tell you a little secret, sweetheart. I would love both you and Claire even if you were as ugly as ... As what?”

  “A wicked witch?” the child suggested.

  “A wicked witch,” Jane said. “And I would love you equally. You and Claire are very different from each other, and both of you are very dear. You do not ever have to compete with Claire, you know.”

  “Complete?”

  “Compete,” said Jane. “Try to be better than her. That is what competing is. You do not have to do it. Always be yourself, sweetheart, and everyone worth caring about will love you.”

  “Aunt Jane, may I sleep here tonight?” the child asked timidly.

  Jane kissed her forehead. “Nurse will be worried if she finds you missing,” she said. “I shall carry you back to your room, shall I, and tuck you into bed?”

  Amy started to cry again. “I don’t want to be alone again,” she said. “I couldn’t paint or read or talk to anyone. And Papa was very cross.”

  “Lie here for a little while then, sweetheart,” Jane said, hugging her close again. “I shall take you back later.”

  “Will you come here often when you are married to Uncle Joe, Aunt Jane?” Amy asked. “Please!”

  Jane closed her eyes and rested her cheek against the top of the child’s head. “I shan’t be able to, Amy,” she said. “But it has nothing to do with you. Or Claire. I shall always love you and think of you, but I cannot come here again. Will you love me and think of me too?”

  “Always,” the child said, snuggling closer. “When are you going, Aunt Jane? I don’t want you to go.”

  “Tomorrow, sweetheart,” Jane said.

  Amy said nothing, but continued to cling tightly. After several minutes Jane could tell that she was asleep. She did not know quite what to do. The child must be taken back to her room, or at least the nurse must be informed of her whereabouts. But Jane did not want to risk moving for a while and perhaps waking the girl again. She would wait quietly for perhaps fifteen minutes and then see if she could move without disturbing Amy.

  She held the warm little form of the sleeping child in tender arms. Poor little girl. If her story was to be believed, she had had all confidence in herself destroyed by a selfish and bad-tempered mother. It seemed almost incredible to think of Susan that way, but she supposed that it was possible. She had not really known the beauty, after all. And a girl who had been made so much of by the ton might have found the responsibilities of motherhood irksome. Especially if she had her heart set on producing an heir.

  Had Michael shown disappointment with her for giving him daughters instead of sons? Had she then taken out her unhappiness on her elder daughter? But no. Jane could not possibly believe that. His love for his daughters was so obviously deep and genuine that it could not hide a dissatisfaction with their gender.

  For the second time in one day her image of the marriage that had existed between Michael and his wife had been challenged. Could the marriage have been less than perfect? If Susan had resented her children and Michael loved them, there must have been some friction between the two of them, surely. Had he known of the way she treated Amy? How could one tell a three-year-old that she was ugly and a nuisance? And how could one tell a daughter that she should have been a son? It was no wonder that Amy was solemn and withdrawn and hostile to any female who might become another mother.

  Jane felt a twinge of gratitude that she had not accepted Michael in London and returned to Templeton Hall as his bride. She might never have won Amy’s trust under those circumstances. And what would happen to the little girl now? She would have Michael’s unconditional love, it was true, but would it be enough? Would she ever quite get over her distrust of women? Would he understand his daughter well enough to choose his next bride with special care?

  Was that why he had chosen her in London? Jane wondered with sudden shock. Was that why he had not looked for beauty or love but for good sense? Had he recognized in her a woman who would love his children? Had he put their happiness even before his own? And she had thought him cold and selfish because he had not put her feelings first! He had left his children for several weeks, a parting that she now knew must have been painful for all of them, in order to bring them back a mother who would give them the security of knowing themselves lovable. And he had chosen her!

  Jane swallowed. Suddenly, being chosen for such a reason became infinitely more precious than being chosen for love. He had been willing to trust her with the upbringing of his children, whom he loved more than himself. What a mess she had made of her life and of his and the children’s. She had thought she knew all the answers back in London. She had prided herself on saying no to him and asserting her own worth as a person. She knew nothing. She was only now learning something about the selflessness of love. Now, when it was far too late.

  Jane’s eyes closed as she laid her cheek more comfortably against Amy’s head.

  Fairfax was standing at the window of his bedchamber, his hands thrust into the pockets of the dressing gown he had put on against the chill of the night. He looked out on the formal gardens, illuminated by the light of an almost full moon.

  He supposed he should go back to bed and try to sleep again. It must be well into the morning hours. But he hated to toss and turn in bed. Better to be on his feet, tired though he felt.

  He could not stop thinking about the previous day. He really had not wanted Jane to go to the island with them. He had wanted to stay clear of her. But she had come, and his treacherous heart had not been able to treat her as just another guest. All the way across in the boat he had drunk in the sight of her sitting before him with Claire snuggled close on her lap and Amy cradled in her other arm. She had given an equal show of affection to both children. So many of his acquaintances favored Claire because she was more obviously lovable.

  He had found himself, at first involuntarily and then quite deliberately, imagining that she was his wife and that they were taking their family for an afternoon outing. He had been very careful not to frighten her again. Not by word or gesture, he felt, had he given her any inkling of the direction his thoughts were taking. But he had dreamed nonetheless. She had looked very pretty sitting on the bank when the rest of them were in the water, hugging her knees and watching the children with a smile.

  And then that stupid misunderstanding that had almost drowned her. He really had dropped his guard at that point. He hoped that she had been too overwrought at the time to notice that he had several times used an endearment instead of her name. He even had a memory that made him turn hot and cold, of calling her “love” in Sedge’s hearing. He had not realized it himself until the boat was already pulling away from the island.

  He would always hold as one of his most treasured memories the image of Jane screaming out his name and then diving into the water to save Amy. When she was terrified of water covering her head! And when she must have known that he could be there in moments himself. If only she loved him as she loved his children! Fairfax laughed somewhat harshly. Perhaps he should have lured her to Templeton Hall before making his offer and used her love of the children as a persuasive force. Perhaps then she would have taken him as part of the bargain. He could have no doubt that she did love his daughters.

  But then, he thought, Jane loved all children. That was the type of woman she was. She romped and played with Dart’s children too when the opportunity presented itself. And why should she not? They were to be her nephews and niece when she married Sedge. Soon perhaps she would have her own child. He hoped Sedge would give her one. It would be an irony of fate if Jane Matthews had to go through life childless. He knew that Sedgeworth was not greatly fond of children himself. But perhaps he would change when he married Jane and became her lov
er. He would want to give her a child then.

  Fairfax turned from the window. It made him feel almost physically sick to think of Sedgeworth making love with Jane. He remembered how she had felt in his own embrace the previous night—was it only such a short while ago?—slender and yielding, her mouth unexpectedly hot with passion, her breasts small and firm in his hands. He could not bear the thought of anyone else, even his friend, touching her like that, touching her with even greater intimacy, possessing her body. He could almost kill at the very thought.

  He gritted his teeth and shook off the thought. It was Sedge who should be wanting to kill. Sedge had the right to all the intimacies he had claimed for himself the night before.

  He thought of Amy. It was anxiety about her that had originally had him tossing and turning in bed, unable to sleep. She was four years old. A baby. And for a momentary rudeness to a guest, committed when she had been in an emotional state, she had been sentenced to a lonely and idle evening in her room and to bed straight afterward. He had not even had the chance to hug her and assure her of his love and forgiveness at bedtime. She had been asleep already, curled up on top of the bedcovers, looking in the relaxation of sleep the baby she was. She had not woken even when he lifted her and tucked her beneath the covers.

  Should he be feeling this guilt? Had the punishment been too harsh? He was so afraid of spoiling his daughters, of being overindulgent and having them grow up to be selfish, bad-mannered ladies that sometimes he felt he was overstrict. Yet he loved them so very much. And he had to be both father and mother to them. Even when Susan was alive she had had little time for them, and he had often feared that when she was with them she was not showing them adequate love. Amy had not once cried after Susan’s death, though he had thought it important to tell her the truth instead of inventing some lie about her mother having gone on a visit for a while.

  It was no good, he thought, glancing reluctantly at his bed. He would not be able to rest until he had seen the child again and was sure she was sleeping peacefully. What four-year-old would not be sleeping peacefully at this ungodly hour of the night? But there was no point in arguing with himself. Go he must, to make sure that the nightmare image of the child crying alone into the darkness had no basis in truth.

  He smiled when he saw Amy’s empty bed. The child had the intelligence to understand what he had meant by an evening of solitariness. During the night she had felt free to creep into Claire’s bed in the adjoining room. He was glad. She would have felt comforted to feel Claire’s warmth. He lowered his candle and shaded it with his hand again as he moved quietly into his younger daughter’s room.

  Ah, he thought as he gazed down at the chubby face of Claire, her mouth open, her thumb on the pillow close by, the night had not been quite so happy for Amy. His heart felt heavy again. Had she crept into her nurse’s room for comfort, or had Nurse heard her crying perhaps and come to her? At least it was a comfort to him to know that the child was warm and safe in someone’s company. He turned to leave and cursed under his breath as his foot caught and overturned a chair that stood close to the door. He stood quite still for a few seconds, but Claire appeared not to have been disturbed.

  He almost collided with the nurse as he went back into Amy’s room.

  “Oh, my lord!” she almost shrieked. And then in a loud whisper, “I thought you was burglars.”

  “I am sorry, Mrs. Cartwright,” he said, closing the door into Claire’s room. “I was just checking to see that the girls were safely asleep. Did you take Amy to your room, or did she go there herself?”

  “My lord?” she said blankly, and looked across to Amy’s empty bed.

  “Amy is with you?” he said, a note of anxiety in his voice.

  She stared at him wide-eyed.

  Well over half an hour of increasingly frantic searching ensued before Fairfax and Mrs. Cartwright started to look in the more unlikely places where Amy might be.

  “She must have gone outside,” Fairfax said, his voice beginning to sound decidedly shaky. “We will have to arouse all the servants and have the grounds searched. There is nowhere else in the house she can be. We have looked for her in all the daytime apartments and in the rooms of the other children.”

  “She is very fond of Miss Matthews,” the nurse said doubtfully. She was dabbing at her eyes with a large handkerchief that was already half-sodden.

  “We cannot wake her up at this hour,” Fairfax said. “But we must. We cannot continue searching without further help. Mrs. Cartwright, will you wake Miss Matthews first, please, before we disturb anyone else? Perhaps she will have some idea about Amy’s whereabouts.”

  He waited outside the door until Mrs. Cartwright came to look out at him, crying harder than ever.

  “Here she is, my lord,” she sobbed. “Bless the good Lord. She is sleeping in here with Miss Matthews.”

  He elbowed her aside and was inside Jane’s bedchamber without a single thought to the impropriety of such an action.

  Jane came fully awake as soon as the gentle knock sounded on her door, and was quite aware of the fact that she must have fallen asleep with Amy still in her arms. She sat up with a panicked feeling of guilt as soon as she saw the children’s nurse entering the room with one candle lifted aloft. How unpardonable of her. The nurse must be frightened half out of her mind.

  “She is here, Mrs. Cartwright,” she whispered hastily. “Amy is here. She is sleeping.”

  But instead of rushing forward as Jane expected, the nurse turned back to the door, said something, and was almost immediately pushed to one side. And Fairfax was in her room, clad in a dressing gown, his eyes wild with anger or relief, she was not sure which.

  Jane sat almost paralyzed on the bed, making no move either to get up or to cover herself. She stared stupidly. He stopped when he was close to the bed and blew through his cheeks. His eyes were on the still-sleeping form of his daughter.

  “Thank God,” he said. “Oh, thank God.”

  Then he looked at Jane, a long, narrow-eyed look. With so much to say by way of explanation, she could think of nothing to say at all.

  “Mrs. Cartwright,” he said quietly, turning back to the nurse, who stood inside the door, “can you carry Amy back to her bed? I don’t think she will waken. I shall come to check on her in a few minutes.”

  The nurse bustled over to the bed and carefully picked up the child while Fairfax crossed the room to set down his candle. Amy muttered some protest, but she did not wake up. She nestled her head against the ample shoulder of Mrs. Cartwright. They left the room.

  Jane was still foolishly kneeling on the bed. She could not see Fairfax’s face as he came back toward her, the candle behind him. “I fell asleep,” she said lamely.

  She knew as soon as his hands reached for her what his face must look like. He was furiously angry. He lifted her from the bed as if she weighed nothing at all and set her on her feet in front of him.

  “Did you come here deliberately to wreck my home and plague my life?” he said. The sound came from between his teeth.

  “Michael,” she said, “I can explain about—”

  “I am sick of your interference,” he almost snarled at her, cutting her off in the middle of a sentence. “Do you think I am so incapable of loving and caring for my own children that you must be forever playing mother? Interfering where you are not needed and not wanted? Do you think that no one could care for Amy tonight but you? Did you imagine that she would not be missed? And did you imagine that her nurse and I would not be sick with worry for her safety? Do you think you are the only one who cares?”

  “Michael ...” she said and gulped loudly.

  “Be quiet, madam,” he said. “How dare you come here like this and try to take my children’s trust away from me and undermine my authority with them. How dare you! You would have none of me when you were given the opportunity. Yet you have inveigled your way into my home and into the hearts of children you do not want as a permanent charge. Have you given a mo
ment’s thought to their feelings when you leave here to begin your travels? Do you know what it must be like for a child to begin to feel loved and to be abandoned again? You are a selfish and an interfering woman!”

  Jane stood mute before him, her eyes huge with unshed tears.

  “I want you away from here,” he said. “Immediately. Tomorrow. I do not care what explanation you give Sedge. Make up whatever lie you wish, or tell the truth if you will. But I want you away from here. Do you understand me?”

  “Yes, my lord,” she whispered.

  He stared at her for a long moment. At least, she assumed he stared. She still could not see his face clearly. She looked back, so terribly miserable that she could not even cry or say anything to defend herself any longer.

  He reached for her suddenly. “Oh God, Jane!” he said viciously. It was almost like a curse. “Jane.” He pulled her roughly against him and his arms came about her like iron bands, squeezing the air from her lungs. “What a monster I am. There is a good explanation for this, is there not? She came to you?”

  “Yes,” she said dully.

  “She was miserable because I punished her?”

  “Not for that reason only,” Jane said. “She is terrified of losing your love. And terrified that you will marry Honor.”

  “Oh God,” he said.

  “She is not sure that she is lovable,” she said. “I could not turn her away. I did not want to do so. But I did intend to take her back once she was soundly asleep. I fell asleep.” Her voice was quite toneless. “I am sorry, my lord. I know you must have been quite frantic.”

  “Jane,” he said. “Jane, you have so much love in you—for my children.”

  He pulled his head back to look down at her and then lowered it toward hers. His arms tightened again and his lips brushed hers. His mouth was open. But it was the merest suggestion of a touch. He shuddered and put her sharply away from him. He turned his back on her and put a hand up to his face.