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  “And Fielding does a good job of that,” Fairfax said. “In fact, it is a good book in its own right. But you surprise me, Miss Matthews. Most ladies of my acquaintance swoon quite away at the sentiment of Pamela. ”

  “I would like to give the girl a good shake for marrying Mr. B.,” said Jane.

  He did not smile, but there was a glint of amusement in his eyes for one moment. “Indeed?” he said. “You are not a romantic, I perceive, ma’am?”

  “Not in that sense!” she said decisively. “The poor girl is facing only misery in her marriage. She has nothing whatsoever in common with her husband, and she is not accustomed to the life she will be called upon to lead. Moreover, that man will tire of her quickly enough, and then what will romance have gained her?”

  “And yet the book describes the first few years of the marriage as being quite idyllic,” the viscount pointed out.

  “I do not believe a word of it,” Jane said.

  “Well, ma’am,” he said, “I shall be interested in hearing your assessment of Fielding’s satire. I believe you will enjoy it. Do you plan to attend Lady Merriot’s soiree this evening?”

  “Yes,” Jane said. “My aunt has accepted our invitation.”

  “I shall look forward to seeing you there,” he said. “Ah, here you are, Sedge. Chosen your books, have you? I have discovered that Miss Matthews is a reader too.”

  Mr. Sedgeworth bowed and smiled at her. “How do you do, Miss Matthews?” he said. “You had better make your escape while you may, or Fairfax will be pressing all the volumes from his own library on you, and you will feel obliged to read them.”

  “Is that what I do to you, Sedge?” Fairfax asked. “I did not realize you were such a reluctant reader. But you are quite safe, Miss Matthews. My library is in the country.”

  The gentlemen bowed and excused themselves soon after. Jane stared foolishly after them. Then she found herself smiling and having to restrain the urge to execute a little jig of exuberance. She turned toward the bookshelf and pretended to examine her book while she brought herself under control. Here she was again, she thought in some disgust, behaving worse than a girl of sixteen. She was wild with excitement merely because a handsome gentleman had had the civility to exchange pleasantries with her for a few minutes. She forced herself to think of Mr. Sedgeworth. He appeared to be a pleasant and well-mannered gentleman. Let her concentrate her attention on him whenever the viscount was close by.

  She would see them again tonight. And he had said that he looked forward to seeing her. Mere civility, of course. She must not refine too much on it. She would very probably receive no more than a distant bow of recognition. And Honor would be turning the full force of her charm on him. She appeared every bit as infatuated as Jane herself did. Jane sighed. That thought, if any, brought her feet firmly back to the ground. Why should he pay any attention to her when there was Honor to look at and talk to and flirt with? Not to mention any number of other pretty girls, all well below the age of twenty.

  Jane looked at the copy of Joseph Andrews clasped in her hand, shrugged her shoulders at it, and took it across to the librarian’s desk.

  Viscount Fairfax sat in his library, definitely his favorite room. The rest of his town house always seemed too feminine. His mother used it far more often than he did, of course. It was not a house in which a man could relax. But here he could slouch back in a comfortable chair of faded leather, his booted feet, crossed at the ankles, resting on the desk, his hands clasped behind his head.

  He had not realized how much he had missed his solitariness until now when he was alone again. Sedgeworth was driving Miss Crawley to the park for the fashionable hour. He had not escaped without a great deal of teasing and warnings that he would be caught in parson’s mousetrap before the summer’s end if he did not have a care. Fairfax was greatly enjoying the company of his friend. But sometimes it was good to be in one’s own company. And he was used to being alone.

  For the last year he had spent the bulk of his time alone or with Amy and Claire. Indeed, he had been alone much of the time even while Susan was still alive. They had not really shared a close companionship. What was it that Miss Matthews had said that morning? Pamela and Mr. B. had nothing whatsoever in common. That description fit him and Susan all too well. They had fallen madly in love during that spring five years before and had rushed into marriage even before the Season came to an end. All had been wonderful for perhaps the first year. It had taken that long for the glamour to wear off. Perhaps it would have happened sooner if there had not been the birth of a child to look forward to.

  When had he first faced the truth that he and Susan were from totally different worlds? After Amy was born, perhaps? He had been so excited, so proud to have a daughter, and one who promised to be as dark and as strong-featured as he. Susan had hardly stopped crying for a week after the birth and had forced him to hire a wet nurse for the child. She had been bitterly disappointed not to have a son.

  He had been touched at first, though distressed to see how little Amy’s presence was welcomed by her mother. He had thought Susan’s reaction was all remorse that she had disappointed him by not presenting him with an heir. But she had told him the truth through her tears. She hated living at Templeton Hall. She hated the neighbors and the dull life of the country. She planned to have him take her back to London and travel with her to the various spas and even overseas. If she had produced a son, they could have left almost immediately. There would be no further need for her to bear children. She would see to it, of course, that the child always had the best of care at home.

  Lace handkerchief in one hand, hartshorn in the other, she had bewailed the fact that now they would have to spend at least another year in the country until she had produced his heir. The prospect horrified her, though she was quite determined that it must be done. Susan had a very strong sense of duty.

  He had realized, just as if scales had suddenly been taken from his eyes, just how different she was from him. She took completely for granted that he would be as eager as she to abandon his child and his home in pursuit of a life of pleasure. She assumed that he, like her, would see Amy as a child of little or no account. She had no conception of the fact that his whole life revolved around his home and his small family. It did not occur to her that perhaps he would be perfectly happy with a dozen daughters and no sons if that was the way their family developed. He was not fanatical about perpetuating his dynasty, as so many men were.

  . They had both changed after Amy’s birth. Susan had become more openly restless and petulant. She talked with nothing but contempt and impatience about their neighbors. She became obsessed with the need to conceive again, though she seemed to have lost any real enjoyment she might have had of the sexual act itself. He began to spend more and more time with his infant daughter or alone. He read a great deal, spent hours in the music room playing the pianoforte, though Susan thought it an unmanly activity, and walked and rode about his estate, becoming far better acquainted with his land and his tenants than he had ever been before.

  It had not been a good marriage. There was nothing vicious about Susan. She was no different from what she had appeared to be when he first met her: a sociable and beautiful and essentially empty-headed young lady. He found that he could not blame her for not sharing his interests in life. Perhaps he was more to blame. He must have appeared to be very like her during the Season in London. Certainly he had thrown himself with gay abandon into all the glittering activities of the Season.

  But whoever was to blame or not to blame, the fact was that they were two vastly different people doomed to spend their lives together. And the relationship had deteriorated further after the birth of Claire—beautiful little Claire, who even as a small baby had resembled her mother very closely. He had not wanted the third child so soon. Susan needed time to recover her health, he had told her. And the doctor too had warned her against having another child within two or three years. But she had been almost demented wi
th the need to produce a son so that she could start living again, as she put it.

  And she had died along with their third daughter. Fairfax found now that he was closely observing his one Hessian boot beating rhythmically against the other on top of the desk. He would never forget her screams giving place to moans as the hours passed. He had gone to her in the end and held her cold hand while she delivered the stillborn child and died less than an hour later. He did not believe he would ever forgive himself.

  Poor Susan. He had not loved her after he had stopped being in love with her. He had not even particularly liked her. But she had been a living person and his wife. It had been his duty to protect her from harm, not kill her with the bearing of his children. She had certainly not deserved to die. He would never quite rid himself of his guilt. It would help perhaps if he could just stop the thought from constantly intruding that he was fortunate to be released so soon from an unsatisfactory marriage.

  Fairfax deliberately stopped the motion of his foot. There was really no point in going over such thoughts again. He had come close to driving himself mad with them during the months following Susan’s death. Sedgeworth—good, loyal Sedge, who had never stopped writing a regular monthly letter during the five years when they had not seen each other—had been his savior, coming to stay at Templeton Hall when he perceived from his friend’s letters that he was mortally depressed, and persuading him finally that he needed to seek new amusements for a few months. It was Sedge too who had suggested London and a search for a new wife.

  And did he really desire a new bride? Fairfax asked himself now. Would it not be disloyal to the memory of Susan to marry again, and so soon? And did he really wish to be in that situation again, bound for life to a woman to whom he might not be suited after all? Of course, there was Sedge’s argument that Amy and Claire needed a mother. He supposed it was true. They were very young now and received a great deal of love from their nurse. And when he was at home, he spent several hours of each day with them, playing with them, taking them for walks, teaching them to swim, reading to them. But in a few years’ time they were going to need a mother to teach them how they should behave as young ladies. Sedge had mentioned an heir too. Why did so many people assume that he was not satisfied with two daughters? He would not exchange them for all the sons in the world.

  Did he wish to marry? He had avoided social activity since his aunt’s ball. And yet while he was there he had enjoyed that old satisfaction in drawing female attention. He had enjoyed letting his eyes rove over all the younger ladies, imagining which would have some wit as well as beauty, which might allow one some liberties if one were to lure her into the garden, which might make interesting bedfellows. Not once during the whole evening had he considered which might offer some companionship in the restricted social setting of Templeton Hall, or which might make the most affectionate and responsible mother for his children.

  If he really were going to marry again, should he not consider those things first and foremost? It would be stupid in the extreme if he chose a new bride in much the same way as he had chosen Susan, only to find a second time that romantic love wore off very fast. Now, if he were truly sensible he would select for himself someone like Miss Matthews. Old enough to have gained some maturity. Quiet. Sensible. Willing and able to speak about more than just the latest fashions or the latest scandal. She had nephews and nieces. She probably had experience in dealing with children. He did not find her particularly attractive, though when he thought about her figure—fairly tall and slender—and about her face—regular-featured, with direct, intelligent gray eyes—he had to admit that she was not at all ugly or even plain. He could not imagine himself in bed with her. But then, there had been nothing remotely exciting about his experiences in bed with Susan after that first year, for all her great beauty. He might as well have held a cold fish.

  Fairfax swung his legs to the floor and stretched his arms above his head. He really did not believe he could choose a bride coldly. The heart would have to share the choice with the head. If Miss Matthews was to be at the soiree that evening, then the little Miss Jamieson would be there too. Now, there was an interesting little character, all artificiality and vanity on the surface and yet with a sparkle of mischief lurking at the back of it all. It might be worth getting to know her better.

  He laughed aloud suddenly as he pushed himself to his feet. How very indignant Miss Matthews had been with Richardson’s Pamela, who had very meekly accepted Mr. B. as soon as he offered her marriage, when she had fought like a tigress during his numerous attempts to ravish her. Miss Matthews had been as cross with the girl as if she were a real person. Her eyes had quite sparkled and her cheeks glowed for the space of a couple of minutes. He would be quite interested to hear her judgment of Joseph Andrews. He might do well to use his evening in becoming better acquainted with both cousins. Each seemed interesting in her own way.

  Fairfax noticed the time and tried to imagine what Amy and Claire would be doing at that moment. Amy was probably at her paintbox. Claire was doubtless undressing or bathing that little scruff of a doll that she loved so fiercely. He smiled. God, how he missed them!

  Jane was aware as soon as she entered Lady Merriot’s drawing room that Lord Fairfax was already there. There was a sort of sixth sense that made her feel his presence even before she saw him. She remembered that it had always been so. He was standing at the opposite end of the room, conversing with a group of men, all recognized leaders of the ton. She realized as soon as her eyes came to rest on his splendid figure just how foolish was her unacknowledged hope that he really would find time to greet her during the evening. She put into practice her earlier resolve and looked about her for Mr. Sedgeworth.

  He was very close by and apparently was making his way toward her. She smiled at him.

  “Good evening, Miss Matthews,” he said. “How lovely you look in pink. I have just been realizing how few people I know in London. I spend so much time traveling around this island and on the Continent that I have become unfamiliar with the very people I should know best. Will you do me the kindness of keeping me company for a while? Your face at least is familiar.” He grinned, and Jane found that he was far better-looking than she had thought. He had kindly eyes.

  “It would be my pleasure, sir,” she said. “Have you tackled any of that pile of books you borrowed this morning?”

  “Alas, no,” he said. “There always seem to be far more important activities to take one’s time in London. One is to drive in Hyde Park at just the correct hour of the afternoon. Have you tried it? I must recommend it if you have not. You will learn absolutely everything of scandalous proportions that has happened within the previous twenty-four hours. And you will soon learn that the bonnet or gown you purchased two weeks ago is woefully out-of-date.”

  Jane laughed. “You are a cynic, I perceive, sir,” she said. “One must learn to take delight in observing all the great absurdities of human nature while realizing that one’s very presence in the midst of it all proves one’s own absurdity.”

  “I am justly reproved, ma’am,” he said, “for having shown that I consider myself above such foolishness. You are quite right, of course. I bowed and smiled and tooled my horses about the circuit just like everyone else. And perhaps all those other people were observing me with a satirical eye. Now, there is a lowering thought.”

  Jane felt quite proud of herself after a few minutes. She was enjoying Mr. Sedgeworth’s company, she told herself, to such a degree that she had scarcely noticed that Lord Fairfax had joined Honor and other young people at the pianoforte, where Honor was entertaining them with her dubious skills at the keyboard.

  Chapter 4

  LATER in the evening, after supper, Jane was sitting with a group of ladies, listening with half an ear to their conversation. She sat deliberately with her back toward the rather noisy group of young people across the room, Honor and Fairfax in their midst. It had been a great deal easier to remain oblivious of them when
she had been talking to Mr. Sedgeworth. But he had been drawn away by their hostess to make up a fourth at a table of cards. Jane tried to concentrate on the story one lady was telling of the gay life she had led in Brussels until her return to England ten days before. It seemed that half the fashionable world was there, and almost all the dashing young officers.

  “Miss Matthews.”

  Jane looked up, startled to find Lord Fairfax standing beside her.

  “I have been forced to conclude that you have no intention of speaking with me this evening,” he said. “Is it because you have read Joseph Andrews and find that my recommendation was ill-founded?”

  “Oh,” she said with a laugh. “I have started the book, though I am afraid I have not read very much, yet. Not enough to make any sort of judgment.”

  “Indeed,” he said, and he drew up a chair and seated himself beside her. “Then why have you been avoiding me?”

  Jane’s eyes widened. “But I have not been doing so, my lord,” she said. “You have been in other company all evening and so have I. This is the first time I have come face-to-face with you.”

  “I thought you would have been with the young people,” he said. “I waited in vain for you to approach the pianoforte. You did tell me at my aunt’s ball that you play, did you not? Why do you not come and play for me now?”

  “Oh no,” she protested, blushing. “I have never felt comfortable performing in public. I play for my own enjoyment, usually at times when I can forget my surroundings and even myself.”

  “Do you?” he said. “Then I shall not press you. I do the same myself.”

  “You play, my lord?” she asked in surprise.

  “Yes,” he said. “But why I admit the fact, I do not know. Some people think it an unmanly accomplishment.”

  Jane looked blank. “Why?” she asked. “All the famous composers are men. Why should not they play as well?”