Truthfully, he couldn’t really conceive of it. It wasn’t as if he was prudish, or that he’d ever been uncomfortable around women. But he was uncomfortable around Jane—probably for the reason that he could very much imagine it if he allowed himself. It sent a deep and lush feeling through him, but he dismissed it before it was allowed to take root. Because it would be a dream he would disappear into, and probably wouldn’t be allowed to emerge. Drawn in like into an opium haze. There was danger there.
Jane held her glass of wine like it was something precious. The meal was done and there was little required of him now other than to say goodnight. Not that he was rushing out of the room.
“The moon is bright tonight,” she said. “I think it’s full. It affects creativity, you know. It flourishes.”
“Does it? Will you paint tonight, then?”
“No, I’ve had a little too much wine. While I find I very much like to paint when I’ve partaken, I generally have to discard it in the cool light of morning.”
“They say we speak the truth when we’re drunk.”
“Yes, well, apparently my truth, at least painting wise, is borderline irrational.”
Now he was a little curious what it was she discarded. “Does that happen often?”
“Only on full moons.”
“A digestif, my lord?” Mr. Fuller said. “Perhaps in the salon?”
As a host, he should provide entertainment after supper, but there was still a notion of unease. Still, he would not be chased away like a shocked innocent, because he was neither of those things.
“Of course. A whiskey, I think. One of the ones Caius insisted I buy. Would you care to join me in the salon?” he asked, turning his attention to his dinner companion.
“Maybe just one. I have been a little too liberal with your wine stores already.”
Other than a slight glow to her cheeks, he couldn’t perceive any deterioration of her composure. “There is enough that you can be as liberal as you want.”
“Not sure you would like that,” she said with amusement.
Again, unwelcome notions snuck into his mind and he duly dismissed them. But he couldn’t be rude, so he offered his hand for her to take. She stared at it for a moment as if she was making up her mind.
“Right,” she said and placed her hand in his. It was warm and slight—a familiarity that felt both wrong and right. It had been a while since he’d taken anyone by the hand. A notion stole into him of what it would be like if he’d chosen her as his bride. It wasn’t out of the realm of possibility. They’d met and they’d both been unmarried, but he’d never seriously considered her. Would his life have turned out to be so very different?
Obviously, he’d noticed even back then that she was a very handsome girl. A blind man would have noticed. And curiously, he didn’t resent her for her charm, or for the freedom she claimed for herself. A few men would be very dismissive—even threatened by it. In fact, something in him admired her for it. Perhaps because she didn’t look at him as a prize that could be caught. That would be renewed if he was to make his way in society again. Something he utterly dreaded.
In the salon, she casually picked up a nut from the bowl that sat on the table and nibbled on it as she sat down. “Are you always so reserved?”
“Yes.”
“So when are you not?”
“I am just naturally so.”
“You weren’t when I met you in London.”
“You mean I was less pompous and arrogant, or more so?”
A smile spread across her lips. Clearly she didn’t disagree. “You use it to keep people away from you. Which means you fear.”
“I fear the inevitable disappointment.”
“Were you disappointed with your marriage?”
Yes. “No. It was exactly what I’d signed up for.” Both statements were true, but for different parts of himself. Logically, he was perfectly happy with his marriage and what it had achieved. But there was that other part, the one she was digging for. She wanted to see it, but for what purpose? “What is it you want me to say?”
Infuriatingly, she didn’t answer his question. Just nibbled on her nut, taking tiny little pieces of it. His drink finally arrived, and he took a swig of it. Jane watched him. No one had ever studied him like she had, and it still made him deeply uneasy. She seemed to see everything, even that suppressed little desire for intimacy. Or was it something else she was digging for? What was it she wanted from him? Was it to admit that he wanted her? No, he didn’t. He wouldn’t allow himself.
“Well, it’s been a long day,” he said, taking another gulp of his whiskey. Now that he was here, his urge was to be away from her, because tonight, their conversation had turned in directions it shouldn’t, and if he stayed, it would again. He could see it in her eyes. “It may be time to retire.”
“Of course,” she said, popping the rest of the nut in her mouth and chewing it. Putting his whiskey aside, he rose as she did, as was required of him. Her accusation was right—he did depend on etiquette to keep himself and the people around him ordered.
“Will you kiss me goodnight?” she asked.
It was perhaps a little familiar for their association, but he complied and as she stepped closer, giving him her cheek, he leaned down to kiss it, but her head turned and he caught the corner of her mouth. Much too intimate for a peck on the cheek. Not quite a lover’s kiss but somewhere in between. Still, he felt the energy of it down into his very bones and he froze.
Had
