But what else could he have done but persuade her into marriage? It was not what he had hoped for, expected, but he was never going to have that and he refused to pine and turn himself into a recluse because he could not have Daphne. He had his duty to his name, to his grandfather, to the future.
And it might not be what Jane wanted, had dreamed of, but he would make certain she could paint what she wanted, how she wanted.
That gave him pause. No, possibly he would draw the line at naked footmen. The thought amused him, lightening his mood as they reached the back door into the house.
Then his grandfather turned. ‘I clean forgot—I have spoken to Pettigrew and Arnold about that problem you mentioned. They are preparing an opinion for you, but I have to say, they are not optimistic.’
‘Thank you, sir. I look forward to discussing it later,’ Ivo said. He would have to make it clear to the old man that he did not want Daphne Parris discussed in Jane’s hearing. As his physical wounds healed he found himself feeling more in sympathy with Daphne’s rebellion. She had dreamt of romance, he supposed, and instead was left to twiddle her thumbs demurely while her husband-to-be was hundreds of miles away, communicating erratically as months turned into years, unable to say when—or if—he would return.
This young woman beside him had dreams, too. Unconventional ones, to be sure, but he could help her achieve them—or as much of them as was safe. If the legal experts told him the marriage was indissoluble, then all he could do for his lost love was to stay out of her way and try and find some satisfaction in helping another dreamer fulfil her hopes. It was that or mope about nursing his fading bruises and his broken heart, he thought grimly. Or set out cold-bloodedly to find a ‘suitable’ bride. The first tasted of self-pity, and he had no intention of throwing his life away by wallowing in that, and the second risked boredom or worse.
Ivo glanced down at Jane as he held the door for her. She seemed calm, although her colour was up and her eyes were bright. Was she fighting tears or was it the effects of that kiss under the apple tree? He hoped it was the kiss because he had enjoyed it more than he had expected.
He was conscious of a twinge of guilt for that. He loved Daphne and he should not be taking pleasure in kissing another woman. And yet, if he was to marry Jane, then he must make love to her and do so without ever letting her guess that she was not his first choice, that there was still another woman in his thoughts. For a second he wondered whether a marriage such as his grandfather had been plotting for him would not be more honest. The lady who accepted him then would have no illusions about the nature of the union, but Jane, he feared, was a romantic with her talk of love matches.
Then her parents and her cousin descended on them, driving away any second thoughts or introspection. Jane was hugged and kissed, Mr Newnham shook his hand, Cousin Violet kissed him on the cheek and went bright pink and, taking the plunge, he kissed Mrs Newnham, making her gasp and blush and stammer something that sounded suspiciously like, ‘Dear boy!’
The die was cast and there was no going back now, Ivo thought as he smiled and laughed and generally exerted himself to be pleasant to his future in-laws. He must put all thoughts of Daphne behind him, except for offering the practical advice of his lawyers to her aunts. There was no reason why he should ever see her again, after all. Her husband had neither the money nor the reputation—nor, probably, the inclination—to mix with the same society that the heir to the Marquess of Westhaven would be keeping, so there was no danger of any accidental meetings. What was important now was to make this marriage work.
Chapter Eleven
Three days later
Jane took out the letter she had begun to Verity the afternoon that Ivo had proposed to her and started afresh, wondering if writing it all down would help her believe what was happening.
And so you see how it comes to pass that I am making almost as good marriage as you! Mama, you will hardly be surprised to hear, is beside herself and half convinced that she would have discovered Ivo herself, once she had exhausted her search for distant heirs to dukedoms. He is, of course, the pineapple of perfection in her eyes—and I have to admit he is proving to be a very satisfactory husband-to-be.
Sometimes I have to stop and pinch myself. I said I would never marry except for love. Then in a moment of madness I swore that I would be independent and paint for a living. And now I am doing neither.
But is this the right thing? I keep thinking, What if? What if those two chairmen had not been passing just as we were arguing? What if Ivo’s friends had not appeared at just the wrong moment?
But then I come back to worrying about what would have happened if we had not been held up at just the right point in Kensington. Then I would never have met Ivo and he might have been seriously injured. And that makes me feel quite sick.
From your letters, Verity darling, I know that you sometimes find it difficult, learning to be a duchess. At least I will not have to be a marchioness immediately—not for a long time, I hope, because I am learning to love the Marquess despite all his growling.
Anyway, I hope you will able to give me some advice on how to go on—I am relying on you.
But I am not writing to bore you with all my dithering thoughts and three-in-the-morning doubts. Will you lead my attendants at the wedding? I am writing to Lucy and Melissa and Prue to ask them to be bridesmaids, of course, but you would be matron of honour—although I find the idea of any of us being matrons so funny that I giggle every time I think of it.
You will receive a formal invitation, of course, for you and Will and all his brood of brothers and sisters. I am so looking forward to seeing them meet the Marquess!
It would mean so much if you can be there to watch over me.
Your ever-loving and quite distracted friend,
Jane
17th September—a week later
‘Oh, thank goodness,’ Jane said, looking up from the drift of letters that half covered the breakfast table. ‘They can all be bridesmaids, even Verity who tells me she is expecting a little dukeling, which is wonderful news.’
‘A duckling?’ Startled, Cousin Violet looked up from her own correspondence.
‘Dukeling. I suppose it might be a girl, of course, but Verity seems convinced it is a boy. You appear to have a great deal of post.’
‘Acceptances,’ Violet said, rescuing one envelope from the butter dish. ‘At least, most of them are, but there must be at least three letters from your mother, who no sooner seems to seal one missive than something else occurs to her and so she writes another. At this rate your father will be spending more on postage than on your wedding dress.’
After much debate it had been agreed that Jane would be married from Cousin Violet’s house and that the ceremony would take place in Merton Tower’s own chapel. Bath, although no longer at the pinnacle of fashion, still had enough excellent modistes to provide Jane’s trousseau and far more shops for all the trifles she would need than could be found in rural Dorset.