The groom jumped down when they arrived at the front of the house and Ivo came round and lifted her to the ground. He had done it before, but this time he seemed to linger, letting her slide down close to his body until they were standing toe to toe, his hands still on her waist. ‘Welcome to the Tower. I do not think that you paid it very much attention on your first visit.’
‘None at all,’ Jane admitted.
At that moment her view consisted entirely of Ivo’s neckcloth—spotless and crisp—his tie pin—a rather good oval sapphire—and his chin—firm, stubborn, smoothly shaved. If she came up on tiptoe she could press a kiss right in the middle, below the sensual line of his lower lip. It was a disconcerting and unexpected thought—most improper, of course, but surprisingly exciting. It was one thing to enjoy being kissed by an attractive man, quite another for a well-bred young lady to think about kissing him in broad daylight, virtually on the steps of a great house. Was she falling for her husband-to-be?
It was dangerous, instinct told her. This was to be a convenient marriage, one of liking, certainly, and perhaps some desire, but feeling anything more laid her open to heartache and worse.
She was just telling herself to step back when Ivo bent his head and kissed her lightly on the lips. Jane closed her eyes, then opened them again seconds later when he moved away from her. ‘Now I have shocked Partridge,’ he said with a huff of laughter. ‘He is so starched up that nervous visitors have been known to assume he is the Marquess. Come and charm him.’
Jane realised that they had an audience. The front door was open and a black-clad figure stood there, a footman at his side. A flicker of movement, a flash of blue and white behind the short stone balustrade disguising the service area, made her suspect that several maids had been peeping at them and a bulky figure moved away from one of the long first-floor windows. The Marquess himself?
Was that why Ivo had held her for so long, had kissed her? Was he demonstrating something for the benefit of the household? Jane shivered, suddenly chilled by the thought that Ivo was playacting an affection he did not feel.
The butler, for whom the word cadaverous could have been coined, greeted them with funereal solemnity. ‘My lord. Miss Newnham.’
Jane repressed the urge to curtsy. Ivo merely grinned, ‘Cheer up, Partridge, or Miss Newnham will decide to employ a young, jolly, butler for our half of the household.’
Partridge permitted himself a frigid smile. Jane imagined the sound of ice cracking. ‘You will have your little joke, my lord. Lord Westhaven is in the library.’
‘No joke,’ Ivo remarked as they made their way towards the staircase. It rose from the centre of the hall, then split into two sweeping arms. ‘We have an entire wing to ourselves and we can set up an entirely separate household if you wish it.’
‘Good heavens, no.’ Jane clutched at his arm. ‘Everyone would be so offended. Promise me you will not.’
‘It is as you wish, my dear.’ Ivo paused at the top of the right-hand arm of the staircase and looked down, seeming not to notice her start of surprise at the mild endearment. ‘Wonderful banisters for sliding down, these. I used to do it daily as a small boy and got beaten for it every time my father or grandfather caught me.’ He grinned. ‘Not very hard, mind you. I assume they both did exactly the same in their time.’
For the first time Jane thought about children, not as an abstract concept, one that she had assumed she must forget if she was to follow her art, but as a reality. In a year perhaps she would be a mother, in six or seven years’ time, a mother anxious that her children might be breaking their necks sliding down these very banisters.
Ivo’s children.
Chapter Twelve
Jane was still so wrapped up in the realisation that there was rather more to marrying Ivo than the marriage bed or the servant question or even how she would continue painting that their arrival in the library came as a surprise. ‘Oh! How wonderful.’
It was a proper library, a working library, not a collection of books amassed because their owner thought it was necessary for a nobleman to own hundreds of the things, all in splendid bindings. These were splendid, indeed, and the shelves were loaded, but the tables that stood around the room had piles of books, some open, some with markers sticking out of them. The atlas stands supported open volumes and the great globe had a faintly worn look to it, as though it was often spun for enquiring fingers to trace a river or a sea route or locate a mountain range.
But even better, in Jane’s eyes, were the paintings. Everywhere she looked were miniatures, hung between book stacks, framed as groups, arranged in little glass-topped tables. She was nose to nose with an exquisite Elizabethan gentleman who had plumes in his velvet bonnet and a great pearl hanging from one ear when the sound of someone clearing their throat made her jump.
‘Good morning, Miss Newnham.’
‘My lord. Please forgive me, I did not see you there.’
‘You like my collection?’
‘You gathered all these?’ There must be almost fifty, she thought. ‘This is Hilliard, is it not?’
‘Close. Isaac Oliver, I believe, although it is contested. I inherited that and about half of what you see here. The rest I have collected or commissioned.’ He bent and opened one of the display tables. ‘You might like this.’
Jane took the little oval that he handed her. ‘It is Ivo in uniform! How very dashing you look, Ivo. Is it a Cosway?’
‘It is. You have an eye for style and you know your artists, Miss Newnham. I had that painted before Ivo went abroad for the first time. Keep it,’ he said when she tried to hand it back.
‘Really?’ It was a generous gesture and she knew she must accept with grace, but she felt almost as though she was taking it under false pretences. But at least she would not be removing it from its home, it would still hang in the house. ‘Thank you, I will treasure it, my lord. I had best give it back for now, though.’
He smiled and returne
d it to its place. ‘You go and find Mrs French, Kendall. I will entertain Miss Newnham in your absence.’
Jane suppressed the urge to grab hold of Ivo’s sleeve as he turned to go out, abandoning her with his grandfather, and managed to keep a smile on her lips. The old man was as subtle as a sledgehammer and he wanted something, although she could not imagine what it was he was going to ask her. Or tell her, perhaps.