It was disturbing, this feeling. He was betraying Daphne by wanting another woman and yet Daphne was not his to desire any longer and she had made it more than plain she did not love him. He could not live like a monk all his life because he could not have the woman he loved and he should be a husband in all ways for Jane, not think of her as second best.
She was still watching him, her head tipped a little to one side, those hazel eyes questioning. She was warm and soft and innocent, yet there was steel within those feminine curves and an untapped sensuality that made his blood heat.
‘Jane, shall we go outside and—?’
‘Ha! Checkmate again.’ His grandfather was crowing over the unfortunate Ranwick’s latest defeat at the chessboard. ‘Now, where you went wrong was in your third move. If you had only played—’
‘You must not be afraid of him. He shouts and he blusters, but inside he is really not so bad,’ he murmured, taking the opportunity to lean close.
‘I like him,’ Jane whispered back. ‘He is afraid of showing what he feels, that is all. It makes him gruff. He is so proud of you—did you realise?’
‘What, proud? No, you must be mistaken.’ Ivo laughed off the old hurt. ‘He was angry that I joined the army. Foolish romanticism, he called it. A youthful desire to play at chivalry.’
‘And that is why he can recite every battle and skirmish you have been involved in and the dates, I suppose? He knows every wound you suffered, has clippings of every mention in the London Gazette. He showed me and made quite certain that I knew I was marrying a gallant soldier, a hero.’
Ivo found that his mouth was open and closed it abruptly. His grandfather had followed his career, thought him gallant?
‘I had no idea,’ he managed to murmur at last. ‘Thank you for telling me.’ He swallowed, reluctant to expose a weakness, yet knowing he owed her honesty. ‘It had hurt, I will not deny it. I never thought myself a hero, that is nonsense, I was simply doing my duty. But I thought he felt I was wasting my time, playing at soldiers.’
‘Rough games to play,’ Jane remarked, letting go of his hand. ‘I have seen the scars.’ She leaned forward, put one hand on his shoulder and kissed his cheek. ‘Goodnight, Ivo. I think I will sleep well tonight.’
He stood, drawing her to her feet, and bent to kiss her on the lips. ‘So will I. Goodnight, Jane.’ She went over to speak to his grandfather and Ranwick, then bent to whisper to Cousin Eunice without waking his great-aunt.
Yes, he would sleep well, he thought, opening the door for Jane and nodding to the footman on duty in the hall to send a maid upstairs. But first he was taking a lantern, hammer and chisel down to the hermitage and erasing all traces of that inscription.
‘Kendall!’
‘Yes, sir?’
‘Before you go up to bed, there is something in that proposal for the cottage repairs from Brownlow I want to talk through. Come into the study, will you.’
* * *
Jane sat up in bed, the day’s sketches spread out in front of her
. She was pleased with them and planned on catching some of the more senior members of the household the next day. She should be analysing these now, looking for weaknesses, but the lines kept blurring and reforming as Ivo’s face. The way he had been looking at her... The way he looked when she told him about his grandfather. Had he really had no inkling of how the old man saw him? It seemed not. Men were strange creatures, unwilling to talk about their feelings.
He was never going to tell her about Daphne, she knew that, so she was going to have to make up her own mind whether she was prepared to go ahead with this marriage or not. Marrying a man who was not in love with you was quite a different thing from marrying one who was in love with someone else, she was certain. But he was never going to see Daphne again, surely—not after the violent way she had reacted to his well-meaning attempts to help her. Daphne was married, unavailable, and she, Jane, was here with him.
Ivo liked her, he felt desire for her, although she understood from Verity and her own observations that men, the strange creatures, were quite capable of desiring women they were otherwise indifferent to, or did not even know. He was kind—he had shown her how precarious her unplanned ambitions were, but had done so without patronising her. He was brave and loyal, so he would make every effort, she was certain, to put thoughts of Daphne aside once they were married.
She trusted him, Jane realised. She had from the beginning: a large, battered, unknown male who should have been threatening, even semi-conscious. But some instinct had made her trust and she was going to rely on that now. Trust and put the work in as her youthful advisor Jem had said.
Marriage to Ivo would give her the freedom that wealth and status afforded a woman. It came at a price—she was not walking into this blindly. If she had mistaken the man, he could confine her in the rigid role of countess and mother, stop her painting, lock her in a gilded cage.
Jane gathered up the sketches and set them aside, blew out the candles and wriggled down in the bed. He had taken a chance on her, too. Ivo had rescued her from social disgrace, given her the opportunity to paint, when he must have been hurting over Daphne’s betrayal. He must still be hurting, she worried as she began to drift off to sleep. Was there any hope that one day, if they both worked at this marriage, he might come to love her as she loved him.
Jane sat up, wide awake in the darkness.
I love Ivo? When did that happen?
She lay down again, shaken. This was dangerous, it made her so much more vulnerable. Dangerous, but wonderful, too.
* * *
Days passed and the frightening, glorious, reality of loving Ivo coloured every one of them. Jane did not think she betrayed herself because he certainly showed no signs of the alarm a man might be expected to feel on discovering that the other half of a marriage of convenience was inconveniently in love with him. He remained kind and amusing and, when he took her in his arms, passionate.
Responding to that passion was dangerous. She knew she was too inexperienced to hide her feelings, that she should try and remain cool and modest in her response, but it was impossible. Ivo felt so strong and solid when he held her against him, she felt safe and in peril all at the same time and she wanted the peril, wanted his heat and the urgency she could feel him controlling.