Lord Garson’s Bride (Dashing Widows 7)

At the touch of his lips, she stiffened, reminding him of the woman who had shrunk from him on their wedding night. What the hell? He was about to retreat, when she started to kiss him back with a desperation he could taste. She twined her arms around his neck as if she held on for dear life, the way she’d cling to a branch in a flooded river to stop being swept away.

But there was no flooded river, and no chance that she was going anywhere but home with him.

Troubled anew, he pulled back and caught her wrists, bringing them down to her lap. “Jane, something’s wrong. Please tell me.”

A reverberant silence fell, long enough to send his imagination into a spin. Had something horrible happened at the ball that he didn’t know about?

Then she took a shuddering breath and leaned forward to place a clumsy kiss on the corner of his mouth. “What could be wrong? I’ve just been fêted at my first ball. I finally told my sister to mind her own business. Now I’m going home with my lovely husband. I’m the happiest girl in London.”

Doing it too brown, Jane. “You don’t sound like the happiest girl in London.”

Although she sounded like she tried to be. The amount of effort she put into the act betrayed her.

Her smile flashed in the darkness. “It’s late. I’m tired. Truly, it’s been a lovely night, Hugh. Stop fretting.”

He caught her hands. “Perhaps we should stay home tomorrow and forget the opera.”

She shook her head, the rubies and diamonds in her hair catching the light from a passing street lamp. “Oh, no, I want to go to everything we’re invited to. I told you—I plan to be out every night.”

He heard that same desperation he’d tasted in her kiss, but for pity’s sake, he’d asked every way he knew for her to tell him what worried her. Perhaps the wise husband would wait until she was ready to confide in him. He always strove to be a wise husband. Well, most of the time.

The carriage pulled up outside the tall, white façade of Rutherford House, and a footman ran forward to open the door. It was only when they were inside that Hugh finally got a proper look at Jane’s face. She did appear tired, fine drawn with strain and something that looked very like unhappiness.

The wise husband would not pry. Especially when his attempts to help had so far met with nothing but unconvincing denials of any trouble.

“I’m sorry that a few unpleasant moments spoiled your evening,” he said as they went upstairs. She held his arm, walking in step with him so their hips brushed. Why did he still feel she was on the other side of the world?

“Don’t be silly, Hugh. It was beyond my wildest dreams.” She sounded so bright, he winced as if he stared into the sun.

But the wise husband knew that he’d get no answer as to why his lovely wife seemed brittle enough to shatter, after the night when society had fallen at her feet.

*

“Will that be all, my lady?” Peggy asked, collecting Jane’s extravagant red gown from the bed and folding it over her arm. She’d already locked away the jewels. “Or would you like me to stay and brush out your hair?”

Jane met her glassy gray eyes in her mirror and prayed that the girl left quickly. Maintaining the illusion that she was on top of the world had given her a pounding headache. “No, I’ll do that. You find your bed. I’m sorry I kept you up so late.”

The girl looked startled, before she resumed the demeanor of the perfect servant. “Lud, my lady, that’s what a lady’s maid does.”

Jane made herself smile. “Perhaps, but I appreciate it. I suspect there will be many more late nights to come.”

Peggy sent her a proper smile, and the Irish accent she tried to suppress tinged her answer. “I don’t mind at all. It’s a privilege serving such a nice lady—and one who promises to become the toast of London. On my day off, I can lord it over the other girls.”

“That’s splendid.” Jane summoned a smile. “Good night, Peggy.”

The girl curtsied and left the toast of London to stare into her reflection and wish with a fervor only bolstered by its futility, that she was in Sidmouth with her old governess. She’d trade every one of tonight’s extravagant compliments to be looking forward to nothing more exciting than a walk by the seaside.

As Hugh came through the door connecting the baroness’s rooms to the baron’s, Jane picked up her brush. His chamber contained a large, luxurious bed that he was yet to use. They always slept together in this room.

“Let me do that for you,” he said quietly. The familiar red dressing gown covered his nakedness, and he, to

o, looked tired and a little downhearted.

“Thank you,” she said, extending the brush toward him. If brushing her hair delayed the moment when they went to bed, he could brush her hair until Doomsday.

It wasn’t that she didn’t want him. It was that she doubted her ability to conceal her newly discovered love when he touched her and kissed her and joined his body with hers. Right now, she felt too raw and vulnerable to survive having her deepest feelings exposed to the light.

Without doubt, Hugh would be kind, but secretly horrified that his wife had so egregiously broken their agreement.