A Proper Lord's Wife (Properly Spanked Legacy 2)

“Goodness, what are you wearing? Is that Spencer’s coat?”

“Yes, one of his old ones. He said I could have it.”

Her cousin’s hunting coat was a lovely shade of brown, just right for disguising the mud she got all over herself, no matter how carefully she gardened. To that end, a great many of her gowns were shades of brown, too. It had become her favorite color, although her mother begged her to wear ivories and creams, and the pale pastels so popular with the ballroom debutantes in London.

Pastels had not kept Lord Hobart from breaking his engagement to her.

“You were told never to wear men’s clothing again,” her mother reminded her. “And what are you doing out here in the wind? Think of your complexion.”

“The hollies have been covered in oak leaves since autumn.”

She clicked her tongue. “You’re gardening? It’s freezing out. The ground is covered in snow.”

“Plants grow in every season,” she called back. “Even winter.”

“Jane, you must come inside at once. Your face will be chapped to a cherry. Please, this is not the time to worry about holly bushes. You won’t believe the letter your father’s just sent.”

With those words, her mother pulled shut the window. Jane sighed and moved toward the garden gate, wondering if it was a good or bad letter. Since June had married, only Jane remained at home, a future spinster, no doubt. She would have loved to marry and have a family, but she’d known for some time that men did not find her an attractive marriage prospect, with her gawky stature and horrid carrot-hued hair. Oh, her disastrous hair! It was the color of pale, overboiled carrots, thanks to some random Scots ancestor on her father’s side.

If only she’d gotten her looks from her mother’s side. The Countess of Mayhew was thoroughly English, blonde, petite, and elegant, and good at everything. She was good at society, good at balls, good at manners, good at fashion, good at being a proper lady, and June took after her so readily.

Jane had gotten none of those graces. It was a bitter shame.

Her mother rapped upon the window, beckoning her in, and Jane walked faster through regrettable amounts of slush. She brushed as much of it off her boots as she could on the flagstones near the side patio, then handed her coat and soiled gardening gloves to a footman by the door. The laundry women hated her, understandably. Perhaps that was why her father had written. Perhaps the laundry women were once again threatening to quit.

“In here, Jane,” her mother called. “Come quickly.”

She hurried to the green drawing room, passing another pair of silent footmen. Was she in trouble for something? Would the stone-faced servants hear her berated again for some petty crime? She thought of some of her more recent, secret transgressions. She’d added another pet to her menagerie, a juvenile rabbit too lame and small to be out in the cold, but her father wouldn’t know about that. She’d also written to a natural science professor at Cambridge with a question about diet and hibernation in reptiles, using the false name of Josiah McConall…

“Jane,” her mother said, as soon as she entered. “What do you know of the Marquess of Townsend?”

She blinked at her. “The Marquess of Townsend? I’ve seen him a few times.”

She tried to sound casual, although his name made her heart race a little bit. He was one of the few gentlemen she’d really noticed the past season. Tall, elegant, classically handsome…

She’d become aware of his appealing attributes while her sister was holding court upon the marriage market, and after that, Jane’s eyes had searched for him in every ballroom, finding him only a handful of times. She remembered that Lord Townsend danced with a sort of powerful grace and had striking black hair and piercing eyes.

Well, to her, they seemed piercing, although she’d never had the opportunity to feel his gaze close up. No, he only danced with breathtaking women, diamonds of the first water. The way Lord Townsend held them and guided them had excited her in some way, then made her feel silly, because such an impressive man would want less than nothing to do with a plain carrot-top like her.

“Isn’t he one of Lord Wes—” She stopped herself from saying the name. It was not to be uttered in their household anymore, since he’d gone back on his expected offer of marriage to her sister. “Isn’t Lord Townsend one of Lord W’s gentleman friends?”

“I believe he’s part of that group, but it can’t be helped.” She waved the letter as Jane settled into a chair by the fire. “The marquess has asked for your hand in marriage, and your father, assuming your agreeability to the match, has told him yes.”

Having barely sat down, Jane jumped to her feet again. “He has asked—Lord Townsend has—What?”