Page 86 of Lord Garson's Bride
Jane tried to lose herself in the swirling movement, to recapture some of their earlier ease, but it was impossible. She was too aware of his hands on her and how he cursed the fate that placed his wife in his arms and not Morwenna.
“You’re very quiet,” he said, after a while.
Her feet naturally followed his, without her having to think about it. After all, he’d been her first dance partner. Warily she glanced up at him. “I’m a little weary.”
A little weary? The effort of hiding her feelings, not to mention all the late nights, and the endless tossing and turning when she finally got to bed, left her feeling like a wrung-out rag.
“Jane,” he said, and the edge in his voice alerted her that for once, this wouldn’t be some polite banality, “would you like to go up to Derbyshire? There’s nothing to keep us in London. Not really. You haven’t seen the house in years, and it’s beautiful there with spring coming on.” He paused, then went on with an urgent sincerity that made her heart cramp. “We could spend some time alone together, away from all this flummery.”
Oh, God, give her strength. The last thing she wanted was to be alone with Hugh. But on the other hand, she was reaching her limits as the queen of society.
She swallowed to moisten a dry mouth and said in a low tone, “Let me think about it.”
“Please do.” His grip on her waist tightened. “I want to have you to myself again. I want what we found in Salisbury.”
“We’ve still got that,” she said, knowing it was a lie. “You share my bed every night.”
And she could hardly bear it. Because the desire between them, however powerful, was a mere counterfeit of what she really wanted.
She could never have what she really wanted.
He frowned, and regret sliced her heart when she saw his disappointment. “Yes,” he said, not sounding convinced. “Think about Derbyshire. A few weeks in the country would do you good.”
While she was convinced that a few weeks in the country would dissolve the threadbare truce that kept her marriage together.
But Hugh was right. The way they went on was untenable. She rapidly ran short of both pride and endurance. Something had to change—and if change meant utter destruction, right now, she almost welcomed that.
Her touch on the back of his neck was tender with unspoken love, all the more poignant for being forbidden. “Yes, let’s talk about it tomorrow.”
* * *
“Lady Garson, your ladyship.”
As Jane stepped into Fenella’s airy morning room a couple of days after the Kenwicks’ ball, she found her friend playing with her children, Henry and Emily. A tan and white beagle puppy gamboled toward her with a high-pitched yelp and a madly wagging tail.
“I do beg your pardon, Fen.” Clearly she’d interrupted some private family time. Flustered, she turned away, eager to leave. “You’re busy this afternoon. I can come back another day.”
Fenella rose from her chair, the book she’d been reading to her seven-year-old daughter dangling from one hand. Dark-haired Emily had inherited her dynamic father’s striking looks, whereas Henry had his mother’s classic features and golden coloring.
“No, Jane, come in.” The blonde woman raised her free hand to smooth the stray strands of hair escaping her simple knot. Jane had never seen Fen less than perfectly turned out, but today her pink muslin gown was crushed and showed traces of puppy paws and a nursery tea. She gestured to the toys scattered across the priceless Aubusson carpet. “As you can probably tell, we weren’t expecting company, but it’s always lovely to see you.”
“I was just passing, and I thought I’d call in.” Not true. She’d set out, hoping to catch Fenella on her own. She liked all her new friends, but she felt a particular affinity with Fenella. Perhaps because unlike her stubborn clodpoll of a husband, Fenella had learned to love again. Or perhaps because Fenella’s quiet strength was something she desperately needed right now, as she struggled to find a way forward in her marriage. “I didn’t mean to intrude. I’ll see you this evening at the Jamesons’ musicale.” She struggled to sound enthusiastic about yet another party.
“No, please stay. The children will play in here, and we can go through to the drawing room.” She sent nine-year-old Henry a minatory glance. “The first sign of a quarrel between you two, and it’s back to the schoolroom and Latin translation. And don’t let Milo chew the furniture, or your father will hit the roof.”
“Papa likes Milo,” Emily said, darting forward to pick up the squirming puppy and clutch him close to her chest.
“He won’t, if every chair in the house is only fit for firewood,” Fen said sternly, then turned to Jane with a brilliant smile. “Jane, take me away from this madhouse.”
Jane soon found herself clutching a cup of tea and sitting beside Fen on a green brocade sofa. She looked around the pretty room and struggled not to sound too envious. “This is such a happy house. You can feel it.”
“Thank you.” Fen smiled and nibbled at a sugar biscuit. Jane’s biscuit balanced on the edge of her saucer. She hadn’t touched it. Lately food stuck in her throat. Her glamorous new dresses all hung too loose on her. “When I married Anthony, everyone except my closest friends was convinced it was the mismatch of the century, especially as we’d only known each other a few weeks. It’s been nice to prove all the old biddies wrong.”
“You’re lucky,” Jane said, staring down into her cup.
“Yes, we are.” Fenella’s emphatic tone was surprising, coming from someone who looked as fragile as a Meissen shepherdess. “People predicted disaster for Anthony and me, just as they predicted it for you and Garson.”
Jane’s eyes flashed up in shock. “We trot along all right.”
