Page 60 of Her Dark Seduction
“Valentine is a good man. I have no wish to see him hurt.”
“I would never hurt him,” I heard the bitterness in my own voice, “yet he—” I broke off, regretting my words as her eyes narrowed with hostility.
“My brother would never hurt an honest woman. He deserves a good wife after all he has suffered.”
“What has he suffered?”
“If he loved you as a wife, he would have told you. I wonder why he did not?”
Stung by her words, I withdrew my hand and helped myself to porridge.
Before I finished eating, Jack entered the room. The atmosphere dissipated almost immediately. He nodded toward my hands while Lily served his breakfast.
“You should not have kept that to yourself, sister.”
Lily turned her head sharply at his familiarity.
“’Tis nothing,” I smiled back, grateful for a friend.
“You must rest from now on.”
“No,” I protested, “I have no wish to be idle. You were kind enough to take me in, and I wish to help. Nay, I insist.”
“Well you cannot accompany me today,” Lily snapped. She was due to pay calls on her customers in the village, delivering sewing and collecting further orders. Though eager to escape the confines of the house I had no wish to join her; her personal dislike of me was too thinly veiled to be ignored.
“Then you can help me.” Jack lifted a hand to stop Lily’s protests. “Valentine doesn’t want her to be seen in the village, but he said nothing about the workroom. Nobody will see her there.”
My heart sank at Jack’s words. Was my husband so ashamed of me he did not want me to be seen? Would the whores he visited object to him having a wife at home—a wife expecting his child?
How could Vane and Jack be brothers? Their characters were completely different; one open, honest, and welcoming, the other cold, manipulating, and distant.
The day passed pleasantly in Jack’s workroom. His gentle, easy conversation was so unlike anything I had experienced with anyone, let alone a man. He spoke honestly about his business, his love for Lily, and life in the village. He asked neutral questions about my tastes and preferences and avoided anything concerning Vane or my past. For that I was grateful, and I found myself relaxing and answering his questions honestly, for once able to conquer my fear that my words would be used against me.
By the time he closed his workroom and sent me to wait in the kitchen, it was late afternoon. Lily had not yet returned and there was no sign of Vane. I wanted to lay my head on the table and sleep but Jack had other plans for me. I had told him how I wished to be more useful in the home; to learn to undertake the domestic tasks I only understood how to direct others to perform.
My lower back ached and my skin felt stretched and sore, like a child’s favorite gown she strives to fit into even though she has outgrown it. The babe moved and my belly tightened before it relaxed again. Placing my hand across where the child lay, I felt definite shapes and pictured his little limbs curled around his body inside me. I wanted him safe, warm, and protected from the world outside. If we stayed with Jack and Lily, he had a chance. I could trust Jack, grow to love him as a brother the way Lily loved Vane.
I could be happy here. They were kind people who worked hard for a living, unconstrained by the rules and traditions of the noble classes. Perhaps, in time, after I had given him a child and shown how I could work in the home to support him, Vane might come to care for me.
Jack breezed gaily into the kitchen, interrupting my thoughts. He held up two bags of flour, a broad grin on his face.
“Have you ever made bread?”
I shook my head.
“Then it’s time you learned.”
He spent the next hour showing me how to make dough and knead it, explaining that we would leave it to rise overnight before taking it to the bakery in the early morning.
At first the technique was difficult; my hands were clumsy, and I could not feel the dough’s texture through the bandages. However, I soon found a rhythm, turning the dough over, pulling and rolling it, until it became smoother and more pliant. His gentle praise when I finished was balm to my wounded heart. Holding up the ball of dough I was so proud of, I swung round to place it on the hearth beside the fireplace. Losing my balance I knocked over one of the bags of flour, watching in horror as the precious contents spilled onto the floor.
Jack swore under his breath. The finely milled flour was expensive. It had been ordered by the sackload at Mortlock but here, in the village, even a small bag was costly. Jack would have toiled for many hours to afford it, and I had ruined it. Childhood memories chilled my blood—Papa beating me after I had spilled his wine, the blows to my stomach.
He stepped toward me, and I raised one arm to protect myself, curling the other around my stomach to protect the babe.
The blow never came. Jack stood over me, horror and anger in his expression. He moved, and I instinctively shielded my face again.
“Lisetta,” he said, “lower your arm.”
