Page 88 of Brave New Earl (The Way to a Lord's Heart 1)

“‘In love’ is just another way of saying ‘insane.’” Her mother had been fond of that pronouncement, as if it was a clever bon mot. She’d repeated it over and over, especially when she’d a glass of wine, or three.

“I can’t agree with you there.”

“It’s a fairy tale,” Jean interrupted, carried along by the past. Her mother had been so eloquent on this subject, and the memories were beginning to shake her as a terrier does a rat. “You might as well talk of unicorns. ‘In love’ is a delusion.”

“No.”

The contrast between Mrs. Thorpe’s brief serene reply and the chaos inside her head brought Jean up short.

“The state is quite real,” continued the older woman. “I know this myself. I fell in love with my husband in only a week, and I’m still in love with him after fifteen years.”

Words popped out before Jean could think. “You’re here without him. He’s in London doing whatever he likes. You don’t know what he might be getting up to.”

“Missing me,” answered Mrs. Thorpe.

Jean struggled with the scorn that tried to well up in her. “Is that what he says?” Mrs. Thorpe received letters nearly every day. “And youbelieveit?”

“He does say it. My friends remark upon it. And years of experience and observation assure me it’s true.” Mrs. Thorpe gazed at Jean, seeming puzzled rather than offended by the barrage of questions. “I know how he feels since I am missing him just as much.”

Her mother hadn’tmissedher father, Jean thought. Her flights of fancy about a different sort of life had never included being with him. He was the obstacle, the enemy to be vanquished. As for Papa, he’d been too busy with his mistresses to miss anyone.

“When you fall in love, the other person fills your mind and your senses,” Mrs. Thorpe went on. “You think of them all the time. You enjoy their company and see yourself enjoyed in turn. That’s important. You respect and, of course, desire them.” She pursed her lips. “You donotconclude that this person is perfect in every way. That would be infatuation, not love. I’m very clear onthat. Quite a different thing and not to be wished for. Heavens, how philosophical I’m growing.”

Although Jean scarcely moved, the book slid from her lap to the floor. She sat there stunned and faced the fact that every point Mrs. Thorpe had made applied to her. She was—was she?—in love with Benjamin.

Her hateful inner voice went mad. This was disaster, catastrophe, it shrilled. She’d done the precise thing that her mother had warned against. She’d been a stupid, heedless chit and wrecked her life. Now, she was doomed. Misery was her only prospect.

As a tempest of despair threatened to crush Jean, something rose up against it. A strong support that had been established in the last five years, when she’d had charge of her own life and grown more solid during this time at Furness Hall. A bulwark of new confidence reared up to sustain her. What had her mother known about anything? Jean asked herself. Mama had never loved anyone in her life.

This painful truth pierced her through and through. It was rather like lancing a boil, Jean thought. A distasteful comparison but apt. The process hurt. The results were unpleasant. But it had to be done if one was ever to heal.

Her mother had claimed boundless love for Jean when she was in alt, fawning and cooing over her. And her every action had shown this was a lie. She’d been cruel and selfish. Anything Mama had said about love was simply nonsense.

“Jean?” asked Mrs. Thorpe. “Are you all right? I’m very sorry if I’ve upset you.”

“I’m all right.” There was more pain than relief so far, Jean thought. But she understood that this was the final step. She’d begun to actively oppose her mother at ten, rebelling against the dreadful cupboard. She’d taken the reins when her mother died and carved out a kind of life. Satisfying, but limited. She’d come to Furness Hall to save a child, and she’d rescued two—Geoffrey and her browbeaten younger self.

Jean half rose on a wave of elation. She had to go and find Benjamin. He deserved to know she loved him, and shewantedto tell him.

“Jean?” said Mrs. Thorpe again. She sounded worried.

She sank back into her chair. Now was not the time. She’d speak to him later. Meeting her chaperone’s concerned gaze, Jean smiled. The world was full of all kinds of love, she thought, just waiting to be appreciated. In that moment she loved Mrs. Thorpe, who’d been more of a mother during this one conversation than she’d ever had in all the years before. “I was just thinking over what you said,” she replied. “It was very helpful. Thank you!”

“You will take care.”

“I will.” Jean nodded. “I will take care, and I will nurture and cherish it.”

The older woman looked quizzical. “If I hadn’t been sitting here with you this whole time, I’d wonder if you’d been into the brandy.”

Jean laughed.

• • •

He was in love, Benjamin thought at dinner that evening. He hadn’t put it that way before, but tonight the fact was clear. On his left, Jean Saunders sparkled brighter than the diamonds in her earlobes as she chatted with his uncle and Mrs. Thorpe.

How fortunate he was, Benjamin thought. He’d loved Alice, and he would always cherish her memory. And now he loved Jean—in the same way, and yet differently. Because he was different with the passage of years, and she was unique. Love was expansive, he thought. Jean had shown him that as she’d swept into his life like a whirlwind and thrown open his closed mind, his muffled spirit. Now how was he going to get her to himself so he could tell her this?

He had to plow through the meal first. And in fact, he was hungry. The pork was done just as he liked it. The roasted potatoes had a savory crunch, and there were slender spears of new asparagus from the garden. He’d spent the last few years hardly tasting his food. He could regret that, or he could plunge in and enjoy the bounty before him as much as he had the pickup meal with Jean in the library. An easy choice, Benjamin thought, digging in.

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