Martha nodded, her eyes solemn. “I understand. But she is no fainting maiden from what I can see. Though my interactions with her have been limited, she seems strong of mind and body. And of heart.” She bit her lip and looked at her shoulder. “That last one’s important.”
That last one was the most important. “You’re not wrong. She is all that and more.” And yet, he hesitated. More than hesitated. Adamantly refused. George knew what was best for Jane because he’d spent a lifetime living with his uncle. She seemed strong enough to shoulder it, but he could not even shoulder it himself some days.
“Time is fleeting, George. Health and youth even more so. It is a truth I know well.”
“Martha, I—”
“I think it’s time Uncle Neville stayed with Sebastian and I.”
George rolled his hand on his wrist in acquiescence. “A week or so, if you wish. He might enjoy it.” And George could join Jane in the country.
“Not a week, George. Longer.”
“A fortnight? A month?”
Martha threw her arms out wide then dropped them to her sides. “I have no answer for you. As long as the arrangement is comforting to all. I was thinking more along the lines of… permanently.”
George shook his head, finally taking her meaning. “You can’t. He’s my responsibility.”
“You may be the earl, but I’m your elder, and I will take this burden on myself. You have had it too long on your shoulders.”
“Absolutely not. You married a dying man to escape the hell of our home. And I could do nothing to save you. I was too young. I am not too young now, and I will not allow this.”
Martha stood, her spine straight, her chin thrust high. “You’ll save me. You’ll save Jane. But who will save you, George?”
A man did not need saving from his responsibilities.
“I cannot put her in danger,” he said.
Martha approached him and placed her hands on his shoulders with a heavy sigh. “If I take Neville, you can enjoy a happy marriage without the shadow of opium hovering over you. That is what I wish for you, brother. Love and happiness. Companionship and passion. Without fear.” She stood with a gentle shake of her head and turned to leave.
At the door, she swung around to face him, her chin resting on her index finger, which pointed to her own cocky smile.
“Perhaps Jane will save you after all. She seems the type to try.” Martha grinned and swept out the door.
George strode after her. “Martha! Martha! You cannot take Neville!”
But the woman could run fast when she wanted to, and his head had started to pound. Jerky movements, yelling, andJaneall added to his headache. He pressed his fingers to his temples. “Damnation,” he mumbled, chasing Martha down the hall.
The door was just closing when he reached the entryway, and he pressed through the crack to see Martha disappear into a carriage. She smiled and waved at him from the window, and the carriage rumbled off.
“Damn.”
And another conveyance—a hack—replaced the first before his townhouse.
George frowned. “What the—”
The door opened. And Jane stepped down.
* * *
George sat in the hack across from Jane, aching to haul her onto his lap, refusing to do so. They rode in silence, had for some time. She’d insisted on speaking with him, but he’d refused to let her into the house. Now, he merely had to resist her for enough time to return her to the Clarkes’ townhouse.
For her own part, she seemed unaffected, surveying him with both eyebrows raised, her head slightly tilted, a damned bonnet hiding the specifics of her expression. She folded her hands primly in her lap and seemed the picture of patient femininity. Except for that index finger. Slim and long, ittap tap tappedon her thigh.
George wanted to suck it between his lips.
But that’s not why she’d come here. She wanted to talk. Well then, let her say the first words. If nothing else, he was a patient man.
