“And when she gave it up as a lost cause, you said, and I’ll never forget it, ‘Excellent attempt, Lady Jane. I’ve never heard such a passionate harp player.’ And youmeantit, George. You damn well meant it.”
“Passion was the only positive thing to say about her playing,” George grumbled. “I couldn’t very well tell her she sounded like a dying cat, now could I?”
“I did. My point is you made her laugh when she’d been on the verge of tears.” He wagged his finger at George. “And—by the way—she can do that for you. She’s impulsive at times, but her heart is always in the right place, helping others. Much like you, I venture to say.” Edmund stood with a shiver. “That’s quite enough emotions for the day. If you’re going to help her find a husband, you might as well make it yourself.”
George scoffed. “Not me. That’s impossible. I cannot marry, and you know why.”
“Your uncle.”
“I’ll not drag your sister, or any other woman, into my hell.”
“Not even if it makes the both of you happy?”
It would not. “I’ll help her find a husband. Not me.”
Edmund shrugged. “A shame. You’re her best bet. The other men…”
“What about the other men?”
“Pardon? Oh. I must have been wool gathering. The other men… they are none of them wholesome as they seem, not even those you sent.”
“Poppycock. I’ve known them for years. I trust them.”
“I hired a runner to investigate a bit more deeply than you did. Found some surprising things. But as you know, Jane cannot be choosy. She must marry, even if the man she marries is”—he spread his palms wide, shrugged his shoulders, and hissed in a breath—“less than ideal.”
“I’d like to see that runner’s findings. I’ve a strong suspicion you’re lying.”
Edmund shrugged and opened the door. “Sorry. Private and delicate information.” He slipped into the hallway and snicked the door closed.
“Edmund!”
Edmund did not return.
“Damn.”
If a reason existed why Jane should not marry any of the suitors, George wanted to know. Jane should know, so she could make the right decision. Jane must marry, but she should not have to suffer from the consequences of her actions last season. At least, not more than she already had. She’d meant well, even if it had been a careless move. And he’d made it easy for her to be careless, careless as he’d been in his duties toward her.
He did not want Jane to suffer. At all. Ever. And that meant helping her find the right husband, making sure she chose well.
Marrying her himself… that would only lead to suffering, not prevent against it. Not that he wanted to marry Jane. The uncomfortable feeling returned, as did the dreamlike vision of a pair of soft, red lips, the phantom feeling of them pressed against his own mouth. He lifted his fingertips to lips and held his breath. Then shook away the vision and the warm, tingling feeling of rightness it brought with it.
Chapter 7
Jane winced as she crept down the hall to the dining room, where the party broke their fast each morning. The doctor had told her to sit still for a few days to let her wounds heal. What an absurd suggestion. She could no more keep herself still than George could keep himself from telling others what to do.
His commanding presence should irk her, yet it never did. She trusted him to do right by those he cared for. He was a reliable and responsible man anyone could turn to when in trouble. Jane had little of that in her life. From her mother’s death to her own bad decision-making, her life seemed always tedious turmoil, upheaval, but George was a reliable constant, a protector.
Sir George, her dependable knight in shining armor.
Even still, she’d not let him move her about like a pawn on a chessboard. Jane knew where to draw that line. Lillian and Katherine were right—she had more choices now than she had ever had before. She would not let someone else make it for her. She’d spend three days letting her suitors court her, one day per serious suitor, then make a decision. Easy.
Jane’s steps slowed as the rumble of chatter and clinking of cutlery against fine china increased. Her stomach knotted, but she pressed through the door and into the dining room.
Two men sat at the table, Lord Sharpton and Mr. Quillsby.
The former flicked his eyes to her then back to a paper spread across his knee.
The latter rose to his feet. “Lady Jane. I hope you slept well.” His gray eyes flashed in welcome, shadowed with a hint of concern. She rather liked his eyes, and that was an important bit for marriage, wasn’t it? But his hair—an indeterminate shade between brown and blond—seemed to be thinning, receding. No matter. Hair did not make the man.
