What the hell was he doing? His goal was in sight, his task nearly complete, and yet… and yet the thought of leaving Jane in a loveless marriage opened up a yawning, dark crevice before him. If he could make sure she made the right choice, one that helped her overcome her fears of softer emotions, perhaps he could build a bridge across it and leave her behind him for good, in a better place, a safer place filled with love not fear.
Chapter 13
George inhaled the chill winter air and shrugged deeper into his great coat. The cold air helped clear his head so he could focus. He tapped the letter on the table and closed his eyes. Never had he read words that had given him such hope. He opened the letter and read it for the tenth time.
George, dear brother,
I do apologize for the late response to your missive, but things have been rather hectic and astonishing here. Dr. Abbott’s treatment appears to be working. Uncle Neville is down to half his usual dose. Half! He does not, of course, know his dosage has been lightened incrementally. The doctor says it must be that way. And he’s quite the grouch. But George, if we can get him this far, surely, we can cure him of his need for the drug forever. Do stay and mend at Whitwood. Do not worry about us. Everything is going much smoother than I ever would have expected.
–Martha.
He wanted to laugh. Hell, he wanted to dance a jig. His uncle’s condition was improving, his reliance on opium abating. Barely believable, that. George could handle a grouch. He could bring Jane into a home with a grouch. His smile broadened into a wide, uncontrollable grin.
Jane. No other name had presented itself with the unfamiliar surge of hope Martha’s letter had brought. Last night, he’d determined to deny his desires in order to leave Jane to a safer man and a happier life.
But if George could offer safety and happiness…
Then he wanted her for his own. He’d run from the notion for some time now. Since seeing her in London for the first time. No, longer than that. Since he’d visited Edmund after their mother’s death and found Jane trying to fill the void of a lost mother, with music on a harp she was horrible at playing.
But he’d dared not register his want as want then, not when there had been no possibility of having her.
Now? Perhaps he could have her. He could at least try. It made him want to grin, and though he’d smiled much over his life, he’d very seldom wanted to. Usually, only when he was with Jane.
The need to have her clutched him so strongly sometimes, he thought it would consume him.
He didnotparticipate in things that consumed him. He didnotlose control. He did notlikelosing control. Men responsible for others should never lose control.
Jane was like one of those whirlwinds you'd read about in the Americas, dropping out of the sky and wreaking havoc in his heart. The thought of giving into her, giving into his feelings, made his head pound and his palms sweat. She was a drug, and he wanted to lose his senses in her, to feel the euphoria of her lips on his skin.
He would not.
He twisted toward the door, tapped his foot beneath the table, and drummed his fingers on the top of it. He turned back around with a grunt and downed a cup of coffee. It burned his throat as a cutting breeze froze his skin.
“In the garden? You are an odd one, George. Now I must be not only tired but cold.”
George lifted his head. Jane stood nearby, wearing a dark blue pelisse with gold fastenings. Her hair tumbled down her back and over… two…? shawls. She wore a furry hat of some sort, pulled low over her ears. Her hands were stuffed into a similarly furry muff. She looked snug as could be, but her cheeks already flamed red from the cold.
“Come. Sit,” he said, standing and ushering her into a seat at the small table. He picked up a blanket folded in the seat and shook it out. She sat, and he wrapped it round her shoulders.
“What is this?” she asked, a laugh on her lips. She pulled the blanket close around her. “I’ll be warm in no time. Thank you.”
“I thought you might like it. I see I was wrong. I enjoy the bracing cold.” And he’d needed the chill air to cool his desires. Meeting with her anywhere warm and even remotely soft would do him in. “But not many people do.”
She pulled the blanket tighter and snuggled into it.
“I'll request more coffee.” He strode across the garden and spoke to a footman who stood just inside the house. He strode back and sat himself. “It will arrive shortly.”
“Mmm,” she said, the blanket covering the bottom half of her face.
She hid her lips. But he knew they were there, warm and inviting.
“I like the cold,” he blurted out, feeling suddenly awkward.
“I do, too.” He could not see her mouth—confound it—but he knew she smiled. Her eyes gleamed. “In small amounts. While I'm moving.”
“Usually I'm moving, too. I'm tired of being cooped up inside, though.”
“How's your headache?”