He closed his eyes against the sting of her words, and the warmth of her body disappeared, the coach creaked, then rumbled forward. Only when silence reigned on the street did George finally open his eyes.
He should have stepped into the coach and rode off with her. But he had responsibilities.
The sun would begin to climb the sky soon. A new day dawned, but it seemed like a never-ending night approached.
Hence is’t, that I am carried towards the West
This day, when my Soules forme bends toward the East.
Ha. Donne always knows the right words. He wanted to tell Jane so. He wanted to see her roll her pretty, dark eyes and call Donne a cad.
But he’d sent her away.
He slouched back into his house, ringing with quiet now instead of screams. He rubbed his palms down his face as he returned to his bedroom. He should try to sleep.
Not a few hours ago, he’d been happier than ever before, determined to face the dangers of life with Jane by his side.
And now… he laughed, a delirious sound, even to his own ears.
“God, I need sleep.”
He crawled into his bed. It smelled of Jane, so he rolled into the pillow and inhaled deeply.
She’d seen the worst tonight and come through it fine. Worried for him.For him. Ha!
His arms ached for her. His heart froze and shivered without her heat. He lay, wanting, unable to sleep, and finally slung his legs over the bed’s edge. No matter. This tiredness would remain no matter how many hours his body lay unconscious. He felt an exhaustion born from years of vigilance, caution, and care.
He still wore his trousers and had put a shirt on at some point. When? He rang a bell.
Mr. Fox appeared with a short rap on the door. “How can I be of service, my lord?”
“I would like to dress for the day.” He needed the distraction of a light-hearted fellow like his valet. “I know it is early, but I...” He had nothing more to say. Better to let the young man talk and chatter on.
“Yes, my lord. I am ever ready.” Mr. Fox bustled about the room, ordering the washbasin and shaving tools. He chatted merrily, scratched the sharp blade down George’s cheeks and dressed him so sharply no one would be able to tell how sleepless and troubled George’s night had been.
“Excellent work,” George said, staring at his reflection.He looked the very picture of control. Nothing about his person was amiss, even though his mind was a tangle.
But he’d set that right in good time. He’d always been the one to bring order out of chaos.
Why then, did it not offer its usual succor? Why did it feel like staring into an empty, eternal abyss filled with more of the same damn thing?
Chapter 25
Jane studied the letter she’d spent the last half hour writing. It sat on the large, elegant table in the Clarke’s parlor as conspicuously as a skunk in a ballroom. She blushed to think of what she’d boldly written on its pages. The innocence of black ink on cream paper revealed lust-red depictions of Jane’s dreams the night before. They had all featured George, naturally, and she’d described every detail she remembered.
She would ball it up, throw it away. He would not welcome such an epistle, and she’d not meant to write one. She’d started by revealing her plans to travel home, her sorrow over how their final night had ended, and well wishes for Neville. She would return to Whitwood, and George could return to his widows, and they could both forget what had flared briefly between them.
She’d written all that, but then… what had escaped her pen had been something quite different. Loving someone was odd. One moment, your heart felt like it would never recover, and the next, your mind felt like it would only ever replay torrid scenes of passionate abandon. None of it was quite comfortable. She’d been right after all. Fall in love. Get hurt. The two went hand in hand.
And like loving and hurting, the letter seemed a conflicting thing, half goodbye and half seduction.
She should hate George for convincing her to love, but she could only feel sorrow for the man. His hurt ran decades deep. His body had trembled, and his eyes had been those of a terrified child their last night together. She wanted to help him, ease his self-imposed loneliness, locate a solution to the enigma of Uncle Neville.
Perhaps if she understood the phantom need that gripped Neville so, she would understand how to help. Like knowing how a man enjoyed chatter in the morning would help you find him the perfect valet.
She peeked over her shoulder at Lillian, curled up in a nearby chair and studying a copy ofLa Belle Assemble. Lillian held no interest in Jane’s letter, but it still felt like she could read every word.
Clanks and bangs erupted, seemingly, from every wall around them. They’d come in spurts all day long and half into the night since they’d arrived in London at the Clarkes’ townhouse three days ago. Lillian’s father’s cleverness was the loud kind, apparently.
