The Spring Bride (12 page)

Her neck ached with the effort not to turn her head and look, gaze, stare her fill of him.

The trouble was, he was beautiful. The faint tan of his skin, unfashionable as it was, only made the contrast of his white teeth and brilliant silvery eyes stronger, and the dark slash of his brows, the high, angled cheekbones, and the dark, bristle-roughened jaw . . . She felt her hand closing in a fist. She longed to stroke that jaw, feel the roughness under her palms, feel the hard line of his jaw beneath.

As for his mouth, framed by that dark roughness, the way he smiled was a pure invitation to sin . . . He could have been created by Michelangelo or Machiavelli or some other brilliant and scandalous Italian. And she needed to remember that.

He was dangerous. Associating with him was like playing with fire.

Such a relief that he was quite, quite impossible. And that she was safely betrothed.

His gleaming, brilliant gaze dropped to her mouth and it
was as tangible as a touch. Her lips tingled. She felt her face warming.

William cleared his throat in a meaningful manner, and Jane glanced at him and realized they'd done two complete circuits of the square. “I'd better go now,” she told Zachary Black. “I have a lesson to attend.”

A dark brow rose. “More lessons?”

She nodded. “You have no idea how many things there are to learn for my season. Thank you so much for Caesar's basket. I'm sure he's very grateful—or will be tonight when he sleeps in it.”

He bent and patted the dog. “I'm not sure gratitude is even in his vocabulary, though it ought to be. But joy certainly is, isn't it, you rascal?” he added as Caesar grinned his crooked, sloppy grin and wagged his entire body in delight.

They said their good-byes. He made no further suggestion about any future meeting, and Jane, of course, was not so far gone to impropriety as to suggest one.

Besides, she hadn't flirted with him at all. Apart from a few unruly and quite inappropriate thoughts, she'd only talked to him, as if she'd known him forever.

The mere habit of learning to love is the thing; and a teachableness of disposition in a young lady is a great blessing.

—JANE AUSTEN,
NORTHANGER ABBEY

“N
o, no, no!” Lady Beatrice rapped her ebony stick on the floor. “Don't bob up and down like a dratted maidservant! You're not concentrating. Slow and graceful, Jane, how often must I remind you?”

Jane, Damaris and Abby were assembled in the front drawing room of Lady Beatrice's house, practicing their curtsies. Daisy sat on the sidelines ostentatiously sewing.

Now that Abby and Damaris were back in London, almost every morning had been devoted to lessons in deportment, lessons in how to behave in every conceivable situation—and after that, dancing lessons. Though Jane, Abby and Damaris had been gently born, and spoke and behaved as ladies should, none of them had grown up in a gentleman's residence, or had what Lady Beatrice considered an acceptable upbringing.

And none of them were up-to-date with the dancing, though Abby and Jane knew some of the country dances.

As for Daisy, for reasons of her own, Lady Beatrice insisted she attend the lessons too, even though Daisy declared loudly and often that it was a waste of her precious time, she wasn't makin' a blasted come-out, and she had sewin' to do.

Having longed for daughters all her life, Lady Beatrice was
determined that nobody—not the highest stickler in the land—would have any excuse even to glance sideways at her beloved nieces. They would, each one of them, shine. Even Daisy.

So she drilled them all like soldiers.

“Watch your sisters. Abby! Damaris!” She rapped her stick on the floor and first Abby, then Damaris walked to the middle of the floor and sank into a slow, graceful curtsy.

The old lady snorted. “See, Jane? Perfect. Daisy, you next.”

Daisy looked mutinous. “Why should I? I ain't going to make any grand come-out so why should I make a fool of meself pretending?”

It was her bad leg making her self-conscious, of course, but in this, Lady Beatrice was adamant. “Your intentions are neither here nor there—no niece of mine will leave my house less than perfectly trained—for whatever she might encounter.”

Daisy opened her mouth to argue, but the old lady flapped her hand in irritation. “Yes, yes, yes, I know you intend to become the most fashionable dressmaker in the
ton
, and I approve, even if it is
in trade
.” She wrinkled her nose briefly. “
But
I have yet to hear why that exempts you from knowing what any lady should—and if you try and tell me one more time that you
ain't no lady
”—she imitated Daisy's accent so well that it set the others giggling—“I'll—I'll smack you, Daisy! Now, I asked you to curtsy, miss, so get on with it.”

With a very bad grace, Daisy put her sewing aside, stomped into the middle of the room and sank into a slow curtsy. The old lady watched her with a critical eye and nodded. “Excellent. See that, Jane? And Daisy has a bad leg to match her bad mood. Now, your turn again.”

Jane sank once more toward the floor.

“Slowly, child, slowly! And don't bounce up!”

Jane skipped across the room to bestow a hug on the old lady. “I promise you I'll be perfect on the day, dearest Lady Beatrice. I'm just so excited. It's my dream, you see—doing what Mama did—making my come-out, dancing and going to parties, just as Mama did.”

Abby smiled. “She used to make me tell her Mama's stories over and over again.”

Jane nodded vigorously. “And even after Abby left the Pill,
I used to dream of making my come-out, just like Mama. Being Cinderella.”

“Cinder
ella
?” Frowning, Lady Beatrice raised her lorgnette. “You mean that gel who went around with no shoes, dirtying her feet in the cinders of the fire? You used to dream of being
her
?” She sounded appalled.

“Yes,” Jane said sunnily. “And you're my fairy godmother.”

“I am
not
!” Lady Beatrice declared, revolted. “I would
never
drive around in a pumpkin pulled by rats or whatever horrid creatures they were. It's a vile notion, quite disgusting. As for the woman's choice of footwear—ridiculous! What use, pray, is a
glass
slipper? Cold, inconvenient and dashed uncomfortable, I'll be bound. No flexibility in glass, you see, so the gel—even if she was used to wearing shoes at all, which she wasn't—would be clumping all over the dance floor like a clumsy dratted elephant.”

She pondered the stupidity of glass slippers, and snorted. “Ridiculous! Only use for a glass slipper would be for a gentleman to drink champagne from.” She sighed reminiscently. “Did I ever tell you about the time the Duke of—” She broke off, recalling her company, and cleared her throat. “What are you all standing about grinning for? Jane, again, if you please.”

“You're quite right.” Jane, laughing, bent to kiss the old lady again on her powdered cheek. “You, my darling Lady Beatrice, are better than any fairy godmother could
ever
be.”

Lady Beatrice, deeply pleased but determined not to show it, gave a sniff and said gruffly, “Well, this Cinderella won't be going to the ball unless she learns to curtsy better than that. And stop twirling like that, you're making me quite dizzy.”

Jane laughed, and gave a last happy twirl. “I know, I'm just enjoying myself.”

“Get away with you, gel. It's not my lessons that have you in alt—it's that dratted animal you saw fit to bring home. You're in a hurry to get back to it, I know—why, I don't know, for it's the ugliest creature I've seen in all my life.”

“I know, but he has a beautiful nature. And you're right, I am a little worried about leaving him shut in downstairs.” She gave the old lady a guilty look. “I'm not sure if he's housetrai—er, used to living in a house yet.”

Lady Beatrice shuddered, and flapped her hand in a long-suffering manner. “Go on then, I can see I'm not going to get a bit of sense out of you. Ring that bell on your way out, and tell Featherby to bring tea for your sisters and me. And mind you don't get muddy paw prints or dog hairs on that dress. It was once my favorite, even if has been made over.” She shot a dark look at Daisy.

“As you wish, my lady,” Jane said and gave her a deep, slow, utterly perfect curtsy, then bounced up and danced across the room to tug on the bellpull.

“Hah! See, you
can
do it, you wretched gel! Only don't! Bounce! Afterward!” With each word, Lady Beatrice banged the floor with her ebony stick.

As Jane reached the door, the old lady called, “And don't be late for your dancing lesson. Half an hour until that little Frenchman comes!”

“Wouldn't miss him for the world.” Jane blew her a kiss and hurried away.

Sinking back in her seat, Lady Beatrice sighed. “I'm too old for this.” She rolled her eyes in a long-suffering way that deceived nobody. She was enjoying herself hugely.

“Where are you going, missy?” she demanded, spotting Daisy hurrying toward the door.

“I ain't got time to sit around drinkin' tea. I got sewing to do.”

“You work too hard,” Lady Beatrice told her. “You're looking quite worn, my dear.”

Daisy shot her an incredulous look. “Dun't matter what I look like, does it? Them clothes won't sew themselves. 'Specially when I got to waste time making curtsies.”

“
Those
clothes,” Lady Beatrice, Abby and Damaris said together.

“That's right. And this is me chance in a lifetime to make somefing of meself, and I don't aim to waste it.” She opened the door, where Featherby, the butler, was about to enter. He stood back to let Daisy pass through the door first.

“You'll be back here for the dancing lesson, Daisy,” Lady Beatrice reminded her in a firm voice.

Daisy turned around. “Why do I have to learn to dance?”
she said, exasperated. “I ain't going to any of those toff balls—I don't want to go to them—and I got work to do!”

“You still need to learn,” Lady Beatrice insisted. “Every lady should be able to dance.”

“Yeah, but I ain't no—” Daisy stopped, remembering the old lady's earlier threat. “Wiv a gammy leg like mine, there's no point in me even trying to dance.”

“There is a point, even if you don't see it,” the old lady said austerely. “You will oblige me in this, Daisy. Thirty minutes. And if you ‘forget,' Featherby will send William to fetch you.” She glanced at Featherby, who bowed slightly in acknowledgment of what they all recognized as an order.

“All right, but it's a waste of my precious bloomin' time,” Daisy grumbled and stumped off. She hurried to the bedchamber she shared with Jane, and found her struggling out of her dress.

“'Ere, let me.” She started undoing the hooks at the back. “The old girl still wants me to go to them dratted dancing lessons. Talk her out of it, can't you, Jane? What do I want with dancing? She knows I don't want to be no fancy society lady—I just want to make dresses for them.”

Jane stepped out of the dress, and shook it out. It really was very pretty. “Abby already tried yesterday after you argued last time, and if Abby can't change her mind . . . She won't be budged on it, I'm afraid.”

Daisy muttered something rude under her breath. She tossed the dress over Jane's head and nimbly did it up. She tugged it straight, glanced at Jane in the looking glass and said slyly, “That big handsome gypsy fellow—you met him this morning, din't you?”

“Who?” Feeling Daisy's shrewd gaze on her, she added airily, “Oh, him. As it happens, I did bump into him in the park. Purest coincidence.”

Daisy laughed. “Coincidence, my foot. That's why you was all flushed and excited—nothing to do with being Cinderella.”

Jane felt herself redden. “It was. And I wasn't. It was . . . nothing.” She tried to look as disinterested as possible.

Daisy quirked a skeptical brow. “So you never talked to him. Just saw him at a distance, eh?”

“He brought m—brought Caesar a basket to sleep in. It was only polite to thank him.”

“Politeness again, is it?”

“Well, it w—”

Daisy snickered. “Admit it, lovey—you fancy him.”

“Oh, very well, yes, maybe I do. A little. Did. But you're the one who said it was only natural to admire a well-made man. And that's all it is. Was.” It was all it could be—and a very good thing. A man like Zachary Black could never fit into her plans.

Daisy held her hands up. “Don't mind me. I don't blame you, he's a good-looking feller all right. But you don't know nothing about him, Jane, so you need to be a bit careful. Are you goin' to meet him again?”

“No of course not. I doubt I'll ever see him again.” Which was, Jane admitted privately, a very good thing. Probably. “Now, I really must check on Caesar.”

*   *   *

“S
o what did you do today?” Gil asked, but a moment later his manservant brought in dinner—roast beef, mashed potatoes and gravy from the inn around the corner again—and conversation lapsed for a while.

Gil had decided that shabby clothing aside, it would be unwise for Zach to dine at his club. There were men there who might recognize him, men they'd been at school with. And if his cousin got word of Zach's arrival, he'd no doubt stir up trouble.

“And it would be wise,” Gil added, knowing Zach of old, “not to antagonize Gerald until the murder charge has been dealt with.”

Zach laughed at his friend's minatory expression. “Don't worry,” he assured him. “I have no desire to see Gerald or any of the fellows we went to school with. This beef is very good. It's been a long time since I've enjoyed good, plain English fare.” Zach addressed himself to his dinner again.

“So did you visit my tailor today?” Gil asked after a while.

“No, I'll go tomorrow. Might order a few things.”

“A few?” Gil shot him a surprised glance. “But I thought . . .”

Zach sipped his wine. “Been a while since I had anything new. Nice drop, this burgundy. Very soft.”

There was a long pause. He could feel Gil's gaze narrowed on him. “It's that girl, isn't it? The Chance chit.”

Zach gave him an innocent look and gestured to his shabby clothing. “Don't you agree I need better clothes? Your manservant certainly does.”

Gil didn't rise to the bait. “You went back to Berkeley Square, didn't you?”

“Briefly. Just wanted to check that she was going to be able to keep the dog.” At Gil's expression, he added, “I felt responsible. You know I've always been fond of animals.”

“And is she?”

“Is she what?”

“Keeping it.”

“Yes.”

“Good, then you'll have no further reason to go back into an area where, of all of London outside my club, you're most likely to be recognized.”