The Spring Bride (16 page)

“Sell myself?” she said to Caesar. He pricked up his ears.

It was true.

“No, it's not true,” she told the dog. “It's a . . . an exchange, a bargain. Lord Cambury and I will each get what we want out of this. It's what marriage involves.”

More or less.

“Stupid, stupid man.” She wasn't talking about Lord Cambury.

She sighed. “I know—it's just as equally stupid, stupid me. Why do I feel this way? I don't want to, and yet . . .” He tempted her—too much—but they both knew he was an impossible choice.

She'd known falling in love was a reckless and dangerous thing. Jane had been certain she could prevent it happening, certain she could make herself fall in love with whomever she married. Or at least learn to love him. People did it all the time—made sensible marriages with nothing more between them than respect and goodwill. And then, after marriage, they came to love each other. Learned to love each other.

It was a much more sensible and prudent way to build a secure and contented life. And Jane had planned to be just exactly that kind of sensible.

Instead, she was letting herself think—and dream—far too much about someone who was nothing like the kind of man she should marry. Simply because the mere sight of him walking toward her made her whole body tingle, as if champagne were fizzing gently under her skin.

She'd been playing with fire, and if she'd been burned, well . . . it served her right. All he had to do was look at her, and she became ever so slightly breathless. How could it happen, that simply walking and talking with someone in a park could make her feel so . . . alive? When she was with him, listening to his stories, laughing at his mischief, walking beside him as he matched his pace to hers, happiness just seemed to bubble up inside her, like a mountain spring of clear, cool water, endlessly bubbling.

Foolishly bubbling, when all she wanted to do was laugh and twirl and dance and be happy. Because that was how being with him made her feel.

But it was impossible. Utterly, hopelessly impossible.

She
knew
it was an illusion, that life wasn't like that. Fairy-tale happy endings didn't happen to everyone—certainly not Jane. She needed to be sensible . . . And to grow up.

Daisy had been right.
You'll find the most impossible, unsuitable bloke in the
ton
and fall for 'im like a ton o' bricks
.

Only he wasn't even a member of the
ton
. “Hopeless,” she muttered.

“Be clear on this; it's marriage I'm talking about.”

Caesar gave her a reproachful look. “Don't look at me like that,” she told him. “I know you think he's wonderful, but you're just as dizzy-brained and undiscriminating as I am. But don't worry, I will not let us suffer for my lack of judgment.”

The dog nudged her hand and she resumed brushing, telling him severely, “I will
not
live in a gypsy wagon, cooking over an open fire, raising my children in the mud and endlessly traipsing around the world.”

And yet . . . the way he looked at her, the way he bent his head toward her and listened—really listened, as if what she had to say was worth hearing. As if he cared what she thought and felt . . .

And she could not deny the appeal of his big, lean body; his deep voice; his strong, brown, long-fingered hands, so capable of delivering swift, brutal justice, and yet so gentle with her. And with Caesar.

And when he smiled that slow smile . . .

But he was stupid and arrogant and blind and interfering, she reminded herself crossly. And impossible!

My father beat me savagely . . .

Was that why he wandered, homeless, rootless, alone?

Stop it. There was no point wondering, she told herself crossly. She'd told him she never wanted to see him again.

Be careful what you wish for.

She wanted him to go—she did. She didn't need the . . . the torment.

Torment?
What nonsense. He was simply not possible and that was that.

But would he stay away?

“Doubtful,” she told Caesar, giving him a last sweep of the brush. “He never has before. Though now he knows I'm betrothed . . .” She put the brush away. “Perhaps I'll get William to walk you for the next few days, just to be on the safe side.”

She had a future to think of, one that didn't contain any tall, dark man with piercing silver-green eyes. She had to put him right out of her mind. “And I will,” she told the dog. “He was just a passing fancy. He means nothing to me. Or to you, do you hear me?” Feeling better for the decision, she refilled Caesar's water bowl, gave him a last pat and hurried upstairs to the sewing room.

She found Daisy sitting cross-legged in the window seat, sewing on beads and singing softly under her breath:

“
Oh, what care I for my house and my land?

What care I for my money-oh?

What care I for my new wedded lord?

I'm off with the raggle-taggle gypsy-oh.”

“Stop it, Daisy!”

Daisy looked up in surprise. “Stop what?”

“That song.”

“What s—oh.” Daisy grinned as she recalled what she'd
been singing. “Bit close to the bone, is it?” And then she saw Jane's expression and sobered instantly. “Oh, no. Like that, is it, lovie?”

“N-no,” Jane said, but her voice wobbled.

Daisy put her sewing aside, slipped off the seat and fetched Jane a handkerchief. “Oh, lovie, I knew this would happen. You always were too softhearted and apt to take in strays.”

“He's not a s-s-stray.”

Daisy sighed. “I know. But he might as well be; you can't pin a gypsy down. And when he's tall and dark and too good-lookin' for his own good . . . the big 'andsome rat. What's he done?”

“I . . . I told him I never wanted to see him again.”

Daisy slid an arm around Jane's waist. “It's prob'ly for the best then, i'n' it?”

“I know.” The tears she'd been fighting spilled down her cheeks and she scrubbed them vigorously away with the handkerchief. “I won't cry over him, I won't.”

“That's the spirit, lovie. No fella's worth cryin' over.”

“He's arrogant and irritating and interfering.”

“That he is,” Daisy agreed, who'd never even spoken to him.

“I hope I never see him again.”

“Good,” Daisy said briskly. “Now go and wash your face—and your 'ands and under your nails if you've been petting that bloomin' dog—and then come back. We got a few hours yet before you need to get ready for the ball. You can hem or do a seam.”

Jane stared at her a moment, then gave a tremulous laugh and hugged her. “Oh, Daisy, you are wonderful. Always so down-to-earth and practical.”

Daisy grinned. “Got to be. If I don't look after me, nobody else will.”

It was a timely reminder, Jane thought as she went to wash her hands and face.

The lady in that song, oh, no doubt she'd be happy with her gypsy the first few weeks or even months, but when the first baby came along . . . what then? She'd regret the loss of her fine feather bed and her house then. Babies needed to be warm and dry. And safe.

*   *   *

Z
ach trudged through the streets, oblivious of all that surrounded him, his thoughts in turmoil. She was marrying a dreary little fat bore for money. For money!

And fool that he was, he'd said she was selling herself. And though he hadn't meant it that way, it was true.

She was cold-bloodedly selling herself—albeit in marriage—for money. And he couldn't blame her.

She'd known cold, known
hunger
, for God's sake—a child of the
ton
—and had known
what it is to have nowhere safe to sleep at night.

When? How? Why?

What the hell had happened that had made a sweet-natured, warm, generous, well-connected beauty think she had nothing but her face to recommend her? Think she had to marry for money?

When she was clearly yearning for . . . something more.

He thought of the way she'd gazed at those children, the way her eyes softened.

Grow up
, she'd said. And she'd made the most grown-up decision of all. He supposed he couldn't fault her for knowing what she wanted.
The opportunity to make the kind of marriage that will secure my future—mine and any children I might have.

Aye, that was it—safety, security and children. And a home.

He couldn't blame her. That's what women did—nest. Turn houses into homes. Raise children. Keep them safe.

Zach paced along, unseeing. Jane Chance knew exactly what she wanted out of life. It was more than he knew.

What did he want? He could only think of one thing: Jane Chance.

And if he was to have any chance of getting her, he had to
grow up
!

What a thrice-damned fool he'd been! What had he offered her so far to tempt her away from her well-heeled, fat, little, titled bore? A few hours' dalliance—conversation in a public park—with a scruffy, down-at-heels gypsy. What a temptation that was!

She wanted to make something of her life, something worthwhile—to build a life better than . . . whatever she'd experienced in her past.

And what had he been doing? Drifting. Playing games, as he
had for the last eight years. He'd always enjoyed it, the pitting of his wits against others, slipping from one identity into another, and the risks—the risks had been a big part of the fun of it.

Oh, they were serious games, on His Majesty's business and under Gil's sober direction, but still, what had he achieved? More important, what did the future hold? The gathering of intelligence was important, but was it of such importance now that the war was over? Wasn't it rather a . . . shabby occupation now that the lines were not so clearly drawn?

The Hungarian affair had left a sour taste in his mouth, to be sure. He'd done what was asked, and done it well, with his usual flair. But people's lives would be ruined by the contents of the documents he'd brought to England, people he knew . . . and some he even liked.

He wasn't convinced that his government had any business interfering with the political affairs of another country. It would go on regardless, he knew, but did he have to be part of it?

Twelve years out of England, eight of them working for his government in secret . . . Did he really want to continue living this way, living in the shadows, changing his name, his identity, his appearance whenever the situation warranted it, and moving on, always moving on? Connecting with no one?

He thought of the women he'd lain with. A series of temporary liaisons. He'd always kept women at a distance; emotional connections were dangerous in his business, and he'd made a point of avoiding the kind of women who wanted anything other than his body for a short time. He'd always kept it light—a practical exchange, a convenient coupling, a passing fancy. Nothing serious.

He thought of a pair of wide blue eyes, as clear as a Greek summer sky, and a smile that was like morning sunshine dancing on water.

He was twenty-eight. The dirty little secrets of foreign governments would always be there for the ferreting out, would always provide work for such as he. He could go on for years like that if he had to.

But he didn't have to anymore. He couldn't wipe away the dark years of the past, couldn't remove the stains of the things he'd done—you can't turn the clock back—but a fresh start? Maybe.

He might not have a home to offer her, but he had a house.

It was a beginning. The question was, what shape was that house in? And could he build a future out of it? A future that might tempt a girl bent on marrying for money?

*   *   *

A
t breakfast the next morning, Gil pointed to a paragraph in the
Morning Post
. “It's official.”

Zach glanced at it and gave a curt nod. The announcement of the betrothal of Miss Jane Chance to Lord Cambury. “I know.”

“Word is, they plan to marry before the end of the season,” Gil said. “Spring wedding and all that.”

Zach grunted. He didn't want to think of it. “I'm going out of town for a few days,” he told Gil.

Gil frowned slightly. “To Wales?”

“No. Waste of time. Cecily will be on her way to London by now. I'd probably pass them on the road and not even know it. I'm going down to take a look at Wainfleet. See what needs to be done. What?” he added, catching Gil's surprised expression. “I have responsibilities, you know.”

“I know. Just didn't expect you'd be embracing them so quickly.”

“Well, I am. It's time I grew up.”

There was a short pause, then Gil said, “And if you're recognized?”

“It won't be an official visit; I just plan to sniff around quietly, get a sense of how things are going.”

He rose from the table. “I'll be back in a couple of days. If Cecily arrives in London before I return, will you look after her?”

Gil agreed, and Zach took himself off to pack. He sent a note to the lawyer, instructing him to deal with Gil in Zach's absence, and headed out of London.

It would take him less than a day to reach Wainfleet. It was raining, so he hired a yellow bounder for most of the way, intending to stay at the local inn and hire a horse for the last few miles. And to explore.

Sitting for long hours in the chaise gave him plenty of time for reflection.

He'd thought her pampered and spoiled, sheltered from the harshness of life, and her revelations had shocked him. That she'd known hunger, and cold . . . And had had nowhere safe
to sleep?
Safe to sleep?
His imagination turned over possibilities, each one more disturbing than the last.

She'd seemed so . . . innocent.