“I’m too nervous to sit down and be ladylike.”
“Yet you must.”
“I would like to see them arrive.”
She had an unreasonable fear that the Lord Townsend she remembered was not the one who had proposed marriage to her. In fact, the past few days, the trip to London, even preparing for this meeting carried an air of unreality. How could it be?
Then a fine, gilded carriage with the Duke of Lockridge’s crest upon the side turned into the front drive, and she jerked back from the window, knowing there was no mistake.
“They are here,” she said.
It was a task to sit and compose herself, knowing her future husband was about to walk into the family’s opulent parlor. Indeed, her father’s house was one of the loveliest in town, spacious and sprawling, done up in a timeless, elegant fashion. There was no worry the Lockridge contingent, or Lord Townsend, might find the Mayhew family wanting.
No, it was only her he might find wanting.
Jane curled her toes in her pale blue slippers and straightened her spine, and tried to relax her expression so she might be able to smile—delicately, of course—when their guests were announced at the door. But when they were finally announced, minutes later, her whole face seemed to go numb.
The Duke and Duchess of Lockridge entered first. Townsend’s father was tall and dark-haired like him, and his mother voluptuously beautiful in an emerald green visiting frock with pearl buttons and lace.
Why had Jane worn toile? Why couldn’t she have shining honey-colored hair like Lord Townsend’s mother rather than the orange straw she’d been cursed with?
Lord Townsend entered behind them, along with his sister. She could sense him there, could sense his great height and presence, but could not summon the courage to look at him yet. First she went with her parents to greet his parents. The duchess reached out and took Jane’s hands, with a smile so warm and sincere that Jane’s face unfroze enough to return it.
“This must be the young lady my son has told us about,” she said to Jane’s parents. “How wonderful it is to meet you, Lady Jane. Look at your beautiful frock. Toile is my favorite, and the blue perfectly suits the shade of your hair.”
“Thank you, Your Grace.” The knot in Jane’s stomach eased at the woman’s kind words. She offered her hand to the duke, then greeted Lady Rosalind. After that, there was nothing to do but turn to Lord Townsend as his father introduced them.
She watched this stranger—her fiancé—as he acknowledged her parents first. Yes, he was the same dauntingly handsome man she’d seen at the balls last season, the ones he’d deigned to attend, at any rate. Up close, he was even more striking. His hair was glossy black and full, his lips well-formed, and his nose straight and aristocratic. His eyes were large and wide set, framed by strong brows and dark lashes. When he turned them on her, she felt caught beneath a spell. And their color…
My goodness. Lord Townsend’s eyes were the same color she saw each time she looked in the mirror. Jane had always been at a loss to describe the exact color of her eyes. They were mostly brown, but slightly gold and amber as well, a strange, in-between color she’d never seen on anyone else.
Until now.
She realized she’d been staring and offered her hand. His fingers seemed huge. Even with their gloves between them, his grip felt strong and affecting, and she felt a twinge of excitement to be touching him at last.
But she was not smiling. Goodness, she’d forgotten to smile. She tried to force a quick smile and it came out crooked, and those eyes so like her own regarded her with a veiled scrutiny that made her want to run away and hide. He barely smiled either. He had a reserved manner at odds with the easiness of his parents.
“Won’t you sit and join us for tea?” Her mother turned about, directing the guests to various chairs, making sure to seat Lord Townsend in the armchair adjacent to Jane’s. “It’s so pleasant to have visitors in the winter, when it’s so quiet in town.”
“Indeed, most of our friends have left for their country homes.”
While the parents spoke of niceties, and Mrs. Barton and her parlor maids distributed tea and cakes, Jane was hotly aware of Lord Townsend sitting mere feet from her. He bore little resemblance to his sister, Rosalind. She looked more like her mother, her hair a shining golden brown, while Townsend clearly took after his father. Jane remembered, though, that Lord Townsend had an older sister who was as striking and dark as he, who had married an Italian prince. It had been the talk of society when it happened. Jane had been young then, perhaps seven or eight years old, beguiled by fantasies of becoming a princess.