Chapter One
*
Cavell Court, Dorset, February 1833
“Lord Garson has called, my lady.”
Her butler’s announcement made Lady Jane Norris look up from the huge desk in the library where once her late father, Lord Sefton, had sat to run his estates. Paper littered every surface, as she sorted through the archives. She supposed she could leave this massive task for her cousin Felix, when he took over next month. But a lingering sense of familial obligation had her determined to pass everything to the new earl in good order.
“Garson is here?” she asked, unable to hide her surprise.
Hugh Rutherford, Baron Garson, had known her since she was toddling, although in recent years, he’d rarely visited this isolated manor house in the West Country. She’d last seen him six months ago, when he attended her father’s funeral.
“Yes, my lady,” Billings said. “Are you at home to visitors this afternoon?”
“I suppose so.” Jane cast a rueful glance at her shabby gray frock, with its creases and ink stains. She wasn’t dressed to receive one of the ton’s darlings. “Did he say what he wanted?”
“I’m afraid not.”
She should change into a more suitable gown and tidy her mop of red hair before she greeted her guest. Although she was unhappily aware that whether she combed her hair or not, she remained Lord Sefton’s plain, sensible, spinster daughter.
Oh, stop feeling sorry for yourself, Jane Norris. “Would you please show his lordship into the drawing room, Billings, and say I’ll be with him presently? And perhaps arrange some refreshments.”
Once Billings had gone, instead of dashing upstairs, she stared sightlessly at an account for some bonnets for her mother. Given her mother had been dead nearly twenty years, she could safely throw it away. But she held it in front of her, as her mind raced with conjecture. Garson? Here? Why? It couldn’t be a casual call. Nobody was ever just passing. Cavell Court was out of the way, and the roads leading to it were frightful, especially during a bad winter like this one.
With a sigh, Jane rose and smoothed her hair, confined in a loose knot that she feared was more loose than knot. Her father’s habit of retaining every scrap of paper that crossed his desk frequently made her run her hands through her hair in frustration.
Once she finished with these papers, she’d completed her last duty at the estate. The task felt like some sort of rite. Felix had been nice enough to let her spend her six months of mourning in the house she’d grown up in. The reprieve gave her a chance to say goodbye to the only home she’d ever known, before she ventured into an unknown future. She also said a final farewell to the father she loved and missed, whatever his faults. For over a decade, she’d acted as his right hand, busy and purposeful. Now the time stretching before her seemed depressingly aimless.
At least Garson’s visit might distract her from the constant round of sorrow and worry. Lately she felt like she trudged through an endless mire of toil and exhaustion and grief. Lately? She’d had ten lonely years of shouldering the burdens of the estate and caring for her ill father. No wonder she was so tired, she felt like crying.
*
When Jane came downstairs again, she was in a clean gown, and her hair was scraped back into a bun. She crossed the hall to the drawing room. The watery sun lit a space crowded with heavy, old-fashioned furniture. Jane suspected the new Lady Sefton would consign most of the house’s current furnishings to the bonfire.
Standing in profile to her was Lord Garson, the son of her father’s best friend. Six years older than her. Rich. Handsome. Widely praised as the perfect gentleman.
And notorious as the most famous rejected suitor in England.
Three years ago, Garson had been on the point of marrying Morwenna Nash, a naval captain’s widow. But Robert Nash turned out to be not as dead as rumor had him, returning to disrupt the ball celebrating Garson’s betrothal. When his fiancée reunited with her husband, she left Garson very publicly nursing a broken heart.
Jane stood in the doorway and observed her childhood friend, curious to see the changes in him. He was an attractive man, with regular features and thick, coffee-brown hair. Tall, vigorous, powerful. The world was his oyster, one would imagine.
Except as he stared pensively into the fire, a melancholy air clung to him. The flames played across his chiseled features, highlighting the straight nose and square, determined lines of chin and jaw. And the grim set of his generous mouth.
When they’d spoken at her father’s funeral, Jane had been shocked at his appearance—she hadn’t seen him for a couple of years, but she’d heard about his romantic disappointment. He’d struck her then as old beyond his years. On this winter afternoon, that impression strengthened.
What a pity that he was so unhappy. She’d always liked him. A kind boy had grown up to be a nice man. He deserved better than to spend his life eating his heart out over a woman he could never have.
Watching him like this without his knowledge, she started to feel awkward, like she intruded on a private matter that was none of her
concern. She leveled her shoulders, plastered a smile to her face, and stepped into the room. “Lord Garson, what an unexpected pleasure.”
He looked up, and she watched the social mask descend over his features. The brown eyes warmed as he bowed, and the downturned lips curved into a smile. “You used to call me Hugh, Jane. Or does this mean I must call you your ladyship?”
As children, they’d seen each other often. Less often since they’d reached adulthood. Still, he was right. “Then welcome, Hugh,” she said with a curtsy. “I didn’t know you were in the neighborhood.”
Briefly that impressive jaw hardened, and a muscle flickered in his tanned cheek. He drew himself up to his full height, making Jane feel ridiculously small, although at nine inches over five feet, she wasn’t exactly tiny. “I came down to see you.”
This visit became more baffling by the minute. “Especially?”
He nodded. “Especially.”
Then in an instant, she understood, and gratitude lightened her heavy heart. “How very kind you are. I didn’t expect you to remember that I’m leaving Cavell Court.”
Billings came in with two footmen and set up the sideboard with cakes and sandwiches. There was ale for Hugh, and tea for Jane. By the time the servants had gone, Hugh was sitting in a leather chair by the fire with his long legs, encased in gleaming Hessians, extended over the faded rug. Jane perched on the window seat with a cup of tea and a cheesecake. She’d miss Mrs. Kelly, the family cook, when she left.
From habit, she added Mrs. Kelly to the long list of everything else she’d miss when she forsook her home. Then she consigned the whole lot to the dark corner, where she locked everything she endured because she had no choice to do otherwise.
When Hugh lifted his tankard for a deep drink, Jane found herself strangely fascinated with the movement of that strong throat as he swallowed. He wore a simple neck cloth, but she noticed that his clothing was more elaborate than was usual for a man in the country. That dark blue coat was a masterpiece of Savile Row tailoring, obvious even to someone as woefully out of touch with fashion as she was. Perhaps after he left her, he intended to go on somewhere else.
“Of course I remembered you had to move out,” he said, returning to their earlier conversation. “I wondered about your plans.”