Page 69 of Regency Whispers: Scandalous Matches

‘What do you mean?’

‘It is obvious that you love Mr Stewart,’ Lucy said, as if she hadn’t just exposed Jane’s biggest secret. ‘And he loves you. All this gossip has done is speed up your engagement and wedding.’

Jane spluttered. ‘I do not love Mr Stewart.’

‘Of course you do. It is obvious in the way you look at him, the way you talk about him, the way you two share little jokes and intimate looks. You forget, I have been in love with William for a long time, Jane, much of it illicitly. I know how a woman acts when she is in love.’

‘He does not love me.’

Lucy took her hands and squeezed them in her own. ‘He loves you, Jane. He may not have admitted it to himself yet, but that man loves you.’

Jane bit her lip, wondering if there could be any truth in what Lucy was saying. Her friend was romantic, always sure that things were going to turn out for the best. She thought of their kisses, of the easy companionship they had together, the way they laughed and talked. For her, that all translated into the deep emotional connection she felt for this man—maybe it did for him too.

‘I don’t have to marry him,’ she said quietly.

‘Don’t do anything rash.’

‘I’m considering my options. I have a publisher interested in my books. I could go home to Somerset and write and draw and paint and support myself.’

‘Is that what you want?’

For the first time, she let go of any of the little lies she’d told herself, of the doubts and boundaries holding her back.

‘No,’ she said eventually. ‘I want to write and draw, but I want to do it with Tom.’

‘You have your answer, then.’

It felt like a long walk downstairs, and Jane paused on the first floor landing before starting on the final steps that would take her to her future husband. The door to the drawing room had come open a crack, and she could hear Lady Mountjoy’s voice, followed by Tom’s. She wondered what they had discussed, and whether the older woman was angry at the idea of a scandal or elated at the thought of a wedding. Knowing Lady Mountjoy, probably the latter. The countess had never shied away from a brewing scandal in the time Jane had known her, and always seemed able to twist the situation so the young couple she was championing came out on top.

‘This way will be better,’ Tom was saying, his voice clear but with a dejected note. ‘She will be my wife in name, and free to pursue whatever path she wants without me tying her down. We will both benefit. I will gain a mother figure for Edward, and she will avoid the scandal of the gossip that is circulating.’

It was as though someone had reached into her chest and ripped her heart in two. Here she was, convincing herself that Tom loved her, and all he could do was think about the practical reasons it would not be so bad to have her as his wife. Suddenly, she felt foolish and naïve. A vision of a marriage of convenience to Tom burst into her mind, with her stuck at home, pining after the husband she secretly loved whilst he continued to seek his life of pleasure.

She let out a little sob, angry with herself for almost falling for the fantasy, and devastated that she would not get the happy ending she had conjured in her mind. Clamping her hand over her mouth, she realised they must have heard her inside the drawing room. She ran, not even taking the time to grab her coat, and burst out into the street as if she were being chased by hungry wolves.

Somewhere behind her she heard Tom calling her name, but nothing would have enticed her to return in that moment. Not caring where she ended up, Jane ran, darting down streets and dodging people out for a stroll now the snow had melted. She ran until the tears had stopped falling and the sobs had left her body empty and aching. Finally, she sank down onto a bench, gasping for breath, wondering when she had let herself get so vulnerable.

Chapter Twenty-One

‘You are in a foul mood,’ Western said as he eyed Tom up and down. ‘And you look a state.’

‘Don’t be afraid to speak your mind there, Western.’

‘I’m only saying what I am seeing.’

Tom grunted and went to set up the line of plates thirty paces away. They were out in the country, an hour’s ride from central London, and so far they hadn’t seen another soul since having arrived at the spot. It was a favourite retreat of theirs, somewhere they came every few months to shoot pistols without being disturbed. Sometimes they would even talk, although Tom hoped this time they could just shoot and ruminate on their problems in silence.

He walked the thirty paces back and picked up the pistol Western had left in the case. It was a beautiful weapon, shiny and well maintained. Tom had inherited it from his father and, as much as he’d hated the old man, he had to admit he had good taste in pistols. This pair not only looked good but shot straight and were reliable, everything you wanted from a weapon.

When he was satisfied the pistol was in good working order, he loaded it and then took up his position. Western stood next to him, the other pistol in his hand, his stance identical to Tom’s.

Tom fired first, pleased to see one of the plates shatter, the pottery exploding outwards and tinkling to the ground. Western fired a moment later, also hitting a plate at the other end of the row.

‘Nice shot,’ Western commented. ‘It looked to be right in the centre of the plate. Did you know you always have the best aim when you’re angry?’

‘I’m not angry.’

Western scoffed. ‘I’ve known you a long time, Stewart. I know when you’re angry.’