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Jane’s face tightened. She had never told Marianne about their mother’s weak, whispered confession to Jane on her deathbed. Nor about the vow their mother had insisted she make to her afterwards.
A vow that she intended to keep as seriously as if she had taken holy vows.
She took another deep breath. “I have never met any man who has made me reconsider my choice, sister. I have never known what it is to fall in love.” She gave a bitter laugh. “I believe it must be a disease that I am immune to. I have never once caught it.”
Marianne sighed with frustration. “That is because you close yourself off to the possibility. You never dance. You never talk to young gentlemen, except for Charles Crawford, but you two have been friends since childhood, so he does not count. How can you be so sure you would not find one amenable and fall in love if you have never even tried?”
“Because I do,” said Jane in a stubborn voice. “And your friend has not convinced me to change my mind at all.” She took a deep breath. “Charles is the only man I like and ever shall. But he is like a brother to me.”
She felt a little shiver. There had been those brief moments when she had been dancing with Lord Carlisle last night when she had been aware of him as a man. Something in the touch of his hand upon hers. Something in those dark brown eyes of his. He was a handsome man, and she couldn’t deny she was immune to that. He had also acted gallantly to rescue her from the odious Mr Spicer.
But feeling a sliver of attraction and falling in love were two very different things entirely. And the man’s appearance here this morning, with his quite shocking pragmatic proposal, had made her reassess that attraction. The Earl of Carlisle was clearly just the same as all other gentlemen. He was arrogant and far too confident by far.
The proposal also showed her how he viewed women: as chattel, something to possess, without even knowing the person behind the face. Why else would he have proceeded to do such a thing, on such minimal acquaintance, without even a pretence of courtship?
She knew marriages of convenience happened all the time, and a lot of people of both sexes had no problem with them, but he had overstepped the mark. And he knew it, judging by the slightly shamed look upon his face when he had left. He had practically slunk out of the parlour.
Why would she give a man like that a chance? How could Marianne even suggest it?
“Being in love is a wonderful thing, dearest,” said Marianne in a gentler tone. “I have never been happier in my life than I am now with my dear Henry. Our marriage is heaven, and it saddens me to think that you do not wish to even have a taste of such happiness.”
“Do you mean like our parents’ marriage?” asked Jane in a sharp voice.
Marianne’s jaw dropped. “Whatever do you mean? Our parents loved each other dearly. Poor Papa still pines for Mama, even after all this time. If that is not a testament to the power of love and a good marriage, then I do not know what is.”
Jane bit her lip. She shouldn’t have mentioned it. Marianne still believed that their parents’ marriage had been perfect, and who was she to disillusion her? If it had shocked Jane to learn the truth, it would shock her sister as well. And Jane had no desire to rip that veil of illusion apart in front of her sister’s face. It had been bad enough when it had happened to her.
“I meant nothing,” said Jane, in a more conciliatory tone. “I am just frazzled by the events of the day. Take no notice of me, dearest.” She paused. “I know that you and Henry are happy, and you have a successful marriage, but not all are so lucky. Most do not work for one reason or another, even if they started off in love. The evidence is all around us.”
“How did you become so cynical, little sister?” asked Marianne in a sad voice. “I despair for you sometimes.” She took a deep breath. “But you know, I will not give up that you may change your mind, even if you have. The room in my home is always there if you need it, but life is full of surprises, and one never knows what is just around the corner.”
Jane shrugged. “Have it your way, sister. But I shall not change my mind. And especially not about your friend. Lucy is welcome to him.”
“He does not like ladies like our cousin,” said Marianne in a low voice. “He does not like ladies with such naked ambition. They throw themselves at his feet all the time. That is probably what intrigued him aboutyou, Sister. Because you are not like that at all.”
Jane shrugged again. She didn’t reply. She had seen the look of admiration shining in Lord Carlisle’s eyes, even after her brutal rejection of him. She knew she intrigued him, although she couldn’t work out why. It must be as Marianne claimed—it was just because she hadn’t batted her eyelashes at him and simpered all over him like the “Lucys” of this world.
But Lord Carlisle was as disinterested in love as she was. Why else would a man propose like that? Even if hewasintrigued by her. He mustn’t have a romantic bone in his body.
Idly, she wondered why. Had he been hurt in love before? Or perhaps he had a lover but could not marry her for some reason or other. Perhaps the lady was unsuitable, and he had resigned himself to a marriage of convenience. That might explain why he had been so brusque and business-like about the matter.
Furious with herself, Jane picked up her spoon, taking a sip of the now cold soup. Why was she even thinking about him? Lucywaswelcome to him. She resolved to put him out of her head entirely. At least she had sent him away with no possibility of return. She was certain of it.
Chapter 8
The next day, Percy felt restless. He was still thinking about Lady Jane and the disastrous proposal. Freddie had taken the bull by the horns and decided to call upon Miss Matilda Grey, so he was alone as he headed out. He thought a walk along the beach might help clear his mind, but before he knew it, his feet were leading him up the long, steep walk to Cliff Lodge, overlooking the sea.
As he caught his breath, he gazed at the house. It was entirely deserted, so no one knew he was loitering around. He wanted to take another look inside it. But the problem was he had given the key back to old Mr Rankin. He scratched his head. What to do?
He hesitated. He could always walk back into town and collect the key. But he was here now. Perhaps there might be an unlocked door or unlatched window he could climb in? He gazed around. He was all alone—no sign of Miss Prescott upon her horse today. He hesitated for another second before walking towards the house.
He tried the front door, but it was, of course, locked tight. The back servants’ entrance was equally secured. He ratted at various windows, not expecting much, when suddenly the large window that led to the parlour yielded to his hands.
“By Jove’s Beard,” he whispered, a thrill of excitement surging through him. “I have it!”
He pulled it up far enough so he could climb through. He had just wiggled his torso through the window, his legs dangling behind, when he heard a sharp, feminine cough just behind him.
Cursing to himself, he scrambled back out, bumping his head sharply on the window in the process. He was mortified. Who had caught him breaking into the house, like a common thief? He turned around, straightening, to find himself staring straight into the cool, sardonic green eyes of Lady Jane Metcalfe.
