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Jane’s eyes filled with tears. Her papa was such a dear man. If only it were as simple as that. But it wasn’t, and she could never tell him the truth.
“You sound as if you want to get rid of me,” she said, forcing a smile onto her face. “If I did not know any better, I would think you want me to leave you and live alone.”
He laughed softly. “Oh, I would miss you, of course, my dear. Terribly. But I would be a selfish person indeed—and a shocking father—if I insisted that you sacrifice your personal happiness and chance to have a family of your own for me.”
“There is nothing to sacrifice,” she said, trying to make her voice sound as light as possible. “I am not in love, nor am I ever likely to be. I am content with my life as a spinster.”
But as the declaration left her mouth, she knew it was a lie. She wasn’t happy any longer with her life as a spinster. And shewasfalling in love. It was the only explanation for how she had been feeling and acting since the Earl of Carlisle had arrived in Seaborne. She had never felt or acted in such a way before.
Even the way she was dressing had changed. She wanted to be pretty for him. She had spurned her usual plain ball gown this evening for one that was beautiful. A pale pink silk gown with fine, intricate embroidery along the bodice. The gown had belonged to Marianne, and her sister had gifted it to her last Season, claiming she had too many gowns. Jane had never worn it before.
But she had seen it hanging in her wardrobe when she had been dressing for the evening and reached out to stroke it. The silk was as light as gossamer, and it was such a beautiful colour. Suddenly, she had longed to wear it. She wanted Lord Carlisle to see her in it. It was as simple as that.
She had wanted to wear the shell brooch he had given her, as well, but knew she would anger Lucy. As it was, her cousin had stared at her sourly when she had descended the staircase.
“You cannot make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear, you know, Jane,” said her cousin, her eyes hardening.
“Lucy!” Marianne’s voice had been sharply reprimanding but had softened when she turned to her sister. “You look beautiful, Jane. I always knew that gown would suit you, dearest. You look like a rose.”
Jane shook away the memory, standing up. “I should go back to bed, Papa. I should try to get some sleep. So should you.”
He gazed up at her, his eyes warm. “You look just like your mother did when she was your age, Jane. The same figure, the same eyes, the same hair. Why, you could be twins.” He hesitated. “It gladdens my heart to see the resemblance. It is as if she is still with me in some way.”
Jane forced a smile onto her face. “That is nice, Papa. Good night.”
When she was climbing the staircase back to her chambers, she felt a flash of unfamiliar anger towards her late mother. She knew that no one could help who they loved, but it seemed such a tragedy that her mother had never loved her father, when he had adored her. Papa deserved to have had his wife love him in the same way. It wasn’t fair.
But then, she consoled herself with the fact that Papa believed she had. That was something. It might be nothing but an illusion, but if it gave him even a small measure of happiness, then where was the harm in it? She gritted her teeth. She would never tell him the truth. Ever.
She climbed into bed, punching her pillow, and burrowing beneath the blankets, but sleep was still evasive. All she could think about now was how the Earl had held her ankle in his hand as if it were as fragile as glass as he had placed the slipper back on her foot.
In some way, it had been an even more intimate gesture than when his hand had sneaked up her leg, for that had been pure desire. His hand resting on her ankle had been something else. She did not know what it was. She could not name it. She didn’t even know if he had intended it.
She tried to shake away the memory. He surely wasn’t thinking about it any longer. All he was doing was trying to woo her to make her his wife—it meant nothing to him. All of it was just another way to get her to say yes to him. And suddenly, she just didn’t know what was worse any longer.
Chapter 18
The next evening, Jane’s heart lifted when she walked into the parlour of the Rhodes’ house, spotting Charles across the room. She hadn’t realised that her old friend was attending this dinner party. But then her heart fell. The Earl of Carlisle was here as well, standing in a corner of the room, chatting with their hosts.
She ducked her head, trying to avoid him entirely, heading towards Charles. But then her feet started to lag a little. Charles was embroiled in conversation with Beatrice Prescott, of all people. The conversation looked private and solemn. She frowned.
Charles wasn’t usually friendly with Beatrice. He called her a fortune hunter behind her back. To see them chatting in such a way was just a little disconcerting, apart from the fact that she didn’t want to speak with Beatrice at all.
But as she hesitated, Charles spotted her, waving. Beatrice took her leave, drifting away. Her old friend bounded over to her, taking her by the hands.
“Why, how pretty you look this evening, Jane,” he said, casting an eye over her. “I have never seen you wear this blue gown before. It becomes you.”
Jane blushed a little. It seemed she couldn’t help herself now—suddenly, the urge to wear all the pretty gowns in her wardrobe was overwhelming her. They usually hung there without ever being taken out of the closet. Occasionally, the maid would dust them off, for fear they might be eaten by moths.
This blue gown was another of Marianne’s hand-me-downs. And her sister had been just as pleased to see Jane wearing it as she had been to see her in the pale pink ball gown. Lucy, of course, hadn’t looked so pleased, but at least she hadn’t made any unkind comments about sow’s ears tonight. That was something.
“I confess I have grown a little tired of wearing the same gowns,” she said, laughing. “Variety is good.”
Charles raised his eyebrows. “Yes, it is. Well, you look beautiful in it.”
“Thank you, Charles,” she said, smiling. “That is a nice thing to say.” She paused. “What on earth were you talking to Beatrice Prescott about? I thought you usually tried to avoid her like the plague.”
Charles grimaced. “Ihavebeen a bit mean about poor old Beatrice, haven’t I? She is really not so bad when you actually talk to her. We were just talking about horses. She wants her father to buy an Arabian stallion for her next birthday and thought I might have a recommendation.”
