All in all, Kit found himself to be incredibly bored with the whole affair, and took rapid inventory of his brain, searching for a plausible excuse that would get him shed of Sir Cedric and his inquisitive guest immediately after brandy and cigars. The benighted countryside around Bourne was a far cry from the frenetic activity of a Spanish battlefield, and the soldier in Kit was not so easily mellowed that the boring duties of his new title could yet be borne with any real grace.
If only the so-estimable Renfrew had been more helpful in the matter of Jennie, the teacher’s daughter—that normally helpful man having disclaimed any knowledge of either father or offspring residing in the area. There were two Jessies in the village, and the blacksmith had a niece named Jackie visiting this month or more—although that damsel had hair as dark as pitch and weighed half again as much as the smithy—but nary hide nor hair could be found of any blond wench named Jennie.
Ah well, thought the earl, smiling politely as Sir Cedric described in great detail his latest triumph on the hunting field, he’d be leaving for London within another week and Jennie’s bucolic beauty would soon fade from his memory, to be replaced by one or more of the many comely opera dancers he intended to honor with his favor.
Kit allowed a half smile to soften his features as he swirled his drink and thought his private thoughts. Boring dinner partners and a nonexistent social life were a small price to pay for the opportunity to call Bourne Manor his own. For a certainty it beat wallowing in the mud of Ciudad Rodrigo all to sticks—and the rank of earl brought with it benefits no mere major could dream to command.
While the aging Miss Latchwood preened delightedly, the proud Sir Cedric recounted his brilliant outmaneuvering of some hapless fox, and Lord Bourne smugly contemplated a season of wallowing in the fleshpots of London, Miss Jane Maitland stood outside the drawing-room doors enduring her companion’s last-minute adjustments to her charge’s perfectly draped skirts.
“Papa will demand to know the reason for my tardiness, Bundy,” Jane warned her companion, just now fussing over a loose thread daring to peek below the hem of the blue gown, “and demand an explanation for it. I shall be forced—for you know I would not be so mean as to implicate you voluntarily—to explain that my companion delayed my appearance by some fifteen minutes while she searched out nonexistent flaws in my toilette.” Jane heaved her shoulders in a heavy sigh. “And then Papa will rant and bluster, and I will have recourse to tears, and you will be called for and roundly scolded for your impudence in thinking there existed even a single flaw on the person of his only daughter, and then you will be cast posthaste out into the snow—”
“It hasn’t snowed in Bourne for three years,” Miss Bundy was moved to point out, placing her hands on Jane’s shoulders and pushing her in a circle as her shrewd eyes made one last appraisal. “You are to dine with the new Earl of Bourne, missy,” she went on, heedless of Jane’s sudden harsh intake of breath, “and I am under strict instructions that you are to look your very best for the gentleman. Your papa is aiming rather high, if you ask me, which he certainly did not, but I must admit Lord Bourne would have to look far and wide to find a countess as fair as you, my dear.’ Giving one last unnecessary pat to Jane’s coiffure, Miss Bundy stood back, surveyed her handiwork, and exclaimed, “There! No mere man could ask for more.”
Jane wrinkled her nose in disgust. “Are you sure, Bundy? Perhaps my price tag is showing. Tell me, dearest Ernestine, is the marriage settlement to match my dowry, or will Papa throw in Mama’s diamonds to sweeten the pot?” A slight flush lending even more lively animation to her features, Jane goaded further. “Dearest, sweetest Bundy. First you served as nanny, then governess, then companion. I had not realized your real calling was that of procuress.”
Miss Bundy did not have an immediate spasm at her charge’s audacity. Indeed, she did not so much as blink her pale gray eyes. All Miss Bundy, that long-suffering servant, did was to pinch Jane’s cheeks to give them color, step back out of sight of the double doors to the drawing room, signal the snickering footman to step lively and announce his mistress to the company, and retire upstairs to the small brown bottle she kept concealed beneath her knitting. Life at Maitlands had long ago taught the woman the best way of dealing with either Sir Cedric or his audacious daughter was by prudent withdrawal. Jane would apologize, as she always did whenever her tongue ran away with her—not that the poor girl hadn’t cause enough for anger, being paraded about for the new earl like a prize calf—and in the end Miss Bundy would allow her sensibilities to be mollified by the way of Jane’s pretty pleas for forgiveness. It was a game they played, the two of them, with Jane tugging more and more at the leash of obedience every year as she grew from submissive girl to self-sufficient young woman.
Jane waited until Miss Bundy’s receding back disappeared around the curve in the stairs and then, her softly rounded chin held high, she took a deep breath, sent up a quick prayer that Lord Bourne wasn’t any more of a fool than he could help, and allowed herself to be announced.
The first person she saw when she entered the candle-lit chamber was Miss Latchwood. So, she thought wryly, Papa is leaving nothing to chance. If the poor earl so much as smiles in my direction that old biddy will have the entire countryside believing we have posted the banns. Nodding pleasantly to the older woman, who winked conspiratorially back at her, Jane turned her gaze in the direction of her father, just then posing at the mantelpiece under an obscure (for good reason) artist’s rendering of one of Sir Cedric’s epic exploits with the Mowbray men. “Good evening to you, Papa,” she intoned sweetly, dropping the man a curtsy. “Please forgive my tardiness, but the time just seemed to run away with me.”
Sir Cedric, seeing before him the reincarnation of his beloved deceased wife allowed himself to be charmed into forgiving Jane for keeping him from his dinner. Taking one of her small hands into one of his own huge paws, he turned her slightly so that he could introduce her to their guest of honor.
“Lord Bourne,” the proud father began, “allow me to introduce my daughter—”
“You!” loudly exclaimed the earl, fairly goggling at the girl as the very air between them suddenly began to crackle.
“So much for prayers,” Jane muttered disgustedly under her breath as she glared at the fashionably dressed young man with the gaping jaw.
Abigail Latchwood leaned forward in her chair, her powers of intuition telling her she had chanced to secure herself a front-row seat at what should prove to be a most interesting spectacle.
“I WOULD BE MORE THAN HAPPY to listen to your suggestions as to a solution to our problem, my lord, but I do not wish a dismal retelling of the problem itself. Do I make myself clear?”
“You do not wish! I do not wish, damn it, and since it is my feelings that concern me and I am forced to dismiss them I see no gentlemanly need to trifle over your paltry sensibilities.”
Jane paused to mull Kit’s words over a moment or two, and decided that she may have been looking at him in the wrong light entirely. Perhaps he was not the enemy. Perhaps she had been in the process of berating the only ally she had in the entire world—what with her father, Bundy, and even Goldie firmly listed among her adversaries in this matter.
“You are against this marriage plan of Papa’s?” Jane asked the man now standing across from her in the herb garden, his ebony hair gleaming in the bright morning sunlight. He nodded his head in the affirmative. “Then why,” she asked with a sudden return of heat, “didn’t you stop Papa when he first proposed the idea last night? You don’t strike me as a man who is usually at a loss for words.”
Kit shook his head in astonished disbelief. “Please don’t tell me you’re that much of a clothhead. After your ridiculous hysterical outburst last night when we were introduced there was deuced little I could do to rescue the situation.”
“My outburst?” Jane sniffed indelicately, correcting him. “I merely muttered a small involuntary verbalization prompted, my lord, by your inelegant bellow!”
Kit had the decency