Jane Lark - The Passionate Love of a Rake

He did not move, didn’t budge an inch except for a muscle twitching at the edge of his mouth. His eyes told her he was assessing the situation and deciding his next move. After all, he could not force her to comply unless he was also prepared to force all of her staff, who would undoubtedly testify on her behalf that she had been coerced.

He must have drawn the same conclusion, for his brow furrowed, and he virtually spat his final words on the subject in her direction. “Very well, Jane, I shall leave, but I warn you, this is not the end. I shall have my father’s fortune .”

It was not even a statement; it was a decree.

Watching, she waited, still stiff with fear and irritation.

He spun about and strode from the room, the tension of his anger visible in every taut, muscular line of his body.

She held her erect stance, not even daring to breathe, while Garnett followed in Joshua’s wake; her fists were curled so tight against her sides, her fingernails pressed into her palms.

When she heard the front door open and close, she crumpled, dropping back into the chair.

Her shoulders were shaking in response to her retreating fear, and she covered her face with her hands. A sob escaped her throat before she could control it, even though her eyes were dry.

“Your Grace?”

Garnett.

She sensed him moving closer and drew in a deep breath, fighting for composure as she let her hands fall to her lap and straightened up.

“Madam, is there anything I may fetch you?”

The young butler bowed to her as she looked up. It was not his place to ask if she was well or needed help, but his expression admitted his concern.

Her life was unravelling at the seams. Unfortunately, she did not think a cup of tea would fix it. A raucous, disturbing laugh rang in her thoughts, a sound she knew bordered on insanity.

It was ridiculous.

She was now completely alone, apart from her servants.

There was no way out. No going back. She could only seek a path forward, and she could not do that if she became a simpering wreck or lost her marbles. No, she had to think, and get away from Joshua. She needed somewhere else to go.

She sucked all her courage back into her lungs on a long, deep breath. “No, thank you, Garnett.” Her eyes looked past the butler, her mind reaching for ideas. Then she remembered Garnett’s timely interruption. “Thank you for your intervention. I am grateful.”

“Your Grace,” he accepted, his voice full of compassion. “If you have need of anything, you will ring?” Then he bowed once more and left.

Jane stood. Her body was tense and her thoughts raced. She began pacing the hearth rug, crossing back and forth, her hands clasped at her waist. The sound of Joshua’s carriage pulling away permeated the windows.

She had thought this property secure, a place which would be a home at last. She had rented it only last week and moved in but two days ago, and Number Three, The Circle, Bath, was the answer to her prayers, the supposed beginning of a new and independent life. Joshua had proved her wrong. No doubt Messrs Brampton and Bailey, Hector’s solicitors, who had arranged her tenancy, had passed on her forwarding address. It had never occurred to her Joshua would follow.

She’d vacated the entailed property, which had become Joshua’s, within a week, allowing the new Duke, his wife, and eight children to take up residence. But it seemed having his father’s sprawling country estate and his town mansion, as well as a number of other smaller holdings and all the tenancies and income which went with them, was not enough.

Of course, a man in his father’s mould completely, Joshua wanted it all, and he wanted her to have nothing. But let him bully her as much as he wished. “I will not give in.”

Stopping before the mirror over the mantelpiece, she looked at her sad, pathetic reflection. She was gaunt, her skin sallow and grey, large dark circles rimmed her eyes, but then she had slept very little since Hector’s sudden death four weeks ago. She had arranged the funeral and played sorrowful widow at his wake, while neither Joshua nor his wife had made any effort to attend.

Joshua had severed all ties with his father the day the old Duke had married Jane. Since then, her stepson had taken the greatest pleasure in victimising her, including making several indecent propositions.

Yet when Hector was alive, Joshua had never entered their home.

Her eyes faced her reflection, Jane Grey, the Dowager Duchess of Sutton. A dowager at the ripe old age of six and twenty. It was ludicrous. It had always been ludicrous marrying a man more than four times her age with a son over twenty years her senior. But her parents had thought only of the title and their financial security. They hadn’t given a fig for her happiness. She had been bartered off for profit.

Finally, happiness was in reach. But Joshua was snatching it from her grasp once more. She was in equal measure angry and afraid.

He had the estates. They would make another fortune in time and plenty to live on. Why could he not leave her alone?

Oh, she wished her parents were alive. She would have run to them and let them share the hell they’d crafted.

Pressing her fingers to her forehead, she caught her sharp emerald gaze reflected in the mirror. Her almond-shaped eyes shone. She frowned in self-deprecation. Despite her current worn and sickly look, she was still beautiful. She did not feel in the least vain to recognise it. To her, it had been a simple and sorrowful fact for years, no blessing. Her unusual colouring, her jet-black, spiralling hair, her honeyed skin tone and, most of all, her vivid green eyes, were all at fault.

As Sutton’s wife, her beauty had drawn constant attention. It was a gift from her ancestors – so her mother had once told Jane, glowing with pride. She came from a distant line of Spanish nobility.

Jane saw little to be proud of today. Beauty was a curse. It attracted men like Hector. Men who wanted to acquire it.

He’d sought eternal youth through an innocent, young woman in her sixteenth year and he’d drained Jane’s life from her. She was an empty shell now. That blind, ignorant girl died the night her seventeenth year commenced. The woman who faced her now was born when she’d stood before an altar and promised herself to a man four times her age.

But it was useless thinking of the past; she could not change it. The only thing she was certain of was her future would not be under her stepson’s rule.

Jane turned and paced back across the rug. She thought of Lady Rimes, Violet. The woman Jane had lovingly named the wicked widow. Last winter in Bath, when Hector had visited the spa to take the waters, Jane had snatched moments to escape and formed an unlikely and rare friendship with Violet. Violet was everything Jane was not, and the reason Jane had come to Bath. She’d hoped Violet would be here. It had taken one look in the register book at the pump room to realise her hopes were naïve.

This was not winter. The month of May meant the ton , England’s elite society, were in London; of course Violet was there.

But Jane knew Violet would help her. They’d sought each other out numerous times last winter. Violet had made Jane laugh for the first time in years, and when Jane had left Bath, her friend had begged Jane to visit whenever she wished.

Then this is my answer .

If she lived with Violet, surely Joshua would not dare barge into the house. Every insult he’d thrown had been out of the earshot of society. He picked his moments carefully. Violet’s presence would hold him at bay until Jane could find a pathway forward.

Impatient suddenly, she strode to the door, the black muslin skirt of her high-waist gown with its fashionable empire line, slashing against her legs, restricting her hurried and determined steps. When she reached the door, she looked out into the hall.