Jane Lark - The Passionate Love of a Rake

Garnett stood beside the front door. “Garnett, would you have Meg fetch my pelisse and bonnet? I am going out, and while I am out, please hire a post-chaise and team to transport me to London, and have Meg pack. I will be leaving tomorrow.”

The Pump Room’s director would know Violet’s address.

The butler bowed stiffly.

Jane’s gaze swept the spectacle of the Duchess of Weldon’s spring Ball. The room was flooded with shimmering, spinning colours as she watched the dancers, the debutantes in white muslins, and their mamas and chaperones wearing every shade of the rainbow and beyond. Gentlemen punctuated the spectacle in formal black, crisply starched white cravats and silk stockings; their only show of frivolity, the glinting embroidery on their waistcoats.

It was a beautiful sight, and all the glamour was reflected in shards of light, spinning and flickering from the crystal prisms of glass dangling from the chandeliers above, and from mirrors which lined the ballroom above head height. The orchestra played a merry country tune, and the dancers bounced and stepped in time, skirts swaying. Laughter, chatter, and the sound of their footsteps filled the stifling air.

Jane had never been to a ball in London until recently. Access to the splendour of this society ritual should have been hers by right as a duchess, but Hector had preferred small, crude affairs for entertainment. He had not held balls, nor attended them, and so, nor had she.

It all appeared surreal to her now, a place of dreams. Yet she’d existed in this world of illusion for over two weeks. It was Violet’s everyday life. Jane was still overawed by it. She wished for her friend’s air of confidence.

For the past two weeks, Jane had studied Violet’s every movement, longing to gain both town polish and society’s approval. To date, they had eluded her. Of course, wearing black did not help. She should not even be on the social round. She ought to be at home, tucked up in bed and reading a book, acting out the role of deepest mourning. But if she obeyed that unwritten law, then she would be at the mercy of Joshua.

Besides, Violet, the model on whom Jane was moulding her own image, did not give a whit for society’s conventions, and no one seemed to pay any attention to Violet’s blatant misdemeanours. Violet’s favourite saying was, “Society’s rules are only there to be broken.” She put no store at all by them and persistently urged Jane to just put off her blacks and face the indignation, weighting her argument by pointing out Jane was now a wealthy widow and she need not pander to the ton ’s condescension . Violet also said it was only the women who’d care. The men would not give a damn. They would be too busy being intrigued by another merry widow entering the fray.

Jane was not that brave. Yet she did not doubt Violet’s perception. Everywhere they went, men glanced sideways, implying their interest.

Jane had not come to town to become embroiled with another man though. She had come to town to escape one. At least that, to date, had been successful.

“Jane, dear, I know you do not wish to dance while in mourning; would you care for cards?”

Violet’s words stirred Jane from her reverie. She turned to her friend and smiled. “Truly, Violet, I do not mind at all if you wish to dance. I am quite happy to sit it out alone.”

Violet’s sole purpose in life was bringing men to her heel; she kept them on an invisible leash. She’d had numerous affairs, and made no secret of them. Jane thought such things too risqué .

Yet observing Violet’s intrigues had stirred new emotions in Jane. She noticed the muscular turn of a man’s calf and his broad shoulders and slender hips far more than she had before.

“Lady Rimes, you will, of course, allow me to take your hand for the waltz.” Lord Sparks, a third son, a very attractive man, a little older than Jane, bowed over Violet’s hand.

Jane turned to gaze at the gathering dancers, ignoring the caressing forefinger she had seen him slip inside her friend’s glove beneath her wrist. Jane knew Lord Sparks. He was one of Violet’s long-standing flirts and a man of excessive qualities according to her friend’s indiscreet descriptions.

His attention turned to Jane.

He had an unabashed beauty and an impressive figure. The dancing glimmer in his eyes made Jane blush. She dropped a slight curtsy. He took her hand, but his grip was formal, not testing any of convention’s boundaries. “Your Grace, it is a pleasure to see you again. I hope you do not mind if I steal your friend away for a while?”

Matching his broad smile, Jane answered, “How could I possibly deny either of you? Of course I do not mind.”

“You are very kind, Your Grace.” He bowed, then turned to Violet and extended his hand. “Lady Rimes?”

Violet took it and let him draw her away, sending Jane a jovial smile over her shoulder, as if to say she would not be long.

To give her fingers something to do, Jane applied her black lace fan in a swift sweep beneath her chin and looked up at the call of a new arrival. The footman positioned at the head of the stairs, rapped his staff on the wooden floor and announced the guest whose name was swept away by the tune of the Venetian waltz flooding the room. Yet when the imposing male stepped forward, Jane’s heart stopped, as did the movement of her fan.

Lord Robert Marlow, the eleventh Earl of Barrington, was the last person on earth she wished to meet. Or perhaps – her heart set up a wild and anxious rhythm – he was the person she most wished to. But not like this, not in her blacks, when she did not look her best.

Blushing and lifting her fan a little, hiding the lower half of her face, Jane set it back into motion, cooling her hot skin and peering over its top, unable to tear her eyes away from him. She had not seen him for years, not since they had both been young, innocent and naïve. He looked different, more confident, stronger, more handsome too, and taller, and broader.

He surveyed the gathering from his vantage point at the top of the stairs as though he assessed and judged everyone.

She’d considered this meeting thousands of times in the years since their last and she’d pictured herself armoured in sophistication, someone he would respect and admire. Yet, now, she felt completely the opposite: unworthy and unsure.

The gulf he’d left in her life ripped open wider. He was magnificent – she insignificant. If he’d been attractive as a nineteen-year-old youth, he was a demigod as a man in his late twenties. His physique was muscular, yet lean and athletic.

His hand rose and swept long fingers through his chestnut-coloured hair, swiping a loose lock from his brow. A gesture she had seen him do a hundred times as a child.

Still, he did not move, just looked, watching, appearing self-absorbed.

His confidence had not been there in the zealous youth, full of adventure and expectation.

She felt tears in her eyes and an ache in her chest, inspired by the could-have-beens and if-onlys which had haunted her throughout her married life.

It was a long time since Robert Marlow held her dear. In the intervening years, he’d toured the continent, establishing a reputation in the vices of a gentleman. His prowess in the sexual arts was renowned. He was no longer the young man she’d adored. He was a very different beast, one whom she’d no experience or knowledge to understand.

When he’d returned to claim his father’s estate a few years ago, his reputation had endured. He was one of, if not the most , profligate rakes in the ton .

She’d never been able to stop herself seeking his name in the gossip columns of the papers Hector left lying on the breakfast table.