Deborah Simmons - The Last Rogue

Flushing, she turned her head away. “Life is serious.”

Raleigh dropped the glass, for it wasn’t much fun to quiz her when she didn’t object. Pushing aside an odd sense of disappointment at her failure to rise to his bait, he wondered what Jane, in her brief existence, had found so somber. Had she struggled through a youthful illness? On the occasions he had seen her, she had appeared hale, if quiet.

Suddenly, Raleigh was struck by how very little he did know about her, and he felt guilty for the lack. He really ought to discover more, now that she was his wife. Forever. The thought was a bit intimidating, and he pushed it aside, preferring to concentrate on today. “No, Jane,” he said. “Life is only serious, if you make it so.”

When she frowned and gazed out the window, Raleigh cursed his errant tongue. “But let us not quarrel,” he urged. “We have hours until we reach London. Tell me of your brothers and sisters and growing up at the vicarage.”

His intention was twofold, to draw her out so that they stopped spending their days in awkward silence and to learn something about the woman he had married. What had made Jane so different from her siblings? Perhaps, if he knew more about his wife, he could find some way to improve her mood, not only for his sake, but for her own. Although he was usually too indolent to rouse himself to a challenge, Raleigh felt an odd urge to do something for this somber female.

He had his pet projects. Much to the amusement—and sometimes discomfiture—of his friends, he often played matchmaker for couples he thought particularly well suited. However, Jane was already wed, and love, unfortunately, was out of the question. Pausing a moment to regret that, Raleigh wondered if he could still effect some change in her attitude.

He did not have the wherewithal to lavish gifts upon her, and Jane did not seem the type to desire them anyway. Dressed in some dowdy brown thing today, she obviously disdained fine clothing, an appalling trait that Raleigh tried his best to overlook. Nor would she be impressed with society, he sensed, or his position in it.

How then could he best serve her? Watching the hesitation that crossed her clean profile, Raleigh longed to see her tight lips relaxed, her wrinkled brow smoothed, and he realized what he must do. Lifting his arms behind his head, he leaned against the cushions with a contented grin.

Perhaps he could not make Jane happy, but the least he could do was try to get the girl to smile.

By the time they reached London, Jane was hoarse. When her attention was finally claimed by the city around them, she realized, dazedly, that she had never talked so much in her life. And while she stared out the window, unseeing, at the crowded streets, she wondered how he had done it.

When Raleigh had first asked her to tell him about her family, Jane was tempted not to comply out of sheer stubbornness. He had never shown the slightest interest in her before, had he? But his declaration that they were “in this together” had touched her somehow.

She told herself that the phrase had meant nothing to him, that it was just another of his careless remarks, but still she took comfort in his words. And she could not deny her relief to learn he did not mean to leave her in London.

And so she had begun, haltingly at first, to give him answer, and to her surprise, it became easy. She, who rarely spoke at length even to her sisters, found herself readily in conversation. It was a disquieting discovery, and she blamed Raleigh. She knew he was thought to be a witty, engaging sort, of course, but she had never suspected him to be such a wonderful listener. It had thrown her off balance, Jane admitted ruefully.

She knew that a dandy like the viscount could not possibly care the slightest about Kit’s dog or Carrie’s cats, yet he seemed genuinely interested. If she paused, he urged her on with questions. Although she would never have thought it possible, he knew all the names of her brothers and sisters, asking after each one particularly. Either he had a prodigious memory, or he really liked them…

The knowledge unsettled her, although Jane told herself that his regard for them did not extend to her. Unfortunately, she was certain that he would never query them about her in this manner. Yet she continued, unable to gracefully end the conversation and not sufficiently skilled to turn it toward her companion.

Every so often she stumbled, unnerved to see him watching her under those heavy-lidded eyes. Although Jane told herself she must grow accustomed to his perusal, she was still uncomfortable under his regard. He showed no outward signs of disdain, but Jane was well used to being judged, and she would avoid it, if she could. Alone with him in the coach, however, Jane did not see how to escape the blue gaze that rested on her with a casual familiarity she did not want to allow.

Jane swallowed, her throat dry from all her speech, and stared out at the sights and sounds of London, hoping they would draw his attention away from her. But he appeared to have little interest in the city, and she could not concentrate on her surroundings in his presence, especially when she felt the faint prickle of his eyes on her.

His careless sprawl along the seat did not help matters, for Jane found herself keenly aware of the way his gloved hand rested along one muscled thigh. She recalled the touch of those fingers on her shoulders as she sat before his parents, and the memory unnerved her further. Jerking her gaze away, she told herself that only a rogue would spread himself so blatantly upon the cushions. A gentleman would behave more modestly. Even if the only other occupant were his wife?

Jane could feel herself beginning to perspire when at last they reached their destination. It was the West End, Raleigh told her in his usual amiable voice, though the name hardly seemed fit to describe the clean, paved streets and elegant squares lined with stately homes of mellow brick. Raleigh’s town house rose four stories from the ground, and Jane eyed it in trepidation, hoping it was not as forbidding as Westfield Park.

It was not. The welcoming smile of the footman at the door seemed to set the tone for the residence. All of the servants looked more human, greeting Raleigh with genuine pleasure rather than the rigid restraint. Obviously, this was his domain more than his father’s, and Jane could only breathe a sigh of relief at the discovery. Although luxurious, the interior was less lofty and smelled of beeswax and potpourri. The hallway and reception rooms boasted marble statuary and delicately carved cornices, but on the upper level colorful wallpaper and gently curved furnishings were more delightful than intimidating.

Jane had just peeked into one such sitting area when a small, wiry gentleman, impeccably groomed, came hurrying toward them. “My lord!” he cried, and to Jane’s surprise, Raleigh rushed forward to greet him.

“Antoine! Oh, thank God! I feared you had left me!” he said, throwing his arms around the smaller fellow. Who was this? Jane wondered. Was he a relative?

“No, my lord, but I was considerably vexed when I learned of your departure.” He had a small, dark mustache that twitched when he spoke, as if to rebuke the viscount.

“I had a cup too much,” Raleigh admitted with a grin. “But look at me! I am at a loss without you,” he said, spreading his arms wide.

The little man stepped back and shuddered in horror as he inspected Raleigh’s person, though Jane could not imagine what he could find to fault in her husband’s perfect appearance. The viscount’s dark blue coat fit him superbly, stretching across shoulders that needed no padding. They seemed higher than normal, and with a start, Jane realized that Raleigh was much taller than she had thought. She had so often seen him with the towering Wycliffe that she had failed to notice his own exceptional proportions. Though slender, he must reach at least six feet in height.