Deborah Simmons - The Last Rogue

Jane ignored the comment, for she really did not care what the countess did. She had never aspired to be a noblewoman, and she was not going to wear unsuitable clothing just because she had been forced to take a title. Nor would she ever wish to pattern her life after Raleigh’s parents.

It was not as if she were wholly ignorant of the ton, for back in Sussex, she and her siblings had made the Great House their second home. But there no one remembered to call Max “my lord.” Even though he was an earl, they were always welcome to visit, and Charlotte, beyond dressing more beautifully, had little changed when she became a countess. And Raleigh had always been, well, Raleigh —even more careless and easygoing than Max. Too careless and easygoing, Jane thought, as she remembered what a favorite he had been of her siblings.

“Please, my lady, your…hair,” Madeleine moaned. “That hat will simply not do for dinner.” Practically wrestling Jane into the small chair that sat in front of an inlaid table topped with a gilt-edged mirror, she removed the offending item with a frown of distaste, as if she would like to discard it permanently.

For a moment, Jane was left before the mirror, and although she hated the sight of it, she forced herself to look, to see the truth rather than hide behind a falsehood. Here, in Raleigh’s town house, she saw a somber girl with spectacles, her dull hair pulled tightly atop her head. It was the same plain countenance that always stared back at her, for no change in scenery could alter it.

Turning away, Jane began to rise, but Madeleine stopped her with a shriek of outrage. “Wait, my lady! Your hair, I must dress it!”

“No,” Jane said stiffly. “There is no need.” There is no point, she almost added before lifting her chin and standing. She was who she was, and she would not be ashamed.

“But, my lady, at least let me loosen it! Some curls about your face would be just the thing. It is what all the ladies are wearing.”

Jane laughed, without amusement, as she walked to the door. “Believe me, Madeleine, there is nothing in this world that can induce my hair to curl. It is straight as a board.”

“But, my lady—”

Ignoring the maid’s protests, Jane stepped into the hallway. She had no intention of sitting still for such efforts, the kind for which Charlotte regularly pleaded. She always refused her sister, and she would refuse Madeleine, as well. Charlotte might pretend otherwise, but Jane knew that no amount of fussing would alter her appearance, and she had long ago accepted her own limitations.

Better to view the world with eyes wide open than delude oneself. And with that thought, Jane grimly began descending the stairs to supper, her formerly gay temperament sadly tempered by that small reminder. She had but taken a few steps when she was further dismayed to spy another gentleman standing below with Raleigh. Halting, Jane gripped the railing as an unfamiliar sensation seized her.

It was not jealousy.

She had never been jealous of her beautiful sisters. Why, then, should she feel a prick of pique upon seeing Raleigh with his arm casually draped around a stranger? Because it meant the end of her idyllic hours alone with him? Jane drew in a sharp breath and scoffed at herself. Idyllic? Hardly. Companionable, perhaps. And certainly she had known that Raleigh would not entertain her forever. He was a popular fellow, judging from the number of invitations she had seen, so she could hardly expect him to closet himself here with her. Even if she was his wife.

“No, you must stay. I insist!” Raleigh said to the other man. Although they had not yet seen her, their words drifted up to her ears, and Jane heard Raleigh call for another plate to be set. Suppressing an errant twinge of disappointment, Jane forced herself to move. And immediately regretted it.

“I say, Raleigh, who’s that?” the stranger called out loudly upon seeing her. Although she could ignore such poor manners, Jane drew up short when he lifted a quizzing glass to study her. “Lud, isn’t your sister a bit old for a governess?” he asked.

Jane lifted her chin. It had been a long time since she had been talked about in such a fashion, when some matron would cluck over “poor Jane, the plain one.” Then, it had taken all of Jane’s Christian charity not to thrust out her tongue. Now, of course, she was an adult and well beyond such childish tantrums, but the old bitterness returned.

Would all Raleigh’s friends treat her this way? An hour ago she had been content, but now Jane wondered how she could ever fit into her husband’s world. And if this was the way of it, wasn’t she better off in Sussex? Perhaps this clever gentleman could provide Raleigh with a shoulder to cry on in Northumberland, while she returned home!

Oddly enough, the notion was not as comforting as it should have been, and Jane decided to wait before committing herself to either course. Refusing to be cowed, she continued her descent, greeting the two men at the bottom of the stairs with a curt nod. Although she glimpsed a flicker of concern in Raleigh’s eyes, Jane told herself he was probably worrying about the state of his neck cloth. Certainly not his wife.

“Now, Pimperington, would a mere governess conduct herself with such hauteur?” Raleigh said, watching her with a disconcerting degree of familiarity.

“Eh, what?” the man asked, looking from Raleigh to her.

“This lady is not a tutor, but a viscountess. My viscountess,” Raleigh said with a smile. “My lady, may I present Mr. Pimperington.”

Jane had to admire Raleigh’s acting ability, for even she was nearly taken in by the proprietary pride in his voice. Unfortunately, she knew it was all a hum.

“What’s that? Gad, you don’t mean she’s your wife?” the man said in startled accents. Lifting his quizzing glass once more, he studied Jane up and down in a way that made her want to shove the offending object down his throat.

“I’m sorry, but I don’t allow those in my home,” she said.

“Eh? What’s that?” Pimperington asked.

“The glass,” Jane said, louder, pointing. “It will have to go.” And then, ignoring Raleigh’s appreciative chuckle and his guest’s gasp of surprise, she swept past them both in the general direction of the dining hall. Behind her she heard Pimperington’s loud grumble. “What’s wrong with my glass?”

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.