Deborah Simmons - The Last Rogue

Walking through cavernous rooms decorated with rococo plasterwork and elegant furniture, Jane felt her trepidation return. Her chest tightened painfully as they were led into a spacious salon, where festoons and emblems of music and the arts lined the walls. Enormous pier glasses with carved, gilt frames were hung over delicate side tables, and some sort of thick, expensive carpet covered the floor. Jane found that she was holding her breath, but exhaled it slowly when she realized that except for the elaborate furnishings, the room was empty.

“I shall inform the earl and countess of your arrival,” the butler said, leaving Jane to stare after him. Accustomed as she was to the easy camaraderie of the vicarage, she could not believe that they had been ushered here to wait, like guests, at the pleasure of Raleigh’s parents. What kind of people were they? Although she knew not the answer, she felt a touch of sympathy for her husband and firmly quelled it. After all, Jane was certain he would prefer his life of chill privilege to the loving near-poverty in which she had been raised.

They waited in charged silence for long minutes, Raleigh moving restlessly around the room, while Jane perched on the edge of a chair covered in such beautiful silk damask that she was afraid to crease it. Several times she opened her mouth to ask him about his parents and the injunction he had given her, but just as often she closed it, considering herself mannerless to discuss those whose home she was visiting.

“Deverell!” A gray-haired matron spoke from the doorway, her voice so steely as to make Jane nearly flinch. Although of medium height and weight, she seemed to tower over the apartment as would a queen her subjects. Dressed in the finest of black satin, draped in pearls and sporting a turban with long, black ostrich plumes on her head, she rather resembled a raven, but when she fastened her piercing gray eyes on Jane, her demeanor clearly suggested a vulture.

Jane swallowed.

“What is this?” the countess asked. Although she looked at Jane, she spoke to Raleigh. “Pridham ran to us with a Banbury tale of a wife. I assured him it was all nonsense.” Jane could hardly imagine the staid butler running anywhere, but she remained silent. She, for one, was not going to dispute the countess’s claim that news of her son’s marriage was nonsense.

“Yes, you must stop having one over on the servants, Deverell,” said the man who came to stand beside Raleigh’s mother. Taller and more robust than his wife, the earl appeared only slightly less intimidating. Pompous was the word that came to Jane’s mind as he settled a stern gaze upon his son. “You always did treat them with disrespect. Unbecoming a man of your station. Reflects ill on the family,” he intoned.

Jane swallowed harder as she tried to reconcile these haughty creatures with her own warm family. Even Wycliffe’s mother, although rather frivolous, was friendly in her own sort of way. But these two were positively forbidding. Neither had stepped forward to welcome their son, but presided over the salon like a pair of solemnfaced icons.

“As you say, Father. I vow I will never ill-use the servants again, but Pridham was right. May I present my wife, formerly Miss Trowbridge, now Viscountess Raleigh.” So far Raleigh’s parents had apparently deemed Jane unworthy of their continued regard, and belatedly she realized her good fortune, for when their heads turned her way in stilted horror, it was all she could do not to squirm beneath their sharp scrutiny.

“Surely you jest,” the countess said, looking Jane up and down as if she were no more than a passing peasant.

“Trowbridge? Can’t say I recall the name,” said the earl in puzzled accents.

“I doubt if you would know it, sir,” Raleigh said. To Jane’s surprise, he crossed the room to stop behind her chair. She felt the heat from his hands as they settled on the edge at her back, though she did not know if he had come to offer comfort or restrain her, should she ignore his advice. Truth be told, she was already tempted, for how could one nod and smile under the force of such contempt?

“Her sister is Countess Wycliffe,” Raleigh said.

“Wycliffe? But I thought he married a beauty, some vicar’s daughter,” the earl said. Staring incredulously at Jane, he made it clear that he could not believe she was related to anyone possessing a pleasing countenance. Jane recognized the look and despised it. It ignited a slow-burning anger in her breast, one her father would not approve of, but fueled with the heat of past hurts.

“Deverell! You cannot mean it!” The countess choked, glancing from her son to Jane as if to deny the truth. Apparently, something in Raleigh’s face must have convinced her, for her expression abruptly changed from scorning disbelief to something cold and terrible.

His father was more to the point. “It can be annulled, of course,” he assured his wife, his frigid glare making his feelings obvious.

“Of course,” Raleigh said with equanimity. Her own anger increasing, Jane viewed his amiable tone with contempt. Had she ever heard him raise his voice, or did it require too much effort? Would he stand up for her, or was this what he wanted, a swift end to their disastrous union? Although she knew it would probably be for the best, Jane felt a sudden, painful disappointment that made her start forward.

Raleigh’s fingers settled on her shoulder, and she felt their warmth through his gloves and her clothing. She could not remember his touching her except during that dreadful, hasty ceremony, and the unusual sensation the gesture engendered made her forget to wonder if he was offering comfort or restraint.

She felt stupidly, senselessly giddy, as if the butterflies from her garden had been unleashed inside of her. Light-headed and wholly incapable of speech, she could only sit there numbly as Raleigh continued. “Possible, of course, but it might be a bit difficult,” he drawled.

Jane saw the countess’s frown and the narrowing of the earl’s eyes, though she could not understand their swift reaction to Raleigh’s simple sentence. “All a bit sudden, wasn’t it?” the earl remarked caustically. He shook his head. “And I had my eye on an heiress for you.”

“Certainly not some Plain Jane of a vicar’s daughter. What’s your name, gel?” the countess asked.

“Jane,” she answered, lifting her chin and forcing herself to look directly into the woman’s cold blue eyes.

“Humph! And bold country manners, too, I see,” the countess said, studying Jane with more interest. “So what have you to say for yourself, Miss, with your lack of breeding, money and bloodlines?”

“My bloodlines are just as good as yours, my lady,” Jane replied. “My mother is descended from the earls of Avundel. And my breeding, if anything, is far better, for my father is a man of God, and if it were not for his teachings to be kind to all creatures, I would tell you what I really think of you, your son and this ridiculous alliance.”

When stunned silence descended upon the entire room, Jane had time to regret her outburst. She and Sarah, among all the Trowbridges, had always been models of propriety and restraint, and her dear papa would be sadly disappointed to learn of her behavior. What had come over her? Turning her head, Jane shot a quick glance over her shoulder at Raleigh, who was grinning at her in the strangest way, and then, swallowing hard, she dared to look at his father.

“Has some spirit, does she?” the earl asked of no one in particular. “At least she stands up for herself. What do you think, m’dear?” he asked, turning to his wife. The small endearment was oddly humanizing, though Jane found it difficult to imagine these two harsh people possessing any tender feelings.