like one of those half-female monsters in the myths Wycliffe loved so well.
Actually, with her glasses and slender figure, she resembled her father, Raleigh admitted, but even though he held that kind, intelligent man in respect, Raleigh did not care to marry him. At least she wasn’t balding, he thought ruefully. Then he started forward in sudden alarm, his feet dropping to the floor as he wondered if she might be losing her hair, for she seemed to keep it covered with a nearly religious fervor. But no, he had glimpsed her braid, thick and full, down her straight back the morning of the wedding.
Raleigh sighed, relieved that Jane was in full possession of her locks, even if he rarely saw them. Inching toward the edge of his seat, he sought to determine her hair’s color, and found, to his delight, that a single, stray strand had escaped imprisonment to fall across one cheek. The fugitive revealed itself to be a rich, dark golden tone that gleamed when struck by the light.
Raleigh jerked back in surprise. Certainly it wasn’t the same daffodil yellow as her sister’s, nor did it curl in that cloudlike manner that Charlotte’s did, but it was not quite as dull as he had supposed.
Leaning forward once more, Raleigh wondered if he had misjudged her proportions also. His mother, horrified at his wife’s attire, had thrust one of his sister’s reworked gowns upon her, and he had to admit that the change was rather startling. Perhaps it was the garment, a mulberry traveling suit, that gave her hair sudden life. It was such a vivid change from the somber browns and grays Jane seemed to inhabit that she looked like a different person.
On the outside. She had exhibited her usual stubbornness when confronted with her new clothing, but since his mother had already instructed the maid to pack her other garments, Jane had had no choice but to comply. Raleigh grinned. Sometimes, one simply had to stand back and admire the countess’s methods—especially when one was not on the receiving end of them!
A soft sigh escaped her at that moment, and inexplicably, Raleigh was drawn toward it, his attention focused on her dainty mouth. Her lips, gently parted, were for once not pulled down in disapproval. They, too, seemed to reflect the color of her costume, becoming flush with life’s blood, soft and inviting.
Clearing his throat, Raleigh followed the line of her body lower. She had fashioned a scarf around her neck, but it had shifted during her sleep and he could see the pale gleam of skin. He sucked in a harsh breath. Somehow, just a glimpse of Jane’s usually covered flesh was shockingly enticing, probably because she hid so much of it. These days, when the fashions called for low-cut bodices and spilling breasts, Jane was an anomaly.
Adjusting his position, Raleigh tried to discern the curve of her bosom beneath the arm that rested across it. If his breath came a little quickly and his cheeks reddened like a schoolboy’s, it was only because Jane would probably do him murder if she discovered him looking at her body. She was his wife and more than discreetly clothed, but Raleigh knew full well she would view his perusal as a violation of her privacy.
Perhaps it was the flavor of the forbidden that lent his task such urgency, but Raleigh found himself drawing in a deep breath and leaning forward as far as he could. Unfortunately, his ill luck continued to run true, for at that exact moment, the road dipped, one wheel of the couch dropped suddenly, and Raleigh was jolted out of his seat to fall into the sleeping body of his bride.
When she awoke, breathless and sputtering, Raleigh sprawled back across the cushions opposite her with a pained expression. “Demned roads!” he cried indignantly. “A man can’t get a bit of rest!”
Groggy with sleep, Jane nonetheless shot him a suspicious glance that made him bite back a grin. Innocently laying his head back, Raleigh closed his eyes, but his thoughts were not quite as pure as he pretended, for he had discovered one thing when thrust forcefully into the arms of his wife.
She was a lot softer than she looked.
Jane trudged into the small parlor at the inn. She could not remember ever having felt so tired. Although the room was clean and cozy, the air redolent with the smell of good food, she could barely work up the energy to sit straight upon one of the chairs drawn before a small, worn oak table.
She realized, with a heavy heart, that the boys would have been thrilled to be on the road, but they, along with Charlotte and Carrie and Kit were the adventurous sort. She and dear, solid Sarah seemed to be the lone members of the family who craved hearth and home, happy, like their father, to putter about the house.
Yet Jane had spent the past two days rattling her bones in a coach, with only more long travel ahead of her in the stifling vehicle, feeling bored and hot and sorry for herself. She hated the close confines and longed for her own little spot of garden so much that she felt like weeping. She had tried to escape into dreams, but they were strange and restless, and after waking to find her husband in her lap this afternoon, Jane had been unable to close her eyes.
Raleigh was such a caution, she had immediately suspected him of some prank, but the roads were dreadful, and sometimes she had found it difficult to keep her own seat. She only wished that she had been awake to feel—no! Her cheeks flushed at the thought. She certainly did not crave any contact with her husband, and it was apparent that he was of a like mind.
For last night he had not come to her.
Jane had waited, half angry and half terrified at the notion of his touching her, of his doing the things Charlotte had talked about, only to fall asleep near dawn, alone in the huge bed at Westfield Park. At the memory, Jane shivered in reaction, for she should have known better than to wait. Hadn’t she learned long ago to harbor no expectations?
The bald truth was that she was too plain and provincial to appeal to anyone, even such a loose screw as Viscount Raleigh. The old, familiar despair washed over her, threatening to drown her, though she told herself she didn’t care. Raleigh meant nothing to her, and, indeed, she should be rejoicing over his neglect, for he was a coxcomb who had not a clear thought in his claret-addled brain.
The sound of his voice brought her upright, and Jane looked away into the empty grate, searching for telltale ashes from its last usage. “I have ordered us a nice roast goose, some tongue and a beef pie,” he said jovially, as if he positively thrived on sitting cooped up in a carriage all day. He probably did, for it certainly required no effort on his part, and Raleigh excelled at doing nothing.
“And do I get something to eat, too?” Jane asked, her voice brittle.
“What’s this? The wench makes a joke! By Jove, I don’t believe it!” Raleigh crowed like a child with a treat. “There’s hope for you yet, love.” The careless endearment ran along Jane’s strained nerves to hang in the silence that followed until she could bear it no longer. Sensing his eyes upon her, she pushed up from her seat.
“Stop ogling me!” she snapped, walking toward the window.
“As you say,” Raleigh muttered. Was that hurt she heard in his tone? Impossible! The man was a thoughtless japer, who danced through life without a care, and Jane was certain that her trifling words could not affect him in the slightest. “You’ll forgive me, if I wish a breath of fresh air,” he said with unfamiliar brusqueness. It made Jane feel like calling him back and apologizing. But for what? For hating his eyes upon her, judging and condemning?
Still, Jane might have gone after him, but for the arrival of the maid that the countess had thrust upon her. The French-born Madeleine might boast an exceptional education, followed by extensive training at Westfield Park, but she made her new mistress ill at ease. Jane was not accustomed to such personal attention, even at Casterleigh, and she got the distinct impression
