innumerable windows capturing the setting sun, blinding her so that she had to blink back tears.
She was to serve as mistress of this huge, cold place someday? Jane must have made a sound of distress at the thought, for Raleigh stirred, righting himself gracefully. Without meeting his gaze, she turned to stare resolutely out the window, while trying to marshal her courage. Somehow, because of his careless manner, Raleigh had always seemed less of a nobleman than Wycliffe, but now she was forcibly reminded that the viscount would inherit an earldom when his father died. And an estate larger than she had ever dreamed.
Jane felt sick.
“How do I look?” The absurd question made her glance toward Raleigh, who was smoothing his scarlet coat and running a hand over his carefully arranged hair.
“Like a man obsessed with his appearance!” Jane snapped.
“Good!” he answered, flashing her an unrepentant grin that would have melted the heart of a lesser woman. Jane did not flinch. She had opened her mouth to utter a scathing set-down when the coach rolled to a stop, and she clung uncertainly to the cushions as Raleigh swept past her.
“Try to look as mild and unassuming as you always did at Casterleigh,” the viscount muttered as he dropped to the ground and reached for her. “Agree with whatever they say, smile and nod, and maybe we can escape without losing everything.”
Stiffening, Jane lifted her chin and allowed him to help her out. He took her arm in a feigned show of solicitousness, and her fear fled, replaced by irritation at both his insincere actions and his curt instructions. What had he meant by his words? Did he think she would shame him? Although she might not come from the kind of wealthy, spoiled existence that had been his, Jane was certain her manners were far superior. Her father was a decent and kind man who had raised his children to follow in his footsteps, and Jane held her head high as Raleigh led her up the stairs.
The door was already open, a slender, white-haired gentleman standing smartly at attention beside it. “Good evening, Pridham,” Raleigh said casually.
“My lord.”
“Would you tell my parents that I have arrived?”
“Most certainly, my lord.” Jane felt the flicker of a cold glance toward her and stiffened once more. “And whom shall I say is accompanying you?”
Raleigh cleared his throat. “My, uh, wife.”
Only the nearly imperceptible jerk of the butler’s head revealed his apparent disapproval, and Jane turned an inquiring look his way. But he was too well trained to respond, and with a curt nod, closed the door behind them.
“Very good, my lord. If you will be so kind as to follow me, I shall show you into the salon at once.” Although Jane was certain that Raleigh knew his direction in his own home, the man silently led them forward, and they followed just as quietly.
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
