style="font-size:15px;"> ‘Really?’ Jane felt and saw his interest quicken. ‘You must find life here very different indeed from that hot clime.’
‘Very different,’ she said, trying not to let herself sound too regretful.
‘And dull.’
She laughed. ‘I’m afraid I haven’t had time to find out.’
‘You appear to be a sensible young woman, Miss Mortimer. I am sure you will adjust. I hope you won’t find the English winters too cold and miserable.’
‘I’m sure I will,’ she said with a wry smile. ‘I’m also sure that I’ll survive.’
‘You must miss your father.’
‘Yes,’ she replied, struggling to conceal the sadness she always felt when speaking of her father. She still felt his loss deeply. ‘Not only was I his daughter, but his assistant. When he died I’m afraid much of his work was unfinished so I have a lot of loose ends to tie up for his publisher. Lady Lansbury has kindly offered me the use of your library—when I’m not looking after Lady Octavia, that is.’
‘Of course. Feel free to use it any time. I am sure you will do an excellent job taking care of Octavia. I hope you will enjoy your time here.’
Jane’s heart skipped a beat as his beautiful grey eyes met hers. Pleasure washed over her. ‘I’m sure I will, Lord Lansbury.’ She swallowed hard, unable to think of anything else to say until he had turned his back on her and walked away. ‘Thank you,’ she finally managed to call out, but he must not have heard her words, for he did not turn to look at her again.
‘Oh, dear! My son is hasty sometimes,’ Lady Lansbury said, noting Jane’s dismay. ‘He has grave matters to worry him and he is always so busy. But come, my dear. I’ll take you to Octavia’s rooms.’ She looked at Jane who was somewhat flushed. ‘Are you all right, my dear?’
‘Yes—perfectly.’
A cloud shifted across Jane’s face and her eyelids lowered. The expression in them was unreadable, which was just as well, for she loved Christopher Chalfont from that moment. How else could these feelings that consumed her be explained—she, who had no experience of men in the romantic sense? She told herself that she should doubt her reactions to Lord Lansbury, the first man she had ever been attracted to. She was unable to understand why this should be.
The day she had left France and climbed aboard the boat bound for Dover would live with her for ever, because that was the day she had met him, the day he had entered her mind so that she was unable to think of anything else. Because the differences between them were too vast, she did not fool herself into believing it could ever be any different and that he would ever return her love.
Nothing was normal any more, least of all her feelings about herself.
Jane had been at Chalfont for one whole month and had no reason to regret her decision. The servants were not quite sure about her position. The other young ladies who had cared for Octavia in the past had been employed as governesses. Although Miss Mortimer’s position filled that role, Lady Lansbury treated her as more of a friend. Miss Mortimer was frequently invited to dine with the family, but she always declined, opting to eat in the rooms she shared with Octavia.
Jane realised she had a talent for entertaining Octavia that surprised her. In spite of her lack of experience with children, she managed to win Octavia’s trust and arouse her eager curiosity with the activities they did together. They would walk in the beautiful grounds and at other times Octavia loved to draw and paint, but she was reluctant to learn her letters, so on Lady Lansbury’s advice she did not press her.
But it wasn’t always easy. There were times when Octavia would be silent for long periods and she was unable to concentrate any length of time on any one thing. She was often wilful and sullen and there were tears if she could not get her own way. But on the whole she brought much pleasure to Jane and Lady Lansbury was beginning to lose that tense, anxious look that Jane had noticed on first meeting her.
Hearing the gravel crunch beneath a horse’s hooves on the drive below, she was drawn from her thoughts as she watched Octavia painting pictures in her room. Drawing a deep breath in anticipation of the return of Lord Lansbury from his ride, she moved swiftly to the window and looked down at the man who occupied her thoughts both day and night. He had spent most of the past four weeks in town so she hadn’t seen much of him. The moment she fixed her eyes on his tall, powerfully elegant figure, as he dismounted and handed the reins to a waiting groom, she felt that familiar twist of her heart, that addictive mix of pleasure and discomfort.
* * *
Unaware that he was being observed, Christopher entered the house. At best, he was a fiercely private man, guarded and solitary and accountable to no one. At worst, he was a man with a streak of ruthlessness and an iron control that was almost chilling. He possessed a haughty reserve that was not inviting and set him apart from others in society.
There had been other women. He took them to bed, but he did not let them into his life. He could also be cold, calculating and unemotional, which was his attitude to the decision he was about to make regarding marriage to an American heiress, Lydia Spelling. The American dollars she would bring would go a long way to shoring up Chalfont’s finances. He was still feeling the effects of his father’s ruin, but the returns from his investments were at last beginning to show improvements.
Marriage to Miss Spelling would be advantageous in other ways as well as financial. The Chalfonts had become thin on the ground. To continue the line he had to give some thought to producing an heir. He knew how anxious his mother was for him to marry. If he didn’t produce a legitimate heir, the title was in danger of passing entirely out of the Chalfont family. It troubled him more than anyone realised and he knew he couldn’t go on ignoring the issue.
When his mother had decided to take Octavia on an extensive tour to visit New York and then Paris, reluctant to let them go alone, Christopher had accompanied them. When he’d embarked on the transatlantic voyage, the phenomenon of seeking to marry an American heiress as the solution to his financial situation and to continue the Chalfont line had not entered his head. He hadn’t reckoned on Oswald Spelling.
Spelling, a widower with one daughter, hadn’t passed up the chance to socialise with an earl—British aristocrats had become husbands of choice for American millionaires’ daughters. Invited to dine at the Spellings’s showy mansion on Madison Square, Mr Spelling had seated Lydia on Christopher’s right. It wasn’t subtle, but then it didn’t have to be.
Lydia Spelling was animated and she knew how to assert herself. Encouraged from an early age to express herself and fully confident that she was a worthwhile thing to express, she left Christopher in no doubt that she found him an attractive prospect. As an American heiress she enjoyed a freedom of movement and association that was reserved in Europe solely for married women.
When Christopher finally left New York, he had made no commitment and yet an understanding of sorts had been reached. Lydia was attractive and popular at any event. He did not love her, but making her his wife did not seem such a high price to pay for a lifetime free from financial worry. No sacrifice would be too great if he could restore some of Chalfont’s glories and ensure a more stable future.
* * *
Christopher was ensconced in Chalfont’s
