To Love a Lord (12 page)

With little help from the marquess, Jane whipped around. Nothing was decided. “I am extremely grateful.” What was one more lie atop the mountains of mistruths she’d constructed? “I do not,” she held up her hands warding off the other woman’s efforts. “Require any gowns.”

Chloe ignored her and continued with the modiste. “In two nights, we will be attending Rossini’s premiere and Mrs. Munroe must have a gown prepared.”

The woman’s slight frown bespoke her displeasure. “Eez impossible to have a gown readied. I am a veery busy woman with many orders for—”

“My brother,” Chloe motioned to Gabriel, “will pay you quite handsomely for the one.” She smiled. “Well, all of them.” She squared her jaw, all hint of meek, polite miss gone. “But for this evening we require the one.”

“Oh, no.” Jane gave her head an emphatic shake. “I will wear my Sunday dress. I do not need—”

“Don’t be silly,” Chloe scolded. “Tell her not to be silly, Gabriel.”

Jane looked imploringly to a stoic Gabriel. He gave a slight shrug of his broad shoulders. There was little help coming there. She returned her entreaty to Chloe. “I cannot.” Not when she’d already lied her way into the man’s household. She’d not add lavish gowns to her crimes. She looked pleadingly to Gabriel, but he remained stoic and unmoving as he’d been since their first meeting several days earlier.

Alas, not one of the present trio appeared concerned with what Jane wanted.

At the mention of a hefty purse, the sneering modiste turned smiling. “Of course, I can have one prepared.” The woman with a suddenly very English-sounding accent hurried over and took Jane by the shoulders. “
Oui, mademoiselle
. You are in need of gowns. Let Madame Clairemont help you. With but a little help, you will be very nearly pretty.”

Chloe shot her an apologetic look and despite the fast-spreading panic, an unexpected laugh bubbled up her throat.

Having clearly sensed capitulation, Chloe clapped her hands and then took Jane by the hand. “Come along.” She waved to Gabriel. “Off you go, then. We must keep Jane a surprise for y—” she quickly cut the words short, a blush on her cheeks. “Yes, very well. Off you go.”

Jane looked to Gabriel once more, desperately wishing the coolly aloof gentleman who’d turned her out after a brief meeting would point out that there was no need for such a purchase—not on behalf of his sister’s companion.

He sketched a quick bow and, with a heavy dose of relief stamped on the angular planes of his face, he hurried from the shop.

Coward.

Though—she eyed the front door he disappeared out of enviously, tempted to race after him.

“What of this color, Jane?” Chloe held up a soft pink fabric.

Alas, Gabriel’s sister had altogether different plans for her. With a sigh, she allowed the two women to drag her forward to be fitted for something more than dragon skirts.

And the unexpected thrill that went through her was not excitement.

Jane sighed. Then, she’d proven herself a liar just by joining Gabriel’s family. She was the very tiniest bit excited.

L
ady Chloe Edgerton marched with a military precision Lord Wellington himself would have admired. She neatly steered Jane through the crowded streets, while keeping her gaze fixed determinedly ahead of them.

Gabriel followed his sister’s stare to the black and gold sign: Harding Howell and Co. An involuntary groan escaped him. He and Jane spoke in unison.

“Not another blasted shop.”

“Surely, we’ve completed our shopping for the day.”

Granted, his sister’s companion’s words were a good deal more appropriate than his. Jane shot him a sideways, commiserative glance, an apology there. He inclined his head. It was hardly Mrs. Jane Munroe’s fault that his sister had set her mind on the day’s activities.

“We must bring Jane to Harding’s.”

“No,” Jane said firmly with a shake of her head. “No, you do not. Please,” there was an entreaty he’d not imagined Jane Munroe capable of. “You’ve been overly generous. There is nothing else I require.”

His sister slowed her determined steps and steered Jane to a halt. She jabbed a finger in the air. “Fans.”

“Fans,” Jane and Gabriel parroted.

And all of a sudden, Chloe, who’d detested any and every trip to the modiste and milliners, had discovered a love of fashion. She nodded her head vigorously. “Yes. A fan. You require a—” She glared at Jane when she opened her mouth to speak. “And do not say you are just a companion. Is that clear?” With that, she took Jane by the hand and yanked her inside the shop.

Jane cast a desperate glance over her shoulder. Despite the havoc wrought by the infernal closeness to his sister’s tart-mouthed companion, a grin turned his lips. She narrowed her eyes, as though she’d followed the exact direction of his thoughts. He knew her but a handful of days and yet knew her enough to know precisely how to needle the young woman. Gabriel winked.

Her eyes flew wide in her face. Whatever furious response she likely planned with blistering words were effectively quelled by his determined sister. Chloe motioned to the back of the expansive shop. “At the very least, you’ll require one fan.” With that, she marched down the rows draped in fabrics, passed by other shoppers, onward, to the rear of the establishment.

Jane shot a long glance over her shoulder at the door, as though contemplating escape. Gabriel wandered close, closer than was proper or appropriate and attracted assessing stares from the other patrons. “A woman who’d boldly challenge me with an empty plate in my own breakfast room wouldn’t be so cowardly as to run from a fan.”

She shoved her spectacles higher on her nose. “There is sizeable conceit to a charge from a gentleman who ran from the modiste as though his heels were on fire.”

A bark of laughter escaped him. The boisterous sound of his mirth earning all the more attention.

Jane’s cheeks pinkened to a soft pale hue. “Must you do that?” she said from the corner of her mouth. “You are earning whispers.” Without awaiting his reply, she made her way down the aisle. She moved past the furs and the muslins without sparing a glance for any of the expensive fabrics.

He’d long ago ceased to give a fig for what members of
polite
Society thought. “I don’t give a jot about whispers or gossip.” It was hard to respect or trust a lot who’d revered the previous Marquess of Waverly.

She gave him a reproachful look. “Some of us do not have the luxury of being permitted the opportunity to thumb our noses at Society.”

Her words gave him pause, as he was momentarily humbled by the proof of his own conceit. Of course a young woman whose station and safety in life was inextricably intertwined with her moral appearance would indeed worry. With two long strides, Gabriel moved ahead of her. He planted himself before her, effectively ending her retreat. “Forgive me.”

Her eyes formed round circles. “You apologized,” she blurted. Was her opinion of noblemen truly so low? Or was it men in general who’d earned the lady’s wariness? He knew the ugliness of man. That she also knew some manner of ugliness dug at him.

“Despite my pomposity, I am not a total boor in terms of manners.”

“I didn’t say you—”

He dipped his head close. “I was teasing, Jane.”

“Oh.” A golden curl popped loose of her hideous chignon. She brushed the strand back, but the tress refused to comply. Gabriel took in that strand he’d caressed a short while ago. He peered past her spectacles and that painfully tight coiffure. By God…if one looked past the dragon skirts and severe hairstyle, Jane Munroe really was—by God, she was quite captivating.

“What is it?” she asked, still warring with that loose strand, a strand he gladly wished to see her lose. Those curls should not be smoothed straight but rather worn in their natural way, tight spirals that hung loose about her shoulders.

Reluctantly he released his hold on her silken blonde tress. “I don’t know another woman who would not revel in the purchase of fabrics and fans and fripperies.”

“You do your sister a disservice with your assertion.”

Goodness, she was a loyal thing, or she was adept at steering even the hint of compliments away from herself. Another protective measure? “You are indeed, correct. But for my sister, I do not know another, then. Aside from you.” That truth, the evidence of her character, a person who, presented with limitless garments and fripperies, should protest and fight at every turn, spoke volumes of who she was.

Gabriel expected another curt response. Instead, she picked up a strip of satin fabric and rubbed it between her fingers. He studied that subtle movement, hating himself for envying a slip of fabric. “I don’t desire fabrics and fripperies as you call them because there is little worth in them.”

He eyed the fine French fabrics that would put broke a lesser lord attiring his sister’s companion.

“I do not refer to monetary value,” Jane explained, accurately interpreting his musings. She let the satin fall and it landed in a soft, noiseless bounce atop the pile. “I am sure these fabrics together cost more than my earnings at Mrs. Belden’s.” Those words from any other young woman would have been intended to elicit sympathy. From Jane, however, they came out matter-of-fact. “A lady’s gowns and garments do not define her, my lord.” Unrestrained emotion filled her eyes and Jane pressed a hand to her chest. “It is who she truly is—her actions, her thoughts, her beliefs. That is what truly defines a woman.”

How many women aspired to the material and desired status? By the passion in Jane’s eyes and the fervor of her tone, she longed to be seen for more. Her quick-wit, coupled with her calm pragmatisms, was enough to rob a man of logic. Then he made the mistake of dropping his gaze lower, to her pert nose, ever lower to those tantalizing lips, and, God forgive him for having accused his brother of being a rogue, but Gabriel moved his stare downward to the modest bodice of her dress. There was nothing the least captivating or alluring about the drab brown dragon skirts as Chloe had referred to them. Yet, staring at Jane with the thrum of other patrons milling about the shop and a humming in his ears, he appreciated the extent of his own depravity. He momentarily closed his eyes. And he hated himself for it.

“My lord?” Jane whispered. It was a spark in her eyes and the parting of her moist lips.

Gabriel swallowed hard. She too felt this pull between them. “Yes.”

“Will you step aside? Lady Chloe is motioning to me.”

He tripped over his feet in his haste to get away. A humiliated heat climbed his neck and as Jane rushed past him, Gabriel tugged at his cravat. There was something quite humbling in being so dismissed. Then, he’d never possessed the heavy dose of charm of his younger brother or any of those other rogues so favored by the ladies.

Yet, standing there amidst the aisles of fabric, with his gaze trained on Jane’s swiftly retreating frame, she paused to cast a final glance at him.

He grinned and favored her with one more wink—

She crashed into a table of hats. Several toppled over and fell silently to the floor. Once again, the other ladies present peered condescendingly at the young lady. “Forgive me,” Jane apologized and hastily fell to her knee to rescue the handful of creations at her feet. Her apologies were met with further sneers. His sister’s companion made quick work of picking up each bonnet, one at a time. The faintest, almost imperceptible tremble to her fingers hinted at her quiet shame.

A powerful, consuming rage manifested in the form of a low growl in his throat. He strode forward, detesting a world in which lords and ladies saw her as a stranger and for that, an interloper in their existence.

Chloe raced forward. She skidded to a halt beside Jane and dropped to a knee beside her. “You needn’t worry, Jane,” she said on a whisper loud enough for all nearby busybodies to hear. “They are just bonnets. No more or less important than any of the other pieces here.” She directed those words at a plump matron who had the good grace to blush and then hurry on her way.

Jane gave a weak smile. “Thank you.”

Gabriel stopped beside them. He held a hand out first for his sister and then Jane. She hesitated a moment and then placed her gloved fingertips in his. A shock of awareness penetrated the thin kidskin of the fabric, searing his palm. She smiled and, with her murmur of thanks, conveyed how wholly unaffected she was by him.

Good. Her response was the safer one. Any other passionate kisses and desirous looks would weaken him in ways he’d never allow. He’d never allow himself to be vulnerable.

*

As Jane followed Chloe to the display of fans, shame consumed her. She’d spoken to Gabriel of actions and thoughts and a person’s worth, and in actuality, there was no more dishonorable person than she. For
Mrs
. Jane Munroe, none other than
Miss
Jane Munroe, bastard daughter of the Duke of Ravenscourt, was a liar. She was here accepting his sister’s kindness and gowns and garments that she had no right to.

“Jane?”

She looked up.

Chloe snapped open a pink satin fan with a wooden frame. She handed it over.