give him time to right his balance. He should have taken longer to get used to being among mortals again before he ever went to Jane. He had to remember that until the Fae took this place back from the ironmongers and fools, this mortal world could be nothing more than enemy territory to him.
Even while Jane DeWitte walked in it.
Ten
“A message for Lady Jane.” The footman held out the silver tray bearing a neatly sealed letter and a visiting card.
Jane glanced at the duchess for permission and received a nod and a languorous wave. She was, Jane suspected, grateful for the interruption. They had been in the parlor for over an hour, laboring with conversational English and the results of Jane’s latest shopping tour. The weather outside had turned foul with a cold, heavy rain and the drapes had been drawn shut. Despite the fire roaring in the wide hearth, the room remained chill. The windows, which Jane had so admired upon their arrival, were proving dishearteningly drafty. Frau Seibold had piled the duchess with so many quilts and blankets she was near invisible beneath the heap of fabric.
“Thank you,” said Jane to the footman as she picked up the letter and the card. The letter was addressed in a thin, crooked hand she did not immediately recognize. But the card . . . Jane’s throat closed around her breath. The plain card with its flowing black script read:
Sir Thomas Lynne
“Did . . . did the gentleman say if he expected a reply?” The words emerged as little more than a hoarse croak. Yearning filled her, intense and immediate. He had not called her last night, and she’d tossed and turned, desperately afraid she’d done something to drive him away. As she read his name now, Jane wanted nothing so much in the world than to have him beside her, to see his smile and touch his hand.
“A gentleman?” The duchess straightened up, dislodging some quilts and shawls. Frau Seibold swooped down on her, and the duchess waved her off impatiently. “For you, Jane?”
With an extreme effort of will, Jane assumed a casual air. “An acquaintance, ma’am. The godson of my mother’s friend, Mrs. Beauchamp. I met her the other day while running my errands, and she said she would be sending me an invitation to visit one afternoon.” Jane held up the letter.
“But it is not an encounter with your mother’s friend that makes you blush so.” Jane’s hand flew to her cheek, and the duchess chuckled. “I see Captain Conroy was right.”
Conroy? “Ma’am?”
“He told me that you had been speaking with a man.” The duchess beamed and switched to her labored English. “Does the gentleman wait?” she asked the footman. “You tell him come in, Simmons, and for more coffee send.”
The footman bowed and departed.
Thomas. Jane’s heart pounded against her ribs. Thomas was in the house and in a moment he would be in the room. Her heart constricted with a joyful pain for a moment before reason reasserted itself. This could not be. She could not let the duchess see how she looked at this man. Her countenance already betrayed enough. Her mind was an absolute riot, but even so, one question rose up clear of the storm.
How in Heaven’s name did Conroy know who she’d met in the street?
“Your grace, really, this is not necessary. I can . . .”
But the duchess simply continued to smile. “Probably it is not. But I am dull this morning,” she said, once more lapsing into German. “And make no progress with lessons. I would meet this man with his invitation for you.”
The words were mild, but Jane recognized the undertone of assumption and command. She subsided, and concentrated on keeping her hands still so she didn’t crumple the unopened letter. The duchess snapped and fussed at Frau Seibold to remove all the quilts and Frau Seibold murmured about the vile English weather and drafts and the imperative of minding Her Grace’s health, and compromised on one quilt and two shawls.
I can do this, Jane
Even while Jane DeWitte walked in it.
Ten
“A message for Lady Jane.” The footman held out the silver tray bearing a neatly sealed letter and a visiting card.
Jane glanced at the duchess for permission and received a nod and a languorous wave. She was, Jane suspected, grateful for the interruption. They had been in the parlor for over an hour, laboring with conversational English and the results of Jane’s latest shopping tour. The weather outside had turned foul with a cold, heavy rain and the drapes had been drawn shut. Despite the fire roaring in the wide hearth, the room remained chill. The windows, which Jane had so admired upon their arrival, were proving dishearteningly drafty. Frau Seibold had piled the duchess with so many quilts and blankets she was near invisible beneath the heap of fabric.
“Thank you,” said Jane to the footman as she picked up the letter and the card. The letter was addressed in a thin, crooked hand she did not immediately recognize. But the card . . . Jane’s throat closed around her breath. The plain card with its flowing black script read:
Sir Thomas Lynne
“Did . . . did the gentleman say if he expected a reply?” The words emerged as little more than a hoarse croak. Yearning filled her, intense and immediate. He had not called her last night, and she’d tossed and turned, desperately afraid she’d done something to drive him away. As she read his name now, Jane wanted nothing so much in the world than to have him beside her, to see his smile and touch his hand.
“A gentleman?” The duchess straightened up, dislodging some quilts and shawls. Frau Seibold swooped down on her, and the duchess waved her off impatiently. “For you, Jane?”
With an extreme effort of will, Jane assumed a casual air. “An acquaintance, ma’am. The godson of my mother’s friend, Mrs. Beauchamp. I met her the other day while running my errands, and she said she would be sending me an invitation to visit one afternoon.” Jane held up the letter.
“But it is not an encounter with your mother’s friend that makes you blush so.” Jane’s hand flew to her cheek, and the duchess chuckled. “I see Captain Conroy was right.”
Conroy? “Ma’am?”
“He told me that you had been speaking with a man.” The duchess beamed and switched to her labored English. “Does the gentleman wait?” she asked the footman. “You tell him come in, Simmons, and for more coffee send.”
The footman bowed and departed.
Thomas. Jane’s heart pounded against her ribs. Thomas was in the house and in a moment he would be in the room. Her heart constricted with a joyful pain for a moment before reason reasserted itself. This could not be. She could not let the duchess see how she looked at this man. Her countenance already betrayed enough. Her mind was an absolute riot, but even so, one question rose up clear of the storm.
How in Heaven’s name did Conroy know who she’d met in the street?
“Your grace, really, this is not necessary. I can . . .”
But the duchess simply continued to smile. “Probably it is not. But I am dull this morning,” she said, once more lapsing into German. “And make no progress with lessons. I would meet this man with his invitation for you.”
The words were mild, but Jane recognized the undertone of assumption and command. She subsided, and concentrated on keeping her hands still so she didn’t crumple the unopened letter. The duchess snapped and fussed at Frau Seibold to remove all the quilts and Frau Seibold murmured about the vile English weather and drafts and the imperative of minding Her Grace’s health, and compromised on one quilt and two shawls.
I can do this, Jane
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