The Passionate Love of a Rake. Jane Lark
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A mouse-like shop assistant was immediately at her side. Jane dismissed him with a flick of her hand.
“I have merely come to browse.”
Her heart was still pounding in a steady thump, the pace of a grandfather clock. She could see Robert’s curricle through the shop window. It stood vacant.
Hiding her agitation, she took an aisle between the narrow shelves and hurried to its end, then slipped about the corner and stood with her back against the end of the row. Her breathing was ragged and unsteady.
The shop bell rang again.
Glancing along the back row of books, Jane saw a middle-aged gentleman studying the shelves at the end of the next aisle. She busied herself reading the spines of the books on the shelf facing her.
Heavy, confident strides echoed along the aisle beside her.
Jane held her breath, unsure whether to try to run or simply stay and face whichever one of her antagonists it was.
“Jane.”
Robert.
Her breath slipped out on a deep sigh, and, despite herself, she had a sudden feeling of relief. His familiar face was a comfort, even if he was glaring at her.
“I was on my way to call upon you. I do not see why there is any need to avoid me? I am surely not such a monster. I believe the other night was—”
She shot him a meaningful look and turned her gaze to the gentleman further along the aisle.
Robert looked contrite when she faced him again. “Perhaps we could look for a tea shop?”
“No, thank you, my Lord. I am busy.” Her initial relief had waned. She had nothing to say to him, after all, and he was the last person she would wish to know of her problems with Joshua.
She moved to pass him, but he gripped her elbow, though not painfully, just with a pressure she felt sought to deliver some message he could not speak in public.
“I was bringing your winnings,” he said in an over-earnest voice, his eyebrows lifting, “and—”
“Look, my Lord, I gave you no money, they are not really my winnings. Keep it. Please. I am shopping.” Whatever it was he wished to say, she did not wish to hear it. She had enough concerns without Robert making her life more complicated.
His brow furrowed, and his eyes studied her with greater intensity. “Ja—”
She glared at him and moved her eyes to remind him of the gentleman playing audience.
He recommenced, “Your Grace, I thought only to offer to take you for a drive. If you are busy today, what if I called tomorrow?”
Jane lost patience. She was in no mood for his dogged denial. She’d slept poorly the night before, and she was far too tired to play Robert’s cat and mouse games. She neither had the time nor the inclination for it. She was still feeling shaky from her flight from Joshua. She just wished Robert would accept that no meant no. “Or, my Lord, you could simply not call.” Jane knew her reaction was waspish, but she was exhausted. He knew nothing of her now.
His eyes narrowed. “Not call?” His voice said he thought her completely mad.
Jane backed away a single step, her arm pulling against his grip. Why must he make things even harder? Her gloved hand lay on his chest, on his morning coat, over his heart, holding him back as he would have stepped forward. “Please, my Lord, just leave me alone. I have enough to cope with at the moment.”
His expression clearing, he answered curtly, “If that is what you wish.” Then his fingers let go her arm and lifted to the brim of his hat, and he bowed. “Your Grace, excuse my interruption.” He turned on his heel and began walking away. But at that moment, the shop bell rang again.
Jane looked along the aisle and saw Violet’s footman, and beyond him, through the glass door, Joshua’s curricle stood before the shop.
Damn the man.
She looked back at what was currently the lesser of two evils, her gaze narrowing on her former swain’s back. “Lord Barrington! Wait! If you would?”
He halted and turned back, lifting his gloved hands in an expression of disbelief.
“Either you wish me to stay or you wish me to go? Which is it, Your Grace?”
Fully able to swallow her pride for the sake of security, Jane rushed forward and gripped his arm. “It is stay. Please, my Lord, would you take me home? My head is aching. I do not feel up to walking now. If you would take me up in your phaeton, I would be extremely grateful.”
“Lord, Jane, you do blow hot and cold,” he whispered in a growl.
She said nothing, but, gripping the crook of his arm, let him lead her along the aisle.
“Jack,” she said to the footman as they reached the door, “Lord Barrington is going to escort me. I will no longer be walking.”
“Your Grace.” The man bowed, but she caught his look of confusion as he rose.
“Your Grace?” She turned her attention back to Robert, at the question in his voice. “Is something wrong?” His words were solicitous and quietly spoken, his deep burr just for her ears as he drew open the door for her. “Are you truly unwell? You’re shaking.”
She looked up and met his gaze about the rim of her bonnet and offered him a restrained smile. “I will be fine, my Lord, if you would just escort me home.”
Robert eyed Jane with uncertainty, taking her hand then helping her up into the high seat of his curricle. He could feel her fingers trembling. She was nervous and agitated, and he would swear there was something more to this he did not understand. One minute she’d been brushing him off, the next asking for his assistance. “She’s vulnerable.” Sparks’s words echoed in Robert’s head.
Did Lady Rimes know something no one else did?
He walked about the curricle then climbed up to sit beside her.
She was balanced on the edge of her seat, her back rigid and her fingers clasped over her reticule on her lap. Her profile was half-hidden behind the rim of her bonnet as she faced forward. All he could see was her pursed lips.
His groom passed up the reins then returned to stand on the plate at the rear.
Jane’s teeth clasped her lower lip as she kept looking ahead.
Robert faced the street and saw a vehicle disappearing about a corner further along. He flicked the reins, got his animals underway, and saw her fingers lift to her brow in the periphery of his vision.
Her head turned to look at the shops on the other side of the street, leaving him with a view of the back of her bonnet.
He felt frustrated, and if he were truthful with himself, a little riled. He waited for a gap in the flow of traffic then turned the team, taking them off Oxford Street, away from the bustle and hum, on to Bond Street.
Once he’d negotiated the turn, he glanced at her again. She was still silent and apparently intending to ignore him for the whole journey.
“Is something wrong, Jane?”
He did not remember this quiet, stubborn woman at all.
She did not answer.
The silence was filled by the sound of the horses as their iron-shod hooves struck the cobble, their whinnies and heavy breath, the creak of leather and jangle of the metallic tack, the rattling approach of other carriages passing, and the occasional shout from street vendors.
“Jane?” he pressed again at length, drawing