Chapter Four
D uke lit a candle, rubbed the sleep from his eyes, and dipped a feathered quill into an inkwell to compose a rhyme. He’d seen Jane, been once more in her presence. Her fickleness had disappointed him and yet, even though her betrayal hurt, he knew he could not live without her. After all, her father had approved her marriage to Pembroke. Perhaps once Duke had been declared lost at sea, she’d agreed thinking she had no other choice.
But he had returned. And when two people loved as deeply as they had loved, a man could not walk away.
Closing his eyes, he pictured Jane’s succulent lips exploring his. He imagined the give and take, the push and pull of two bodies united in purpose, riding wave after wave of ecstasy. The remembrance was branded in his mind, a priceless treasure he guarded at all cost. The feel of her skin sliding against his in the throes of passion, her taste, her jasmine scent. It all came flooding back as if their interlude at Colway House had happened only yesterday.
Bloody hell, he could not—would not—lose her. He wanted to relive that heavenly rapture, to feel her arms and legs around him, clinging to him as if her life depended on every move he made. He loved her. Aye, and he would love her until the end of time.
But how did a man write a woman convincingly of these things without being obscene?
Borrow from the Bard.
Bending down to write, three years of yearning poured from his soul.
That gentle form, that lovely face,
Can ne’er to cruelty incline,
Extend to me an act of grace,
And take me for a Valentine.
The clock chimed three times, mocking his endeavor to enthrall.
He lowered his quill, pausing, then crumpled the foolscap and tossed it into the fire.
The fourteenth of February slithered in on an ethereal breath, a swirling spectral haze transforming the minds of youth and fostering budding blooms of love. And he, clever man that he was, recalled their readings of Romeo and Juliet . Sublime. Putting aside his pride, he opened another vein and poured out his emotions.
I kneel a captive at your feet,
Nor do I wish for to be free;
Ah! Fetter me with bands so sweet,
And let me live and die with thee.
He stared at his shipshape script, tested the verse on his tongue, then grimaced, wadding the paper into a ball and throwing it beside the first into the flames.
Pure folly!
He needed the right words to reach Jane’s heart.
*
“I have decided to attend Mrs. Sherborn’s ball,” Jane’s father said, theatrically flipping open the pages of his Monthly Magazine . “And you will accompany us, Jane. It will do you good to be seen.” He peered at her over the edge. “It is time you accepted that your mourning period is at an end.”
“Her mourning period ended a year ago, husband.”
Jane looked at her mother and exchanged a smile, thankful for her assistance. In good times and bad, the tender connection between her parents was an audible, calming balm to her soul.
“Yes, my love. I have tried to be patient but it’s time something is done about it.” The newspaper crackled ominously in Papa’s hands as he adjusted the pages. “The young viscount needs a compass to guide him before he attends Eton.”
She couldn’t bear the thought of saying goodbye to her child. He was all she had left. “Papa, Henry is only two years old.”
“Only two?” He lowered his paper and stared at her incredulously. “My darling daughter, a young lord’s education begins at birth.”
She opened her mouth to protest but Jennings entered the room and announced, “The two-penny postman has arrived, my lord.”
“Very well.” The look on her father’s face warned that he wasn’t pleased with the interruption. He was a good man and meant well, but he was not a sensitive man. The practice of writing and giving poetry for Valentine’s Day confounded him. “Send him in.”
A spry young boy of about eight with red cheeks and dimples like all the other cupids who delivered artilleries of love stepped cautiously into the room before bowing politely. “Milord. Milady.”
“Peter.” Mama motioned for him to join her. “What have you brought us this year?”
Peter passed the items in his hand to her mother, who opened her purse, counted coins, then paid him for his services.
“Milady.” The boy’s mouth formed an o as he gazed at the extra coin in his palm. He picked it up between his forefinger and thumb. “I can’t accept this. Me mum would ’ave me ’ide.”
“Nonsense,” Mama said. “Buy your mother a pretty ribbon for Valentine’s Day and she will forgive you.”
“Thank ye, milady.” The boy’s eyes lit up as he turned for the door. “I’ll do just as ye say.”
“And tell your mother that I will visit her next Wednesday.”
“Aye, milady.” The boy bowed once more, and then he was gone.
Jane peered over the table, her heartbeat accelerating as the seconds ticked by. Had Duke sent an amorous declaration? If not for Henry—
“Husband,” Mama said. “Our worries may soon be over. Jane has received not one, but two valentines.”
Papa dropped his arms, the newspaper crunching under the weight of his elbows. “A valentine? She hasn’t received one in years. Who sent it?”
“It doesn’t say.” Mama handed the cards to Jane, leveling her furrowed brows. “Jane. You don’t think—”
“Let her read them and find out,” Papa snapped irritably.
“No need.” Jane ran her fingers across the orderly script, identifying the sender almost immediately. She met her parents’ stares. “It’s from the baron.”
Papa blinked. “Which baron?”
“Captain Lord Gregory Marmaduke, 1st Baron Marmaduke, the Duke of Castaway Cay.”
“It appears the captain’s lot has improved.” Mama sighed. “Impressive credentials, do you not agree, Cuthbert?”
“So it would seem.” Papa raised his coffee cup and took a sip. The inky blackness of his stare settled on Jane as he peered over the rim before blurting out, “Hughes!”
She jumped and bit down hard on her lower lip, wondering if the change in his attitude had anything to do with Duke.
The servant appeared swiftly. “Yes, my lord.”
“My coffee is cold.”
“Allow me, my lord.” The young man hastened to remove the cup and took it to the sideboard, returning with a fresh, steaming brew. “Is this satisfactory?”
Papa took a drink, smiled happily then nodded. “Well,” he said. “Are you going to read your valentine or leave us in suspense?”
“Aloud?” How mortifying! Her mind spun. Every effort to push Duke away had failed, endangering her heart. What was she to do? A Valentine card was a visual, open declaration, an invitation sure to thaw her heart, increasing the danger.
If Duke discovered the truth—
“Jane? Are you unwell?” her mother asked with concern.
“I am quite well, Mama. I assure you.” Liar! Oh, what she wouldn’t give to be left alone to read Duke’s rhymes.
To prove it, she flipped the card over and broke the wax seal—an embossed letter M . Her fingers shook, frustrating her attempts to open the foolscap.
The effort provided breathtaking reward as the interior revealed detailed pinpricks along the paper’s edge. Colorful drawings of cupids and hearts drew attention to the perfect script written between the folds.
She pressed her lips and closed her eyes then read the verses one by one.
Oh! that lovely face I see,
Let us forget inconstancy;
It has caused pain but I shall endure,
For you alone can work the cure.
For you most anxiously I’m sighing,
In short I am with love quite dying.
Tell me not that I am too late,
Or a victim of troublesome Fate.
Tell me only that you love me still,
For I love you and I always will.
A stab of guilt buried deep in her chest, making her ashamed of the power he’d placed in her hands, of her unwillingness to accept that he had never stopped loving her.
“Are you unwell, Jane?” her father asked this time, staring at her intently.
She shot her father a withering glance. “I do not know.”
“Why, you act as if you’ve never received a Valentine from Marmaduke before,” he said leaning over the table with concern. “In my opinion, the practice is tawdry and indecent.”
She began to shake, the fragile control she had over her emotions beginning to crack. Did Papa approve of Duke’s renewed interest? Regardless, she was not worthy of Duke’s love. Not after the way she had deceived everyone. She swallowed back a sob.
“What have I said now?”
“Nothing, Papa.” Her defenses crumbled. “Everything.”
His sharp, assessing eyes studied her. “Why don’t you read the next one.”
“Papa, I—”
“Aloud.”
What would her father think if the passion in the next card surpassed the first?
“Very well.” She opened the puzzle purse, folded and decorated with verses that were revealed as one peeled back the layers of paper. She cleared her throat before she began. “ ‘What shall I offer to my love which she will deign to take? What sparkling gem will she approve and wear it for my sake?’ ” Her pulse skittered alarmingly. “ ‘My love has not a sordid heart, but where rich treasures mine I freely with my wealth would part to win my Valentine. Say will a ring of purest gold, be welcome unto thee, your lovely finger to enfold, a happy bridegroom me. My fairest maid and Valentine say if you to this gift incline.’ ”
“A marriage proposal?” Papa stood abruptly. “From a Marmaduke!”