Chapter 9 #2
“Yes,” Redforth said lightly. “Hector tends to accelerate that effect without meaning to.”
Jane glanced up at him. “Does he?”
“Oh, yes. Though he is trying very hard not to.”
That made Jane falter slightly in her step. “Pardon my directness, my lord, but I do not understand him,” she admitted before she could stop herself.
Redforth’s smile turned faintly knowing. “That,” he said, “is because he does not understand himself either.”
Jane frowned. “That seems unlikely for a duke.”
“It is a consistent trait of most dukes,” Redforth replied.
They paused near the refreshments table. Jane could still feel Hector’s presence somewhere behind her, like a gravity she could not quite pinpoint.
Lord Redforth leaned slightly closer. “If I may offer advice,” he said quietly.
Jane hesitated. “You may try.”
Redforth smiled. “Do not assume his silence is indifference.”
Jane did not respond immediately. Across the hall, she saw Hector again.
Still distant. Still controlled. Still watching.
Jane wondered if the marquess might be trying to say something she was not ready to understand.
Several days later, Jane accompanied her mother to the Ascot grounds. The grounds shimmered under a pale June sky, all bright banners, polished carriages, and the restless hum of aristocratic anticipation.
Jane stood with her mother beneath the shade of a striped awning, the fabric fluttering softly in the warm breeze. Somewhere beyond the railings, horses thundered past in a blur of color and speed, the crowd erupting into scattered cheers.
Her mother adjusted her gloves with careful precision, though her fingers betrayed a faint tremor.
“I still don’t understand why we had to come,” she murmured. “After everything.”
Jane’s gaze stayed on the track. “Because if we don’t, it’s as good as admitting defeat.”
“That is a very bleak way of putting it.”
“It’s the truth.”
Her mother sighed, but there was no real argument left in her. The past few weeks had taken too much from both of them to waste energy on debate.
Still, Jane softened her voice when she added, “And Lavinia insisted. You know what she’s like when she decides something is ‘good for morale.’”
That earned the faintest ghost of a smile from her mother.
Across the field, society glittered in motion. Ladies wore extravagant hats like blooming flowers; gentlemen clustered in confident groups, their laughter rising and falling like waves.
Everything looked unchanged. That was the most unsettling part. The world had not stopped for Colin. It had merely adjusted around his absence.
Jane kept her posture composed, though her thoughts never stopped circling the same dark center.
Colin was still missing.
Zachary was still waiting.
And somewhere, the Duke of Sunderford was still looking.
His name surfaced easily in her mind now, unbidden, like a habit she hadn’t chosen but couldn’t break.
“Lady Jane!”
Lavinia appeared like a burst of sunlight, skirts swishing as she approached with effortless familiarity. Her eyes flicked briefly to Jane’s mother before she smiled warmly.
“You look as though you’ve been standing guard at a prison gate,” Lavinia said lightly.
“I feel like it,” Jane replied.
Lavinia looped her arm through Jane’s with practiced ease. “Come. You need air, not martyrdom.”
Before Jane could object, she was guided a few steps away from her mother into a quieter stretch of the grounds where the noise softened, and the crowd thinned.
Only then did Lavinia’s tone shift slightly. “Any news?”
“No, unfortunately.”
Lavinia’s grip tightened in understanding. “Then we’ll keep moving forward.”
Jane let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. “I am trying.”
“I know you are,” Lavinia said more gently. Then, with a sidelong glance, she added, “You’ve been braver than most of the men here combined.”
Jane almost smiled at that.
They returned toward the main cluster of guests, where conversations flowed easily, and eyes flicked curiously in Jane’s direction before politely looking away. She had become a topic now, one spoken about just loudly enough to be overheard, but never directly addressed.
“The Wynten girl…”
“…such a shame about her brother…”
“…and that broken engagement…”
Jane kept her chin lifted as if none of it could touch her. She had learned that silence was often mistaken for weakness. She would not give them that satisfaction. She knew she should be used to it by now, but she absolutely wasn’t.
A group of younger lords stood near the betting sheets, laughing too loudly at something one of them had said. One of them, tall, blond, and confident in the way only men untouched by consequence could be, looked toward Jane with mild curiosity.
Lavinia nudged her slightly. “Go on.”
“I don’t think—”
“You do think,” Lavinia cut in. “That’s the problem. Go and speak to them.”
Jane exhaled slowly, then crossed the distance.
The conversation started politely enough. Introductions, idle remarks about the weather, and a brief discussion about the races. One of the gentlemen, Lord Harrow, asked her opinion on a horse she hadn’t seen running yet. Jane answered carefully, and for a moment, it almost felt normal.
Then, another younger man with an air of arrogance let his gaze flick over her too slowly. “I suppose,” he said lightly, “one must admire your perseverance, Lady Jane. Not many would continue attending public events after… well…”
The pause was deliberate. He wanted her to fill it.
Jane felt the shift immediately, and she attempted to dislodge the lump that had risen in her throat. “After what, my lord?”
“Oh, nothing,” he said with a shrug that didn’t match his expression. “Just your current, unfortunate circumstances. I can’t decide whether it is brave or foolish of you and your family to be in the public eye in light of such scandal.”
The words unfortunate and scandal landed like stones. Something in Jane’s expression must have changed, because Lavinia, still standing close by, stiffened.
“I believe,” Jane said, trying to keep her tone measured despite her humiliation, “that to continue with this would be most unwise, as you may say something you ought not to, my lord. Something about which you know very little… except for untruths gleaned from overheard gossip.”
The man gave a faint laugh and raised his hands in mock surrender. “No need for such theatrics, my lady. I meant no offense.”
“You rarely do,” a new voice cut in.
The group turned. Hector Lockwood stood just behind them as though he had materialized from thin air. The duke seemed to have quite the knack for appearing at Jane’s side whenever the need arose.
She let go of a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. How does he know exactly where to be and when?
She felt relief flooding through her entire chest, as if the air itself had suddenly changed temperature.
As usual, the duke was dressed impeccably for the occasion—dark coat, composed posture—and his expression carved into something controlled and dangerously calm. His gaze did not linger on anyone except the man who had spoken.
But it was enough. The laughter around the group died almost immediately.
“I believe,” Hector continued, “you have made a foolish error of judgment. Were you or were you not attempting to express your ill-informed views about Lady Jane and her family?”
The man shifted slightly. “Your Grace, I didn’t mean—”
“I’m not interested in what you meant,” Hector said quietly. “I’m interested in why you, or anyone else for that matter, deems this sort of behavior acceptable.”
Jane watched him. Much like the evening of the musicale, when he had come to her rescue, there was no raised voice, no overt threat. And yet the man in front of the duke looked as though he had just been struck across the face.
The lord swallowed. “I was merely jesting, Your Grace.”