Chapter Twelve #2
‘I’m—I’m not hurt,’ she managed to say. ‘I’m just glad you came when you did.
I’m glad it was you.’ She stared up at him, at his tousled hair, his tender blue eyes.
‘I must say, I wasn’t sad to see you plant such a facer on him.
But I can’t see you involved in a scandal for public brawling over me.
It wouldn’t be good for your duke’s dignity. ’
He laughed hoarsely, his breath stirring the loosened curls of her hair. ‘I’ve done worse. And I was happy to see you hold your own, Jane. That blood on his chin! My fierce Diana.’
She laughed. It did feel rather good to know she had held her own. ‘I’m not sure I could have held him off much longer.’ She forced herself to step back from his warmth, to smooth her hair. ‘You won’t tell anyone, will you? How silly I was to get caught like that?’
He frowned. ‘Tell anyone?’
‘I wouldn’t want May to worry, or for my mother to see that Paul’s attentions are so—so persistent.
She knew him when we lived on the Lower East Side, you see; she thinks he’s an Irish lad who came up in the world.
And who knows what Connor would do?’ It would be quite a scandal, after May had worked so hard to make a place for them in society.
‘I wouldn’t want you to be embarrassed either, Benedict.
You’ve been such a good friend to me.’ And she feared friendship was all it could be.
They were ships passing under separate stars, and she treasured what she had with him in that moment too much to gamble it all.
He studied her with a concerned frown on his face, as if he was trying to see more than she wanted to show. His study flickered across her face, searching for signs of truth. ‘Of course I won’t say a word, Jane. But surely you should at least let May know? That man needs to be kept away from you!’
‘I doubt he will bother me now, after what just happened.’ She would be too much trouble, certainly. ‘Surely he will find a more amenable lady to court? It would be much easier for him.’
He shook his head. ‘Jane, some men don’t want it to be easy, they want a challenge. A chase. It seems to make them feel more powerful or something of the sort.’
But Benedict wasn’t like that. He saw her, listened to her, and not just her, but all ladies.
He was a rare man who actually liked women, and she realised how much she treasured that.
‘I don’t want to talk about it any longer.
It’s over and past, thanks to you! We can forget it. Find you your proper American wife.’
His frown deepened. ‘No, Jane. I have to say…’
She didn’t know what else to do, so she impulsively went up on tiptoe and kissed him.
It was soft, quick at first, a way to make him be quiet, to end the whole ugly episode.
But kissing Benedict was nothing at all like Paul’s kiss.
There was warmth in it, intimacy. It didn’t try to prove anything.
It just was. The taste of him, the way he felt against her, was so familiar now, like sunshine and chocolate.
His hands closed over her shoulders, almost as if he would push her away.
But then he groaned, a wild sound from deep inside him, and his arms closed around her to drag her closer, something delicate unfurling into something consuming.
What began as a soft, searching touch of lips was suddenly more insistent, more alive.
His mouth hardened on hers, his tongue tracing the curve of her lips, memorising her, before plunging in to taste her deeply. Everything, every thought and emotion, turned to raw need, and she just wanted more of that kiss, more of him. She had to forget everything else.
He pressed her back against the wall, his open mouth sliding from hers to trace her jaw, her arched neck. He lightly nipped at that sensitive little soft spot just below her ear, making her moan.
How could he do this to her with just a touch?
She was never quite herself when she was with him.
It was too wild, too uncontrolled, but she couldn’t seem to stop it.
She twined her fingers in his hair and dragged his lips to hers again.
He went most obligingly, kissing her with a hot artlessness that ignited her own need, set off all her senses like fireworks.
She pressed herself even closer to him, wanting to be even nearer, to forget there was anything separating them at all. But her sudden movement sent him off-balance, and he stumbled backwards, towards the pathway.
Jane landed hard on top of him, her skirts tumbling around them, making her giggle.
‘Your Grace?’ someone said in a hushed, shocked voice.
‘Jane?’ someone else said, and to Jane’s horror, she knew it was May. All giddiness faded away, and she pushed herself to her feet to face them.
There was a crowd of people, a sea of pale faces beneath elegant hats watching avidly, as if they were at the Academy of Music.
And at their head was the Mrs Astor, right next to May.
It was all a nightmare. It simply had to be.
It couldn’t really be happening. Surely any second she would wake up in her own chamber, Kate snoring beside her, and she would laugh to think Mrs Astor had caught her kissing the duke at the Casino?
Jane closed her eyes, tugged her rumpled sleeve into place and prayed to wake up. But when she opened her eyes, they were all still there. She was trapped, frozen into place.
Benedict, however, recovered quickly. He shook back his hair, held his head high and drew something like a cloak of dukedom around himself. He took her hand, holding onto it as she tried to tug away, and kept her firmly by his side as he smiled at the onlookers.
‘Mrs Astor, Mrs O’Neill; I am so sorry for my behaviour here, it is quite inexcusable.
Jane and I were going to—to announce our betrothal later, after I spoke to Mr O’Neill, but I see we must do so now.
Jane has made me the happiest of men by agreeing to be my wife, and the moment quite overtook me. ’
He sounded so very calm, so steady, and she could not stop shaking. What was happening here?
‘Oh,’ Mrs Astor sighed. Her shock and dismay at seeing her Newport so overturned vanished in an instant, replaced by delight.
It was said that beneath her steeliness, her certainty, was a soft core of romanticism, of delight in matches, and that glowed through her now, her set expression fading into a smile.
‘Oh, Miss O’Neill, Your Grace, I am so pleased to be the first to wish you happiness. ’
Jane suddenly found herself hugged close by May, who was laughing in delight. ‘Oh, Jane! Why didn’t you tell me? How wonderful!’
Jane had no idea what to say, so she just laughed too. This would have to be untangled and mended, but in private. She had to get through this moment now, somehow.
Over May’s shoulder, she saw someone standing at the edge of the crowd: Paul.
His hands curled into fists and he watched the happy scene with a piercing glare.
He was very, very still. It was not loud anger, as when he’d punched Benedict.
It seemed controlled, calculating. He looked like a predator deciding whether to strike.