Chapter Fourteen
Jane sat in the window seat of her bedchamber, wrapped in her dressing gown, staring down at the garden below.
She could be doing a million things, should be doing.
It was the day of the party, the house-warming gala everyone had anticipated for so long.
Florists, caterers and modistes had been arriving all day, hurrying back and forth.
The pavilion on the lawn was being hammered together, meant for the midnight buffet and one of the dance orchestras, the banging fighting with the rehearsal of waltzes and polkas.
She watched Kate run around, getting in the way of the workmen, and saw May hurrying by with her endless lists. Connor had escaped to his club.
But Jane couldn’t move from her cushioned spot.
She hadn’t been able to sleep after returning from the city; she had tossed and turned as memories and doubts washed over her.
At dawn, when the light had glowed peach, gold and lavender on the water, she’d finally given up on sleep and moved to the window seat.
It was usually her favourite spot for reading and daydreaming, but today she couldn’t even begin to focus on a book. She could only think about Benedict.
She longed not to be afraid any more, to reach for something she yearned for even as she knew it was an illusion. Benedict’s suggestion that they marry was only something convenient; there had been no romantic words in it. She knew he liked her, but was that all?
It could never be enough, just liking, tolerating. Not now. She’d spent her life avoiding commitments; she couldn’t give in now.
She stared down at the lawn. She thought of how he had come to her at the school, how for a moment she had hoped something could be salvaged. But then he’d looked so confused, so resigned! There’d been such a coldness between them in that moment.
She knew now she had actually begun to hope without even realising it was happening.
Hope she could love Benedict and still do her work, still live a life of meaning—with him.
Even more, she’d hoped he could love her in return; could know her, accept her.
From the moment they’d met at that bookshop, it had felt as if they were bonded in some way.
That they had a connection, the two of them seeing the world in the same way.
She hadn’t even known those fragile, delicate hopes, beautiful as drops of morning dew, were there until they’d vanished.
How could she have imagined for a second she could be a duchess? Paul was actually right about that. Benedict was everything a lady could hope for—handsome, charming and titled. Everyone envied her when she danced with him or walked with him. It had felt—nice. And she’d hoped for more.
The difference between a loving kiss and a forced one is the difference between being chosen and being taken, Meg had said at the school, and Jane was sure she was right.
It was safer never to marry, never to trust her heart; never be taken.
Then again, Jane had never imagined meeting anyone like Benedict.
But then he’d turned out to be just like a duke, after all.
She’d dared to imagine what it might be like if he’d really proposed, and it was nothing at all like what had actually happened.
It was as if she’d tumbled down from a sun-washed mountain top to a shadowed valley.
He’d made her think she saw things in herself she’d never fathomed, that she was strong, adventurous, a little wild, and she had wondered if they could be unstoppably themselves together, be seen and known. But she’d never known him at all.
She thought of his cold suggestion that they marry just because it would be easy, no soft words at all, nothing personal… How had she imagined things so differently? What was wrong with her?
There was a quick knock at the chamber door, and Jane quickly brushed at her prickly eyes before May hurried inside. The blue ribbons on her striped day-dress were awry, as if she had been rushing too fast, and she held thick sheaves of lists in her hands.
‘Jane!’ she cried, her eyes widening when she saw Jane still her in dressing gown. ‘Are you ill? It’s getting late! Daisy will be here to fix your hair soon.’
Jane glanced out of the window again and saw it was indeed later than she’d thought. The light along the shore was turning misty and pale pink. ‘I am sorry, May. I just…’ Her voice cracked on a threatened sob.
‘Oh, my dear, you are ill.’ Her eyes filled with concern, May dropped her lists and sat down next to Jane. She pressed her cool fingers to Jane’s forehead and smoothed her tangled hair. ‘Do you need the doctor? You do look pale.’
Jane squeezed May’s hand as she shook her head. ‘Not ill, just… Oh, May, I don’t know. I’m so sorry I’m ruining your glorious party.’
‘You could never do that. But something is definitely amiss, I can tell. What is it?’ She frowned. ‘Did something terrible happen between you and Benedict? Did you quarrel? I did wonder when you ran off to the city so suddenly.’
To Jane’s horror, she burst into tears before she could stop herself.
‘Oh, darling.’
It came pouring out of her in the face of May’s sympathy, her heart too full to hold it any longer.
Well, not all of it, of course; not her scheme with Benedict to help him find the right American wife.
But she poured out her doubts, her dashed hopes, her fear that he could not want her, not really. And May, as she always did, understood.
‘Well, we shall show him,’ May said stoutly.
She rose to her feet, pulling Jane with her.
‘Duke or not, we are O’Neills and we deserve better than that!
You deserve someone who thinks you are the most special person in all the world.
We will go out there and have the grandest party anyone ever saw in Newport.
You will fall in love with—with a Romanian prince or something! And then Benedict will be very sorry.’
Jane had to laugh. ‘Is a prince on the invitation list?’
‘Sadly not. But we will find one out there somewhere, and we will have a marvellous evening. Come along now.’
Daisy hurried in, leading a small army of maids who set up the bath and laid out Jane’s gown for the evening.
It was her favourite from the latest delivery from Worth, a twilight-blue satin embroidered with silver stars that twinkled with crystal beads, catching every bit of light and shimmering like the seaside night itself.
The tulle train drifted and undulated as if a breeze caught it.
Jane had hoped Benedict would see her in it and…what? Admire her? Declare undying love? She should have known better. That would never happen.
The butler followed, an immense bouquet in his arms. ‘These just arrived for you, Miss Jane,’ he said.
Jane turned and saw it was yellow roses, the lush, sunshine flowers she’d seen in the florist’s window with Benedict.
Her fingers hesitated for a moment before she reached for one of the velvety petals, as if touching it would somehow make the moment, the gift, real.
Every petal seemed to hold a secret. What did they mean?
Why had he sent them now? Her mind spun with possibilities, but her heart tried to stay cautious.
Still, the sweet scent lingered like hope.
May read the card and shook her head. ‘My goodness. Maybe we need to keep a tiny space for the duke after all.’
Benedict stared into the mirror, but didn’t see himself at all.
He didn’t see his finely tailored black coat, his cream satin waistcoat or his carefully brushed hair.
He only saw the evening ahead at Shore’s Edge, and beyond that the future stretching on and on back at Rollston: his duty, his work, without Jane to bring sunshine into the grey days.
He had to tell her the ugly truth about his family, his parents, himself. He had to tell her why he required a dutiful marriage, why he could never let himself love. He wanted to give love, to receive it, but it only led to pain in the end. It did not last. The ghosts always came back.
Jane was kindness and light itself. She deserved only the best in life, someone to give her their full heart.
He had been selfish, taking so much time with her, because those moments were the best he had ever known.
He’d told himself just one more day, one more hour.
He had become addicted to her. He needed her, needed the way her presence made the world feel more vivid, more bearable, more real.
He thought of the way she made him laugh without trying, the way his mind settled when she was near, her gaze meeting his as if she always understood him.
He had been wrong to hold onto that for so long. He had to let her go now, for her own sake. He would do the right thing now. He would tell her the truth and walk away.
There was a quick knock at the door, and Aunt Louisa hurried in, straightening her gloves. ‘Benny, dear, are you ready? It’s an important evening, you know!’
‘Is it?’ he murmured.
‘You know it is! The season is almost over. Have you chosen a bride yet?’ She shot him a sidelong glance. ‘You have been spending a great deal of time with Miss O’Neill, and I heard you made an announcement…’
‘Indeed. She has been helping me with information about the eligible young ladies of Newport.’
‘Is that all?’ Louisa cried.
‘That is all.’
‘So have you made a different choice?’ she asked, obviously baffled.
He shook his head. He had to make his choice very soon. But first, he dared to hope for just one more dance. One more chance.