Page 61 of The Defiant Governess
But Saybrook was another matter. It was as if he were at the other end of the earth. In the two days since his arrival he had barely uttered a word during meals and retired immediately afterward. Unable to ride, he spent most of his time taking long, solitary walks or sequestering himself in the duke’s library. Not once had he spoken a direct word to her.
In fact, it was obvious he went to great pains to avoid being in her presence.
She felt the sting of tears.What had she expected?As the stables neared, she wiped at her eyes with her sleeve. At least after tomorrow he would be gone and she could at last forget about him.
Thomas was taking Peter to see the kennels for the afternoon, so Jane finally had a few hours to herself. She changed out of her riding habit and picked up a book from herescritoire. Throwing a shawl over her shoulders, she left the room, hoping that none of the servants would stop her with some household matter that needed her attention.
Slipping out through the french doors of the music room, Jane hurried down a path behind the formal gardens. Since she was a small girl, she had had a favorite spot, one she always went to when she needed solitude or comfort. It was a small knoll overlooking the lush grazing lands that rolled down to the river. Surrounded on three sides by a thicket of small hemlocks was a weathered wooden bench where she had spent countless hours reading or just watching the light play off the distant water.
Janee glanced down at the book she was carrying. It was a small leatherbound volume, the same one she had been reading one memorable night in the sickroom at Highwood. How she and Saybrook had once argued over the contents! She had insisted on reading him passages ofThe Corsairto refute his casual remark that Byron was a self-conscious romantic, not a great, passionate poet. He had listened, a sardonic smile on his face, then admitted that he could understand how Byron’s words might set an impressionable young woman’s heart aflutter.
She had nearly thrown the book at him, but in the next moment he couldn’t contain his laughter any longer and she had seen he was teasing her. He then allowed that he did admire the poet’s fiery soul, though at times he was a trifle melodramatic. Then, to her great surprise, he had insisted that she keep the expensive copy from his library, saying the book suited her “impassioned nature.”
Jane reached the glade and settled herself on the bench, drawing her shawl around her. As usual, she wore no bonnet around the estate, for she loved the feeling of the sun on her face, regardless of its detrimental effects on a lady’s complexion. Throwing her head back to catch the pale warmth, she closed hereyes for a minute. There was stillness, save for the faint rustle of pine needles in the gentle breeze.
She had sought refuge here on countless occasions from life’s heartaches. Why, she could remember quite clearly when she thought, at age twelve, that she would simply die because her father refused to let her join the hunt on account of being too young. She shook her head, allowing a rueful smile at the old memory. Perhaps time did make things easier to bear.
After releasing a soft sigh, Jane opened the book and began to read.
Sometime later, the sound of footsteps broke the spell of the words. From her hidden vantage point she watched a figure moving out of the trees into the clearing. Saybrook, too, wore no hat and the breeze ruffled his long dark locks, causing a flutter deep within her. He turned and moved closer, unaware of the bench concealed in the hemlocks. By the time he came around the trees, he was no more than a few feet from where she sat.
His eyes widened with surprise. There was a spark of something else as well before it disappeared in an instant, to be replaced by the cold, distant look that had become too familiar.
“Your pardon,” he said stiffly. “I had no idea anyone was here.” He made as if to turn, but hesitated as he saw the book in her hands.
“Yes,” she faltered. “I am indulging my … my …”
“… impassioned nature,” he finished, his voice barely above a whisper.
Suddenly the words long locked inside her came pouring out. Jane didn’t dare look at him or stop to think at all, for she knew she wouldn’t have the courage to go on if she did.
Saybrook listened in silence, his eyes never leaving her face.
“So you see, milord,” she ended, still keeping her eyes averted from him, “I truly did not mean to deceive you. I was afraid to tell you later on for fear you would … hate me.”
“Hate you?” repeated Saybrook.
“Yes! You told me how you hated the way ladies of thetonlied and deceived and manipulated for their own gain!” Her voice was trembling now. “And you made it quite clear that you thought most aristocrats were cruel and capricious—but that I was different.”
Jane drew in a shaky breath. “I didn’t want to lose what regard you might have held for me. But I suppose I have shown I am indeed no different and am deserving of your contempt.”
Saybrook muttered an oath. “Miss Lan—Lady Jane, be assured that I donothate you.”
Jane finally dared look at him. “B-But you have been acting as if you do.”
“It is I who did not wish to inflict my presence on you.”
Her eyes betrayed confusion. “But why?”
He took a deep breath. “I think you may guess why.”
“You mean because Peter is your son?”
He nodded. “That, and because I am worse than an unprincipled rake, having caused the death of?—”
“No! That is not true?—”
A loud barking interrupted her words, followed by the sound of voices.
