A complication. The word seemed inadequate to describe Jane. He doubted he could name what he felt for her, but she was vastly more than a mere complication.

“We’re wrong for each other,” she continued. “Ill-suited at every level. I know you came to Town to find a bride. And you never would have chosen me.” She looked out the window again, her fingers thrumming her lips in a thoughtful manner. “For that, I’m sorry. Sorry that I took your choice from you.”

Even as she said the words, the image of her eyes, glowing like embers in the night through her domino as he thrust in and out of her flashed through his mind. His body responded instantly and he shifted uncomfortably on the seat. He had chosen her. He just had not known it was her at the time.

And if he were honest with himself, he had chosen Jane, too. He had followed her into Lady Shillington’s gallery, suffering no qualms when he slid his hands beneath her skirts, heedless of the risk, uncaring that they could be discovered at any moment. Had they been caught, he would have done the honorable thing and married her.

“I would not say that I was without choice. I am not in the habit of bedding strange masked women. I could have used more discretion. You do not bear total culpability.”

Why he felt the need to set her right on that score, he could not say.

She glanced at him, fingers paused over her mouth, hope brimming in her eyes. Hope that he dare not nurture.

“I know my duty,” he added brusquely, watching the hope fade from her gaze like a diminishing sun over the Indian Sea. “I will do my best to be a good father and a decent husband. A fair husband. That is enough. For both of us.”

His words rang in his head as dismally as the pealing of a funeral bell. Hell. Who was he trying to convince? Her? Or himself?

Cursing beneath his breath, he looked away, staring blindly out the window and willing his heart not to thaw one fragment. Not for her. Not a woman who had proven herself less than honest in her dealings with him. He drew a lungful of air, letting it fortify him.

Her hushed voice reached him, quiet as leaves tossing in the wind. “Already you offer me more than I ever had. My last marriage taught me to expect nothing. I would be a fool to start now.”

He glanced at her. The coolness of her expression validated her words. She would accept what little he offered.

And he would convince himself that he wanted nothing more from her.

Chapter 20

A salty breeze whipped tendrils of hair across her face as she descended the carriage to face the Tudor-style manor house. Well-trimmed yew hedges, lush as green velvet, surrounded the house, contrasting richly with the light Caen stone. Seagulls sang in the not too far distance. Clouds, fluffy as wool, skidded across a cerulean sky.

“Is this it?” Her gaze flew to Seth’s face, hope fluttering in her heart. “The cottage?”

“Yes,” he answered, taking her elbow.

Her breath escaped her in an excited rush. Before Julianne’s accident, his family spent a fortnight every summer at the cottage. Her eyes skimmed the sizeable house, larger than her own girlhood home. The cottage, she mused. An imprecise designation. She had longed to join his family during those summers, to see the ocean, to frolic in the waves with Seth and Julianne instead of languishing at home with her family.

Lifting her face, she inhaled sea air. “Is the ocean far?”

“Not far,” he replied, guiding her up the steps just as the front door opened and an elderly couple stepped out. “Mr. and Mrs. Lowery,” Seth greeted, “May I present my wife, Lady St. Claire?”

Smiles wreathing their lined faces, the couple sketched a bow and curtsey. “My lady,” they greeted.

“Thank you. A pleasure to meet you both.”

“Felicitations on your marriage, my lord,” Mrs. Lowery offered, studying Jane in her gloomy attire with ill-concealed fascination as they entered the tiled entry.

“Thank you, Mrs. Lowery.”

“Would you care to relax in the parlor with some refreshments?”

Seth cut Jane a shrewd glance. “I suspect we would like to visit the beach first off.”

Jane nodded mutely, too eager for words. After all these years, she was actually at the cottage.

With Seth. Her husband. The latter thought settled heavily in her chest. Certainly she had dreamed of marrying Seth, of spending summers at the cottage with him. With their children. A deep ache pulsed beneath her breastbone. In her dreams, however, there had been the cheering awareness that he loved her, that he _chose _ her. He had not been cornered and compelled to marry her.

“Of course. We’ll have refreshments waiting for when you return.”

Seth led her through a room of richly paneled wood. They skirted a massive mahogany desk and ventured outside through a pair of French doors that opened to a breathtaking garden. Roses, lavender, and iris grew in wild abandon, mingling with colorful shrubbery.

He guided her beneath a long stretch of vine-covered pergola. They strolled beneath dappled sunlight until the arbor ended. Stepping clear, they turned down a path of crushed shells, leaving the well-tended lawn behind. She turned her face to the kiss of a salt-scented breeze. Fat seagulls circled the air as they made their way down a steep path to the beach.

“I can imagine no better place for a honeymoon,” she murmured as the pebbled path gave way to golden sand.

He slid her a slow glance before looking straight ahead. “It was Julianne’s idea.”

A shadow fell over her heart at his gruff reminder. Her stride increased as water, blue as indigo, came into sight. She hurried ahead of him, stopping abruptly at the water’s edge to shed her shoes and stockings.

Seth watched her with a curious expression. “What are you doing?”

“I’ve waited a lifetime to feel sand between my toes.”

Tossing her last stocking aside, she straightened and stared ahead, hands braced on her hips, determined that the stern, unsmiling man at her side not ruin the long-awaited moment. The water was calm, the wind rippling its surface only slightly.

“A lifetime?” he echoed. “Your husband never took you abroad? No extravagant honeymoon to the Continent?”

She had enjoyed no honeymoon with Marcus. They married in the spring and he had not wanted to miss the festivities of the Season. Studying the endless blue horizon, she wondered if it was worth explaining that Marcus had preferred to plow the thighs of ladies fresh to Town rather than honeymoon with his new bride.

Lifting her skirts, she hurried to meet the sea lapping at the golden sand—almost as though she fled the unpleasant memories.

Gasping, she laughed as water washed over her toes. “Ah, that’s cold!”

“You look like a girl again,” he murmured, and something in his voice prompted her to look over her shoulder.

The intense look in his eyes as he surveyed her snatched the breath from her throat. Flustered, she faced the sea again and tried to still her racing heart.

Seeking to fill the charged air, she asked, “Did you miss it? This? Home?”

Silence met her question. Only the sighs of the sea and squawking gulls rilled the air. For a moment, she thought he would not reply and warned herself not to expect friendly banter from him. He only brought her here because of Julianne. Not because he wanted to spend time with her. Not because he wanted to give her a real honeymoon. Her hands grew damp where they clutched her skirts.

“I missed my family. My sister. My brother,” he answered at last, his voice gravelly and thick with an undercurrent of emotion. “I did not know Albert had died until I returned and found my cousin ensconced at the Priory.”

“It was rumored that you were dead.”

“Rumors put forth by my cousin,” he growled.

“In any case, I was glad to hear the rumors were untrue.”

“Indeed,” he replied, a curious edge to his voice. “And did you think much of me over the years?”

 More than a married lady should. More than you will over know.

Deliberately avoiding the question, she said, “It must have been a shock to return and find Albert dead.”

He snorted. “That I should return home unscathed from years of war to find my brother died in his bed from fever?” He laughed, the sound bitter and caustic, twisting inside her belly. “Yes, you could call it a shock.”

She nodded, staring hard ahead, afraid to look over her shoulder at him again, afraid that he might suddenly stop when he realized he was _talking _ to her. As he used to. As friends. Despite the painful subject matter, she did not want him to stop, to seal himself off when he recalled the nature of their marriage.

“I had received word of my father’s death,” he continued, “but he was lost to me before I ever left.”

Her stomach knotted, well remembering the day he had earned his father’s undying reproach.

Their mounts had jumped that fence countless times. There was no reason to expect any of them would not clear it. No reason for Seth to blame himself for Julianne’s fall. But he did. That much Jane had known as she stood with him outside Julianne’s bedchamber, her hand squeezing his as they waited for the physician to finish his examination. When the earl emerged from the room and struck Seth, her own heart had broken.

“Your father loved you,” she murmured, not entirely convinced she spoke the truth.

“Once,” his voice cracked the air. “He loved me once. Before I ruined Julianne.”

Swallowing, she crossed her arms and faced him, “He needed someone to blame.”

“He blamed me because it was my fault,” he snapped, then, shaking his head, dragged a hand over his face. “Never mind. I did not bring you here to discuss such things. My father is dead.

Whether he loved me is not a question I ask myself.”

Dropping his hand from his face, the familiar steel returned to his gaze. “I’m sure you would like to rest in your room before dinner.”

“Of course,” she replied, not the least bit weary.

Crouching, he gathered her shoes and stockings. Before she quite realized what he was about, he was brushing the sand from her foot, each swipe of his fingers a caress that sent a spark of heat up her leg to the core of her. Her stomach quivered and contracted.

A lump formed in her throat as he delved higher beneath the hem of her skirts, his fingers closing around one ankle. Her breath caught at his warm touch on her damp skin.

She looked down at his bowed head. Sunlight gilded the brown strands. Whiskey trapped in cut glass. Her fingers itched to caress the tendrils, to feel the softness against her open palm.

He slid her stocking up her calve, his touch burning a trail toward her garters, fingertips light as a feather stroke on the sensitive flesh of her thighs. Her throat tightened, the lump growing into a painful knot as he turned his attention to her other leg.

By the time he slipped on her shoes, she was a quivering wreck, biting her lip to keep from crying out. Rising to his feet, his gaze snared hers, the centers of his eyes glowing with the knowledge of her arousal.

Without a word, he took her arm and led her back to the house.

Her mind drifted, moving to the night ahead. Would he come to her?

The pulse at her neck shuddered wildly at the prospect. She prayed he would. Her flesh longed to join with his again, to feel with her body what her heart could not.

Gregory rose from bed at the soft knock on his door. Hastily donning a robe, he opened the door, sensing, as he did so, who would be standing on the other side. Yet even knowing, he did not hesitate. Could not stop if his life depended on it. With his heart in his throat, he pulled open the door.

“Julianne,” he greeted, his voice a croak as he drank in the sight of her. The upturned angle of her face, so expectant, so hopeful, so pure, captivated him and made him ache in a way he never had. He clenched his hands at his sides to stop from reaching out and touching her.

With Seth on his impromptu honeymoon and Rebecca visiting relations, he had been thrust into the role of companion, something that had been both a pleasure and a torment. He almost wished he hadn’t suggested that Seth leave him behind. A consummate romantic, Julianne had jumped at the suggestion, insisting that Seth eschew his use for a valet during his honeymoon.