Chapter 22

Jane smoothed her hands over her wide pleated skirts. The blue and yellow striped dimity was heaven to behold. No more ghastly black. She could have wept with elation.

It had taken less than a week to outfit her with a new wardrobe. The little Frenchwoman Seth had sent wasted no time, barking orders with military precision. Even Anna jumped to her commands. In a flash, the seamstress had stripped her wardrobe with the clipped command,

“burn them” and began measuring Jane for ball gowns, day dresses, riding habits, nightgowns, filmy undergarments that made her blush. Nothing was overlooked, including future clothing for her confinement.

Pulling on the tidy white cuffs of her dress, she knocked on the door to Seth’s office, anxious to see his reaction to her new attire, to show him that she could look the part of a countess—even if a name only wife.

They had not seen each other since he deposited her in her bedchamber, leaving her to Anna’s care. His summons today mystified her.

His voice carried through the door, bidding her enter.

Squaring her shoulders, she fixed a neutral expression on her face and did her best to ignore the way her blood rushed at seeing him. He sat behind his desk, papers and ledgers littering the surface. Strands of golden brown hair fell over his forehead. As always her fingers itched to touch his hair, to delve through the sun-kissed mess and push it back from his brow.

“Jane,” he greeted, his gaze sweeping over her as he rose to his feet, tossing his hair back with a shake of his head.

Her fingers flew to her clammy cheek, realizing she mustn’t look her best despite her lovely new gown. With each day, she felt as if she were being turned inside out. Her stomach a rolling, twisting beast that dictated her actions. Every smell, good or bad, had her covering her nose, fearful to draw too deep a breath lest she become sick.

He motioned across from him.

She followed the gesture and noticed the room’s other inhabitant, immediately recognizing Mr.

Younger, the Guthrie family solicitor. A sour taste filled her mouth, and she gave him a grim nod. He had always treated her as though she possessed half a brain. Fortunately, she had not seen him since Marcus’s funeral.

Rising to his feet, the reed-thin gentleman bowed. “Lady Guth—” he stopped and corrected himself, “Lady St. Claire.”

“Mr. Younger.” She smiled tightly and took the chair beside his. “A pleasure to see you again,”

she lied.

“Jane, Mr. Younger has some startling news.”

“Indeed?” She looked to Mr. Younger.

“Yes, it seems I owe you an apology, my lady.”

She cocked her head to the side. “Whatever for?”

The solicitor’s Adam’s apple bobbed wildly. “It appears I should have monitored your brother-in-law’s supervision of your jointure—”

“My jointure?” she interrupted. Her gaze flicked to Seth. “Marcus left me no jointure.”

Mr. Younger pulled at his starched collar as if it choked him. “In fact, the late Lord Guthrie did.”

Marcus left her a jointure? She considered this news, accepting it as a possibility. It was what most gentlemen did, and Marcus had been the consummate gentleman, infidelities withstanding.

“Mr. Billings convinced us that you were too grief-stricken over Lord Guthrie’s sudden death to attend to your affairs.” Releasing his collar, he gave a small shrug of his slight shoulders, his gaunt cheeks flushing. “Given the circumstances of your late husband’s passing, I deemed that very likely.”

“Could you not have asked me?” she bit out, her hands clenching the arms of her chair.

He reddened further at her simple question. “I found it quite credible that you lacked the proper frame of mind to oversee proceedings usually left to the domain of men. Mr. Billings and I decided he was best suited to manage your affairs.” He looked to Seth as though expecting agreement.

Suddenly it all made sense. Desmond had worked so hard to keep her beneath his thumb in order to maintain control of her jointure. Her cheeks burned, indignation firing her as she focused her wrath on the hapless solicitor. “Well, which is it, Mr. Younger? Was I too grief-stricken or too feeble-minded to be versed in my affairs?” She fisted her skirts to stop from swinging at the arrogant popinjay.

Her own jointure would have altered everything. Granted her the means to be independent.

Perhaps she would not have risked attending Madame Fleur’s masquerade, so desperate for a night of freedom. Perhaps she would not have seduced Seth at Vauxhall. Would not now find herself married—once again—to a man who cared nothing for her.

Nor would she carry his child. Her hand drifted to her stomach and her anger dissipated like a ring of smoke in the air. As simple as that her wrath vanished.

Mr. Younger inclined his head in a show of remorse. “My deepest apologies, my lady. It was not well done of me.”

Seth’s voice broke in, “I would like my wife’s funds transferred at once.”

“That, my lord, is the issue that brings me here today,” the solicitor murmured in a near whisper, his eyes downcast. “Upon learning of Lady Guthrie’s marriage, I set myself to that precise task.

And yet…” He pulled on his collar again.

“Spit it out, Younger,” Seth demanded.

“There is nothing left,” he choked. “Mr. Billings has gone through all of it.”

“Gone through all of it?” Seth echoed, dark brows dipping in a frown.

Jane shook her head. A bitter laugh bubbling up from deep in her chest. “Of course.”

The irony galled her. Desmond had convinced the solicitors she was incompetent to oversee her affairs, and then _he _ proceeded to squander her money.

“We greatly misjudged Mr. Billings, my lord. He is quite the swindler,” Mr. Younger rushed to say. “I’ve visited him and he claimed that your wife’s portion was spent on her upkeep.”

“Indeed,” she inserted hotly, thinking of all she had gone without since Marcus’s death. She had not shopped, traveled, or done the usual things that a lady of the _ton _ might do.

Younger continued, his nasal voice grating her nerves, “Seeing as there is no way to prove or disprove this claim—”

“Nothing can be done,” Seth finished, the edge to his voice sharp as cut glass. Jane watched as he unfolded his great length from behind the desk.

Mr. Younger shrank back in his chair, the leather creaking beneath him.

“You may take your leave, Younger. And thank you. It’s of use to know one solicitor whom I shall never entrust my affairs. I shall be sure that all of Town knows as well.”

Mr. Younger’s mouth fell slack and his eyes bulged. Leaning forward, he raised a hand in supplication. “L-Lord St. Claire, you cannot mean to spread tales—”

“Of your incompetence? Indeed, I do. Good day, sir. I’m certain you remember the way out.”

His face pale as chalk, Mr. Younger gave a reluctant nod before rising and departing the room.

Jane stared after the solicitor for a moment before murmuring with a shake of her head, “I’m sorry, Seth. It seems I should not have come empty-handed into this marriage.”

“I never expected money when I married you.”

“Just the same, anything Marcus left me should have gone to the man I married—”

“Don’t apologize. Your jointure would have been yours to do with as you wished. I wouldn’t have touched a penny of it.”

Jane stared at his resolute expression. “You would have let me keep what I brought to the marriage?”

“Your late husband left it to you. Not me.” He leaned against his desk, crossing his arms. The motion pulled his jacket taut against his shoulders and biceps and she forced her gaze to his face.

“Money has nothing to do with why we married.” His stare held hers, the molten brown steadily trained on her. “You know why we married.”

For the life of her she could not look away. Nor could she breathe as she gazed into those warm brown pools, eyes that ensnared her, the seized her by the heart and refused to let go.

 You know why we married. Indeed she did. Her hand brushed her stomach, to the child within who made his presence known daily. She knew why Seth married her. Duty drove him. Duty to his sister. To his unborn child.

Her reasons, however, had nothing to do with duty and more to do with hope. With dreams of love that her foolish heart refused to release.

He blinked. And just like that a shadow fell over his eyes. Abruptly, he turned, circling back around his desk. “I’ve work to do.”

She rose as if a poker prodded her backside.

“Of course,” she murmured, moving to the door, calling herself the world’s greatest fool to ever hold out hope that his feelings for her would change, that he could love a woman he had never wanted to wed in the first place.

Jane clutched the edge of the basin, her empty stomach clenching until her fingers turned numb and bloodless. After several more heaves, her stomach stilled, and she prayed that the worse had finally passed. Heavens knew there was nothing left in her belly.

The air sounded fuzzy, a humming quiet after the harsh sound of her retching. Blinking through watering eyes, she pulled back on unsteady limbs. Cold tears streamed silently down her face and she dashed a shaking hand over each cheek. The gray light of dusk washed over the chamber and she marveled at the day lost to illness.

She didn’t attempt to stand, simply crawled toward the bed, grasping the hem of her nightgown so that it did not become caught beneath her. Halfway there she gave up and collapsed, curling up on her side with a shuddery sigh. For the best, she supposed, eyeing the basin. She shouldn’t stray far.

She hugged herself, trembling like a leaf on the wind—a dreadful full-body shake that made her feel weak and helpless at the same time. For the moment, her belly was still, the nausea at bay, but even as she tried to hope that her stomach had settled, that she couldn’t possibly feel any sicker, she knew she could. She knew she would. Today had been an endless misery.

Not for the first time, she agonized that something was wrong with her—with the babe. Even though Anna had assured her that such things were normal, even common, she could only feel a deep, gnawing anxiety.

Her hand drifted to her belly, love swelling in her for this life that was a product of her and Seth.

Something good. Sweet and innocent. Love would result of their union. One way or another.

Fierce determination gripped her. No harm could come to him, this person that she already loved.

Who would love her in turn—as her own family never would. As Seth did not.

She curled herself into an even tighter ball. Please, please make him well and strong. The litany rolled through her mind with the ferocity of a rushing river.

The door opened. Relief coursed through her. No doubt Anna had returned with the mint tea. She had vowed the brew would help settle her stomach.

“Anna,” she whispered through parched lips and a throat that felt ravaged as plowed earth.

A moment later, warm, firm hands were pulling her up.

“Seth,” she murmured, confused, instantly knowing his touch, his smell, his enlivening heat.

 Blast. Would she never be immune? Indifferent?

He swung her up into his arms and gently laid her on the bed.

“No,” she protested, one arm motioning weakly for the floor. “The basin,” she managed to get out.

“I’ll fetch it.”

Mortification stung her cheeks. Seth playing nursemaid was the height of humiliation. She could not bear for him to see her like this. At her worst.

“Go away,” she choked, jamming her eyes shut.

“Hush,” he murmured, pressing the cool cloth that Anna had used against her forehead.

With a sigh, she turned her face toward that soothing coolness. Her heart should not leap at the gesture. It didn’t mean he cared for her. It didn’t mean she meant anything at all to him. He was an honorable man. An honorable man would stop to help an injured animal. Certainly his wife would not be excluded from that basic impulse to offer aid.