Suddenly the train lurched, propelling Jane out of her seat and across the distance that separated her from Lord Lansbury, sending her crashing into his steely warm chest.

Christopher’s eyes captured Jane’s with some considerable surprise, while Jane looked into his face and for a long moment could not look away again, held by something she was unable to name but which her female body instantly recognised. His eyes had narrowed in sudden concentration and he looked faintly surprised at something his body was telling him.

Unprepared for the sheer force of the feelings that swept through her, she knew, with a sort of panic, that she was in grave danger—not from him but from herself—and was aware that she must, absolutely must pull back. But she was too inexperienced and affected by him to do that.

Her eyes became fixed on his finely sculpted mouth as he came closer still, and she knew he was going to kiss her.

Author Note

I’ve always enjoyed reading stories that blend history and romance, featuring handsome, enigmatic heroes and audacious heroines.

In Christopher Chalfont, Earl of Lansbury, I hope I have captured such a hero. Having been betrayed by a woman in his past, and just managing to hold on to the ancestral home his deceased father very nearly gambled away, he is prepared to wed an American heiress, thinking she will be the answer to his prayers. Until Jane Mortimer comes along and throws his whole life and his ideas about marriage into confusion.

Before long Jane falls in love with the handsome Earl and becomes more and more wrapped up in a world so different from the one she left behind. She has the ability to reach into the darkness of Christopher’s mind and heal his injured heart.

Lord Lansbury’s Christmas Wedding

Helen Dickson

www.millsandboon.co.uk

HELEN DICKSON was born and still lives in South Yorkshire, with her retired farm manager husband. Having moved out of the busy farmhouse where she raised their two sons, she has more time to indulge in her favourite pastimes. She enjoys being outdoors, travelling, reading and music. An incurable romantic, she writes for pleasure. It was a love of history that drove her to writing historical fiction.

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Contents

Cover

Introduction

Author Note

Title Page

About the Author

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Epilogue

Extract

Copyright

Chapter One

1875

A light rain had settled over the sea, mottling the surface of the choppy water into a dull blackish grey. Jane leaned against the railing of the steamship, letting her eyes skim over the vast expanse of water as it carried her closer to Dover. It was carrying her further away from the wild and mystical beauty and the heat of the Far East, of India and the countries around the Mediterranean, into a new phase of her life.

Tears came to blur her vision when she thought of the circumstances that had brought her to this day, of the anguish that had beset her, almost drowning her in a sea of despair when her beloved father had died in Egypt two months earlier, leaving her bereft.

This morning she had risen before dawn in Paris to catch the boat train to Calais, where she had boarded the ship. She hoped to arrive at her aunt’s London home with something akin to dignity, but her appearance was far from being at its best. The dark-blue bonnet and black woollen cloak served to protect her from the cold, damp wind even if it lent nothing to a stately grace.

There were a great many passengers aboard. Most of them had sought the comforts below for the journey, but Jane preferred to remain on deck. A girl’s laughter drew her attention and she turned to look at her. She was dressed in a warm red woollen cloak with a fur muff and bonnet over her fair curls and clutching a small Pekinese dog. Perhaps eight or nine years old, slightly built with luminous blue eyes, she was such a pretty, dainty little creature with a pale small-featured face that Jane could only gaze at her in wonder.

She was with a fashionably attired woman Jane assumed to be her mother. She noted there was another plain-clad woman beside her. This, she realised, must be her maid, which told her the child’s mother must belong to the gentry. They were accompanied by a tall man in a sleeved cloak and wide-brimmed, low-crowned hat. Several yards away from where they sat and close to Jane, with his back to them, he stood at the rail, his head turned to look at the ship’s wake. He withdrew a thin cheroot from his jacket pocket which he lit, bending his head and cupping his hands over the flame.

The tobacco smoke drifted her way. Closing her eyes, she breathed deeply, inhaling the familiar smell which evoked so many memories. Her father had always enjoyed smoking a cigar, and suddenly she was swept back in time to the nights when he would sit outside his tent after a gratifying day’s work, sipping his favourite brandy and smoking a cigar. Moving closer, she expelled the breath she hadn’t realised she’d been holding. The tiny sound made the gentleman glance at her. His eyes narrowed, in surprise or displeasure, she wasn’t certain. Caught in the act of staring at him, she blurted out the first thing that came to mind.

‘I’m so sorry. I didn’t wish to disturb you.’

His dark brows lifted a fraction in bland enquiry. ‘Do you mind?’ he asked, holding out the cheroot.

Several things hit Jane at once—his piercing grey eyes and his voice, which was richly textured and deep, and the fact that he was tall, several inches taller than she was. He was clean-shaven, his skin dark, slashed with eyebrows more accustomed to frowning than smiling, which he was doing now. His mouth was hard, the chin beneath it doing its best to curb its tense, arrogant thrust. It was a face which said its owner cared nothing for fools, and in his darkly lashed grey eyes, silver flecks stirred dangerously like small warning lights. Hidden deep in them was a cynicism, watchful, mocking, as though he found the world a dubious place to be.

‘Mind?’ she repeated stupidly.

‘The cigar.’

‘Oh—no—no, of course I don’t mind,’ she hastily assured him, stepping away.

He looked away at the same moment that the little girl got up to cross to him. A sudden gust of cold wind swept across the deck, causing passengers to reach out and cling to the rail. The little girl stumbled, falling to her knees, and when she reached out to grasp her mother’s hand, she let go of her dog. Jane’s heart dipped frantically in her chest as the child missed her mother’s hand, bringing those about her to a horrified standstill.

The deck was wet and slippery, a threat to those who did not walk with care. The child got to her feet. Her sudden anxiety had become dismayed terror as her adored pet scampered to the far end of the deck. With no other thought than reaching her pet, the child went after her.

Alarmed, the woman got to her feet. ‘Octavia, do come back this instant!’

Jane’s mouth opened on an appalled shout to warn the child to be careful of the wet deck, but it was too late. Losing her footing, the child stumbled and fell and rolled across the deck. Jane thought she heard the woman cry out, but there was nothing in her mind but the frantic necessity of grabbing the little girl before she slipped through a gap in the lower rails and into the sea.

The other passengers not as close to the girl as Jane stood frozen to the deck, watching in horror, women with their hands to their mouths, men ready to dash forward to save the child who was sliding ever closer to the abyss, but on seeing Jane scamper after her they did not move.

Without thought for her own safety, Jane threw herself forward, grabbing the child and landing half on top of her just in time, her larger frame preventing them from slipping through the rails.

Women had begun to scream and the man who stood smoking a cheroot, white faced with shock, seeing what was happening threw his cheroot into the sea and strode quickly towards the young girl. By the time he reached her she was lying on the deck with her rescuer. Picking up the weeping child, after making sure she was unharmed and handing her over to the older woman to be comforted, he went down on one knee and raised Jane up, lifting her in his arms.

She leaned against him in a dizzy, helpless silence, aware of nothing but the power of his arm and the muscular chest beneath his cloak as he balanced her against him, the fine aroma of cigars and brandy on his breath which fanned her cheek. Even in her dazed state she was shaken to the core by the bewildering sensations she felt. A hot wave of pure visceral attraction rushed through her. Fighting to maintain her wits, shaken and pale, she moved away from him a little unsteadily, standing a moment to compose herself. She brushed down her skirts before looking up at the gentleman, her eyes enormous with passionate gratitude on seeing his concern.

‘Are you all right?’ he asked. ‘You didn’t hurt yourself when you fell?’

He spoke in the well-modulated voice of the perfect English gentleman, with that faint arrogance and authority of his class. There was a nonchalance about him that Jane liked immediately.

‘No—no, thank you, I am quite unhurt,’ she answered, speaking in a soft, well-bred voice that displayed no discernible personal feeling. Her mouth was tinder-dry with shock, her heart pounding in her throat, but she made efforts to compose herself. She still felt a bit wobbly, but was determined not to show it.

Staring at him, she was utterly taken aback by the raw masculinity that radiated from him. The most curious thing happened, for suddenly everything around her faded into the background and there was only this man. His face was strong and exceptionally attractive, the expression cool and compelling. His magnetism was unmistakable. The long, tapering trousers he wore seemed to emphasise the muscular length of his legs. As her thoughts raced, once again she looked into the startling intensity of his eyes. Her heart seemed to suddenly leap into her throat in a ridiculous, choking way and she chided herself for being so foolish. This gentleman was, after all, a stranger to her. She dropped her gaze in shock as he took a step closer.

‘I can’t thank you enough for what you did. Your quick thinking saved my sister’s life. I am indeed grateful, Miss...?’

‘Mortimer,’ Jane provided. ‘In all truth, when I saw her slip and begin to roll towards the rails, I didn’t think. I just knew I had to stop her.’

‘I am grateful, Miss Mortimer. She could easily have fallen through the gap, small though it is, into the water.’

The amazing eyes still focused on her as she drew a deep breath. ‘She is a child and children do impulsive things all the time.’ There was a deep blush on her cheekbones, as much to her gathering annoyance she found herself actually enjoying his presence.

‘Unfortunately my sister seems to make a habit of it.’

‘I am relieved she is unharmed—and see,’ Jane said, indicating a man who approached the child and placed a fluffy white bundle in her outstretched hands, ‘her dog is being returned to her.’

‘Thank goodness. Octavia would be devastated if anything happened to that dog. It is so precious to her.’ His gaze returned to her face. He gave her a long slow look, a twist of humour around his beautifully moulded lips. The smile building about his mouth creased the clear hardness of his jaw and made him appear at that moment the most handsome man in the world.

Then, suddenly, his direct, masculine assurance disconcerted her. She was vividly conscious of his proximity to her. She felt the mad, unfamiliar rush of blood singing through her veins, which she had never experienced before. He had made too much of an impact on her and she was afraid that if he looked at her much longer he would read her thoughts with those brilliant eyes of his. She was relieved when the child’s mother got up and came to her. Tears of gratitude swam in her eyes.

‘Thank you, my dear, for your brave intervention. You have my heartfelt thanks and gratitude.’

‘I’m glad I was able to help.’

‘Is there anything we can do to repay you...?’

The colour rushed to Jane’s face once more, embarrassed that she should be offered payment for helping a child. ‘No—of course not. I only did what anyone else would have done.’ She stepped back. ‘Excuse me. We are approaching Dover. I must go and locate my baggage.’

‘Of course,’ the woman said. ‘Are you going far?’

‘To London.’

‘So you will be taking the train.’

‘Yes.’ She smiled. ‘Please excuse me.’

Turning from them, Jane went to retrieve her bags as more passengers began to appear on deck.

* * *

Christopher Chalfont went to check on Octavia. Thankfully she seemed no worse for her ordeal. He glanced over his shoulder to take another look at the young woman who had rushed to help his sister with a complete lack of concern for her own safety, but she was nowhere to be seen, having been swallowed up in the passengers as they gathered to disembark.

Something stirred within him that he was at a loss to identify—neither pity nor compassion, but a glimmer of something more complex and disturbing. Instinct told him he’d be better served not to look for her. He was quite bewildered by his own interest in this girl who was thin, plain and nondescript.

True, some might be attracted by her, but she was not to his taste. He disliked her generous mouth, the black abundance of her lashes and particularly her eyes that had stared at him too intently. They were too large and a peculiar shade of violet with flecks of grey. They were clear and sharp as glass and they had met his with a steady challenge, studying him carefully as though she was trying to make up her mind about something.

For an instant he knew that someone else, someone with similar violet eyes, had stared at him like that long ago and there had been faithlessness and betrayal and he had known suffering so great it was not to be borne. Something that had been darkly, beautifully perfect had been bruised and broken, and he had suffered aching bitterness and a pain so deep it was ready to destroy him.

And then the impression vanished, leaving only sharp resentment and a memory he could not shut from his mind, a memory that was alive and tactile, and because it had been so, the betrayal of the woman who had done this to him had become a profanation of the integrity of love itself. He had continued to live, to eat and sleep and exist the only way he knew how, but he vowed that never again would he allow himself to be so weakened by a woman’s body and a pair of darkly seductive eyes.

Frowning thoughtfully, for the short time left to them on board, Christopher concerned himself with seeing to the comforts of his mother and sister, and when he left the ship he forgot all about the young woman with the violet eyes.

* * *

As Jane sat on the train taking her to London, she relived every moment of her meeting with the gentleman whose sister she had rushed to help; the gentleman who had made a deep impression on her like no other ever had. Who was he? she asked herself, realising that he had infiltrated every part of her body and mind and yet she didn’t know the first thing about him. That was the power he had, the magnetic force that had attracted her to him. What was it about him that made her feel things she had never felt before? She had never met anyone like him. Just thinking of him was enough to bring his image, tenacious and encroaching, into her mind.

Gazing out of the window at the passing scenery, she breathed a sigh of regret. It was a hopeless situation for it was most unlikely they would meet again. Swallowing her disappointment, she knew there was nothing for it but to put him from her thoughts, only to find over the coming days that it was no easy matter.

* * *

Jane’s father had been an academic and writer on Asian and European history and antiquities. When he had died she was fortunate to have a generous-hearted paternal widowed aunt to take her in. Jane had seen her just twice in her life when her father’s work had brought him to London.

Aunt Caroline gave what she called ‘soirées’ at her small but elegant house in a fashionable part of London. It was decorated and furnished in the latest aesthetic fashion, with the walls festooned with peacocks and pomegranates and several pieces of Japanese porcelain.

Her guests were mainly invited through her charities—she worked on several committees—but there were sometimes politicians and a sprinkling of what she called ‘the Bohemians’: artists, musicians and writers and such like. Sometimes she would engage a violinist or a pianist to perform—those were her musical evenings—then there were card evenings and some supper parties. She enjoyed entertaining, but her charities were always at the forefront of her mind and the money that could be raised from these occasions.

Today she was hosting one of her charity events attended by several of her fellow patrons. A gentle, caring soul, Caroline Standish was a very worthy lady who took her work seriously. The destitution and brutish conditions in some parts of the capital touched her deeply and she worked hard to alleviate the suffering in any way she could.

Jane watched ladies sip the very best tea from Assam and Ceylon out of her aunt’s best china cups and eat cucumber sandwiches and cakes off china plates, her eyes coming to rest on one before moving on to the next.

They were a mixed collection of ladies. Most of them led privileged lives. Their husbands were gentlemen and some titled. The younger ladies were quite beautiful and Jane wondered that such beauty could exist. As an unmarried woman of limited importance and at least three inches taller than what was considered fashionable, it was with wry amusement that she also wondered why nature had seen fit to bless so many with the gift of so much beauty, of face and figure, affording herself nothing more than a tenacity of spirit and a wry amusement that up until now had allowed her to transcend her own shortcomings.

As far as husbands were concerned, Jane didn’t suppose it would happen to her. Even if she did meet someone, she would rather die a spinster than submit herself to a man she did not love—a man who did not love her. All her life she had been aware and deeply moved by the quiet dignity and deep, voiceless love her parents had borne for each other and by their example she would settle for nothing less in her own marriage. With a mind of her own, she possessed a will to live her life as she saw fit and would not submit to mere circumstance.

In her opinion she was nothing out of the ordinary, her looks being unconventional. Being neither stylish nor dashing, she couldn’t blame anyone for not favouring her with a second glance.

‘Too thin,’ an elderly lady had once said. ‘Too tall,’ said another. ‘Too plain,’ someone else had commented.

But as Jane looked at her reflection in the mirror, she doubted a glimpse of her face would frighten anyone. Some men might actually like cheekbones that were too high, a mouth that was too wide and eyes that were a peculiar shade of violet touched with grey. Her hair was the bane of her life. It was long and thick and so rich a brown to be almost red. The weight of it was brushed back severely from her brow in an attempt to subdue its defiant inclination to curl. Most of the time it was kept confined in an unflattering tight knot at the nape of her neck.

Jane knew she didn’t make the best of herself. But if anyone had been inclined to look deeper they would have found that behind the unprepossessing appearance there was a veritable treasure trove. Twenty-one years of age and formidably intelligent, she had a distinct and memorable personality, and could hold the most fascinating conversations on most subjects. She had a genuinely kind heart, wasn’t boastful and rarely offended anybody. She was also unselfish and willing to take on the troubles of others.

Aunt Caroline had told her she was expecting Lady Lansbury—the Countess of Lansbury—and her young daughter at her gathering.

‘They have been in America—New York, I believe,’ she explained, ‘and have spent some time in Paris before returning to England. They have a house in town, but I understand they will shortly be leaving for their estate in Oxfordshire.’

‘How did you meet Lady Lansbury?’

‘She came to one of my Tuesdays. Such a caring soul. She likes to be involved and gives of her time unsparingly, but donations cannot be relied upon. The poor woman was left quite destitute when her husband died. Her son inherited the Chalfont estate in Oxfordshire—at least what was left of it. The old earl left them near bankrupt. But that was twelve years ago and the present earl has worked hard and managed to keep his head above water. But rumour has it that unless he can find a way to inject some money into the place, he might have to let it go.’

‘What a worry it must be for them.’

‘I’m sure it is. I believe Lord Lansbury is considering selling the London house to raise some capital. It is rumoured that he might even resort to marrying an heiress—an American heiress—and why not? He won’t be the first impoverished nobleman to marry for money and he won’t be the last.’

‘That seems rather drastic.’

‘To you, having lived almost all your life abroad, I suppose it does. In English society, marrying for money is considered a perfectly acceptable undertaking. However, pride is a dominant Chalfont trait and the Earl of Lansbury will find it extremely distasteful having to resort to such extreme measures. But that does not concern us. Young Lady Octavia is a charming girl, although she gave Lady Lansbury a hard time when she came along. Born early, she was pronounced delicate. She has—difficulties, but she’s of a gentle, loving disposition. You will love her.’

* * *

Aunt Caroline was right. Lady Lansbury, a regal lady, arrived with her daughter in a carriage with a resplendent coachman and a little page at the back to leap down and open doors.

Jane could not believe her eyes when she saw Lady Lansbury—she was the woman she had met on the ship and the child Octavia was just as she remembered. She was touched that Lady Lansbury should remember her.

‘Why, Miss Mortimer! I am so pleased to see you again. Allow me to thank you once again for what you did for Octavia. Your niece was extremely brave, Mrs Standish,’ she said to Jane’s aunt. ‘She risked her life to save Octavia when she fell on the deck of the ship when we were crossing the Channel and was in danger of sliding into the sea. I was journeying from Paris accompanied by my son, Lord Lansbury. We were indeed grateful that Miss Mortimer acted so quickly.’

Mrs Standish looked at her niece with some degree of surprise. ‘Really? You never mentioned it, Jane.’

‘I had no reason to. We were not introduced so I had no idea the two of you are acquainted. When the child slipped and fell I did what anyone else would have done. At the time I was close to her.’

‘You are too modest, my dear,’ Lady Lansbury said. ‘Your prompt action saved her life.’

‘I was glad I was able to help.’ Jane longed to ask after Lady Lansbury’s son, but thought better of it. After all it was unlikely they would meet again. Lord Lansbury had made a large impression on her virgin heart. When she was least expecting it thoughts of him would fill her mind so that she was unable to think of anything else which totally confused her. No man had ever had this effect on her before. But he was an earl, the Earl of Lansbury, way above her station in life and all she could do was admire him from afar. She looked at the child, who, it was clear, didn’t remember her. ‘Lady Octavia is such a lovely child.’

Jane’s wonder increased when Octavia, clutching her beloved Pekinese in the crook of one arm, danced up to her and said, ‘I like your dress. It’s very pretty.’

‘Thank you,’ Jane said, responding warmly to the compliment, even though she disagreed with her. It was much worn and certainly not fashionable. But the colours were bright, the pattern bold, and she was in no doubt that it was this that had drawn Octavia’s attention.

Octavia sat beside her on the striped sofa, placing her dog between them. The dog lifted its paw, cocked its head and peered up at Jane with yellow eyes, as if to fathom the spirit of this new person.

‘She wants you to shake hands with her,’ Octavia informed her.

Jane took the proffered paw and a pink tongue lolled out the side of the jaws almost in a smile. ‘Does your dog have a name?’

‘Poppy. She’s called Poppy.’

‘That’s a nice name. She is safe, isn’t she?’ Jane questioned with a teasing light in her eyes. ‘I mean—she doesn’t eat people, does she?’

Octavia tilted her head to one side and looked at her curiously, amazed that this lady should think her precious dog might bite. ‘No, of course she doesn’t. She likes you. I can tell. I like you, too. You are a very nice lady. Will you be my friend? I don’t have any.’ There was no hint of sadness in her remark. It was a matter-of-fact comment. That was the way it was.

Jane laughed and said she would like that very much. Stroking the ears of the Pekinese she studied the young girl. With silver-blonde hair and eyes a shining bright blue, her features piquant, she was a lively and restless girl with an independent spirit and full of energies she was unable to repress. For the time the visit lasted Octavia never left Jane’s side. Jane realised that Lady Lansbury was closely following their exchange and watching them attentively, speculatively. She did not withhold comment.

‘I can see Octavia has found a friend in you, Miss Mortimer. You are fortunate. She doesn’t take to people easily.’

From the small table beside her Jane took a painted tin of bonbons she had bought earlier and held them out to the girl. ‘I don’t think I can eat all these, Lady Octavia. Would you mind keeping the tin for me and helping me along with them?’

Octavia blinked her large eyes and looked enquiringly at her mother as if seeking her guidance. Lady Lansbury nodded and smiled her approval, and hesitantly Octavia’s gaze came back to Jane. Accepting the tin, she immediately opened it and selected a bonbon, popping the sugary confection into her mouth and beaming her delight at the taste.

* * *

London was an exciting and fascinating place to be. Jane loved it. Aunt Caroline accompanied her on her excursions, pointing out to her buildings and places of note. They strolled in the parks and Jane was thrilled to see all the bright and beautiful flowers in borders and beds. Having spent most of her life surrounded by hot and arid landscapes, she found it truly amazing to see so much colour in one place.

At other times she was trying to sort out her father’s affairs and considering her future. She gave little thought to her meeting with Lady Lansbury, so she was surprised when she called on the off chance one week later, hoping to find her at home.

Thinking her visit had something to do with one of the charities they supported, Aunt Caroline ushered her into the drawing room. Over tea they chatted about trivial matters. Jane listened, saying very little. Beneath a tiny jacket Lady Lansbury had on a beautiful gown in a silky material which shone where the light touched it. It was in a colour that reminded her of the sun when it was sinking at dusk, a sort of mixture between brown and gold and warm pink. The skirt was full and on her head was a pretty straw hat decorated with flowers to match her dress.

Jane was conscious of Lady Lansbury’s eyes studying her, not critically, nor with the kind of morbid fascination with which many of her class would gaze at her unfashionable attire and plain looks. Rather it was with an assessing frankness, a frankness and even an admiration one woman directs at another when she sincerely believes that woman is worthy of it.

‘How is Lady Octavia?’ Jane found herself asking. ‘It was a pleasure to meet her. She is such a charming, sweet girl.’

‘Yes, she is—but then she is my daughter and I love her dearly.’ Lady Lansbury placed her cup and saucer down. Her face, which had been firm with some inner resolve, softened imperceptibly. ‘Of course I am so glad you think so, Miss Mortimer, because my visit concerns Octavia. When we were here last week I could not help noticing that you seem to have a way with her—and she has talked of nothing else but you since. I have come here today to ask for your help.’

‘Oh!’ Jane uttered, slightly taken aback, for she could not for the life of her think how she could possibly be of help to the Countess of Lansbury.

‘When I spoke to your aunt, I seem to recall her mentioning that you have returned to England after spending many years travelling abroad with your father.’

‘That is so,’ Jane confirmed quietly. ‘Sadly my father died when we were in Egypt, which is why I have come to stay with Aunt Caroline while his affairs are put in order and I consider my future.’

‘Do you like children, Miss Mortimer?’

‘Why—I—yes, of course, although I confess that being an only child and constantly on the move, I have no experience of them.’

‘You appeared to get on with Octavia well enough. I wondered if you would consider helping me take care of her. She can be difficult on occasion. All the young ladies I have employed in the past do not make it past the first month before they are heading for the door.’

‘I—I don’t know...’

‘Miss Mortimer, please, I beg you, let me finish. I want to offer you permanent, full-time employment. We will be leaving London for our family home—Chalfont House in Oxfordshire—within the week. Octavia has developed a slight cough. I believe the country air is so much better for her than this London smog. I can’t tell you how happy it would make me if you were to come with us.’

‘Lady Lansbury—I don’t know what to say. I freely admit you’ve taken me by surprise.’

‘I hope you will say yes. I will not pretend that it will be easy taking care of Octavia. As you have seen she is not—not quite—like other girls of her age. She is twelve years old but looks and behaves much younger. She is fragile and needs tender care. She finds it difficult to tell people what she needs and how she feels—she also finds it difficult to understand what other people think and how they feel. She finds it hard to meet people—and to make friends—but she seems to like you. I do love her so very much, but I have grown weary and I often despair of what will become of her...’

For a moment Jane thought Lady Lansbury was about to break down. She bent her head, placing the back of her immaculately gloved hand to her head, swallowing painfully. Jane stood up, ready to go to her, to kneel and place her own soothing hand on hers, wanting to comfort, but recollecting herself when Lady Lansbury raised her head staunchly.

Jane smiled, a compassionate warmth lighting her eyes. She could almost feel the tension inside this regal lady splitting the air. Jane didn’t take any persuading to accept her offer of employment. Through his work her father had told her that on his death she would be a wealthy woman, but until his lawyer had sorted out his affairs and the will was read she had no idea of her worth, although she knew it would be considerable. Never being one for crowded places, getting out of London into the English countryside for a while appealed to her.

There was also another reason that added weight to her decision—Lady Lansbury’s son, the Earl of Lansbury. The temptation to see him again was too great for her to resist. She had not believed their paths would cross again and for the first time in her life she acted on impulse.

‘I am sorry to hear that, Lady Lansbury, and I will help if I can.’

As she spoke a kindly light appeared in Jane’s eyes. Her interest and feeling towards the girl were obviously sincere. Octavia was unpredictable, dainty and fragile as gossamer. She reminded Jane of a fluff of swansdown blown along on the breeze and may blossom that showed its beauty so profusely in spring. The blossom, flushed with pink, was no more delicately lovely than this child who had latched on to her from the first.

‘I accept your offer, Lady Lansbury. I will return with you to Chalfont House—although I cannot commit myself indefinitely. But for the time being I would dearly like to be Lady Octavia’s companion and I promise I will be patient with her.’

Lady Lansbury’s eyes were bright with tears of gratitude. Miss Mortimer’s acceptance of the post lightened her spirits, as though a great weight had been lifted from her shoulders. ‘Thank you, Miss Mortimer. I can’t tell you what a relief that is to me.’

‘There is one thing I must ask of you, Lady Lansbury. When my father died a good deal of his work was not completed. It meant a great deal to him—and to his publisher and other antiquarians he worked with. I was his assistant and I am doing what I can to finish his work.’

‘Of course you must. I quite understand. You will not be caring for Octavia all the time. We have a perfectly good library at Chalfont. It is a quiet room. I am sure you will find it the perfect place for your work.’

‘Thank you. I would appreciate that.’

‘Nonsense. It is I who am grateful to you.’ She looked at Jane’s aunt, who had listened to their exchange closely. ‘What do you say, Mrs Standish? I do so hope you approve of Jane’s acceptance to my proposal. I am certain she will be a great help to me—and to Octavia.’

‘It is not for me to approve or disapprove, Lady Lansbury,’ Mrs Standish said, choosing her words with care. ‘At twenty-one my niece is old enough and sensible enough to decide her own future. But since you ask my opinion I will say that I am—concerned about the position she will hold in your household and how it will be seen by the others who work at Chalfont House. In age Jane will be on a par with your maids in the kitchen and...’

‘Please, say no more, Mrs Standish. Jane will never be on a par in any way with the maids in the kitchen. I know that she is the daughter of an academic, a highly intelligent man, an acclaimed writer, whose own father held a high-ranking position in the army. Her mother is from good stock, the Grants of Derbyshire. They were not a wealthy family, but they were of the class.’

‘But—how do you know this, Lady Lansbury?’ Jane asked.

‘When I saw how taken Octavia was with you, I—made a few enquiries. I ask nothing more of you, Jane, than that you be my daughter’s companion—her friend. Octavia has never reached out to anyone the way she has to you.’

‘I will do my best to make her happy.’ Knowing how concerned her aunt was about her, Jane tried to put her at ease with the situation. Looking after Octavia would be a demanding position but a pleasurable one for the girl aroused a protective fondness in her. ‘Please—do not worry about me, Aunt,’ she said gently. ‘Ever since I returned to England I’ve been undecided as to what to do with my future, which path to take. As you know my mother died when I was very young. Having spent almost my entire life with my father, helping him with his work and wandering from place to place like nomads, I don’t know what I’m cut out for.’

‘You don’t have to do anything, Jane,’ her aunt said quietly. ‘And didn’t you mention that one of your father’s colleagues is to come to London shortly?’

‘Yes. Phineas Waverley. He is to set up an exhibition of artefacts and photographs and the like. No doubt he’ll write to me when he knows more himself. In the meantime I have to do something. I’m not cut out for a life of idleness. I need to be busy. Chalfont House is within easy reach of London so I’ll not be far away.’

* * *

On returning to Lansbury House, Lady Lansbury broached the matter with her son of Miss Mortimer accompanying them to Chalfont to help take care of Octavia. She found him unexpectedly obdurate and impatient.

‘Why this girl? How can you be so certain about her on such short acquaintance? Of course Octavia took to her. It is what she does when anyone shows her kindness.’

‘You dislike Miss Mortimer?’ Lady Lansbury was puzzled by his vehemence. ‘I find her quite charming.’

In a voice that was matter of fact rather than critical, he continued, ‘I cannot be accused of being either uncharitable or unaccommodating in this instance. And contrary to what you might think, I have formed no opinion of her whatsoever. It’s just that...’ He faltered, avoiding eye contact with his mother. ‘I don’t dislike Miss Mortimer. Why should I?’

Lady Lansbury eyed her son closely. Why should he, indeed? For the first time in years she thought of the girl—Lily, her name was—Christopher had fallen for and how it had almost destroyed him when she had left him. Could it be that in Jane Mortimer he saw similarities to Lily? Perhaps that was it, but apart from the colour of her eyes, in her opinion there the similarities ended. Jane was not in the least like Lily.

‘I am glad to hear it. Has it not entered that arrogant, stubborn head of yours that you might even like her? You may be pleasantly surprised.’

‘Even for an arrogant, stubborn man like me it is not beyond the realms of possibility,’ Christopher conceded.

‘My fear is that when she is faced with your formidable manner—a daunting prospect for any girl—it will alienate her from the start.’

‘What I dislike is wasting time on such a trivial matter when Octavia is perfectly happy as she is. Actually, there are one or two minor problems associated with your plan,’ he said drily, but he couldn’t bring himself to dampen his mother’s enthusiasm completely. ‘Miss Mortimer will be the latest in a long line of young ladies we have employed to care for Octavia in the past. Not one of them lasted more than a month and each time they left Octavia was distressed. I doubt Miss Mortimer will be any different. Why don’t you give the entire project some careful thought and we’ll discuss the various aspects of it when we reach Chalfont?’

‘No, Christopher. I have made up my mind. Octavia’s care is my concern and it would help me a great deal knowing that when I have to I can leave her with someone I can trust.’

Christopher sighed. He was not completely heartless. Looking after Octavia, worrying about her, wearied his mother. Finding the right person to care for her had proved a problem in the past. ‘I’m sorry, Mother. Of course you must do as you see fit. Go ahead and employ Miss Mortimer if it makes you happy.’

‘More importantly, Christopher, is that she makes Octavia happy.’

* * *

Chalfont House was the Lansbury seat in the heart of Oxfordshire. Jane was irrevocably touched by its timeless splendour. A wide stretch of stone steps led up to the colonnaded front door, while on either side two great wings stretched out to portray, in perfect proportions, the great arched dome which surmounted the centre of the building. Inside, the pomp and grandeur, which the countess took for granted, left her breathless.

As soon as she entered the house she was greeted with unaffected warmth. She felt this was a house where courtesy and mutual affection ruled in perfect harmony.

A maid appeared and whisked a tired Octavia to her room, leaving Jane with Lady Lansbury. She stood in the hall, looking about her with interest. And then, as if she was seeing a dream awaken before her, Lord Lansbury appeared from one of the many rooms leading off from the hall and strode toward them.

It was strange, but it was as if she had first seen him only yesterday. He had made such an impression on her on the ship and it had remained, only now it was stronger. He had a look she saw rarely—the complete indifference of inherited position. It was something that could not be acquired or even reproduced. It had to develop over time. Attired in a dark-green jacket and pristine neck linen, tall, lithe, his features strong and darkly, incredibly attractive, he moved with the confident ease of a man well assured of his place in the world and completely unconcerned about the world’s perception of him.

Accustomed all her life to foreigners and older men of her father’s acquaintance, men who gave thought of nothing other than their work and gave no thought to their appearance, she had never seen anything like Lord Lansbury. Unable to tear her eyes away from him, she was bowled over anew by that same dark, delicious magnetism she remembered vividly from her first glimpse of him on the ship.

His hair was thick and dark brown, as shiny as silk brushed back from his brow, his glorious grey eyes the colour of smoke. He had a long aquiline nose and his eyelids were heavy, drooping low, giving him a lazy, sleepy look. At over six foot tall, he was built like one of those Greek athletes she had read so much about, lean and muscular, all supple grace, and when he spoke his voice was deep and throaty, reminding her of thick honey and making her think of bodies, of bedrooms and the erotic engravings she had seen on her travels through the far east and Europe with her father.

Lord Lansbury had travelled to Chalfont ahead of Lady Lansbury. When Lady Lansbury introduced her, he looked at her, inclining his head courteously. But he did not see her, not really, and she hadn’t expected him to. He did not look at her in the way a man would look at an attractive woman. His eyes were startling and distracting, not so much for their silver-grey colour or the size, which was substantial. What gave them their unique power seemed to be the fact that the centre of his eyes filled the clear white from top to bottom and the thick lashes both obscured and revealed his gaze, depending on his whim.

‘Miss Mortimer is here to take care of Octavia, Christopher. You will remember that she was the young lady who saved Octavia’s life on the ship. I informed you she would be coming today.’

‘Yes, so you did.’ He fixed Jane with a cool gaze. ‘We are in your debt, Miss Mortimer, for what you did that day. But your work will not be easy. Getting Octavia to do anything she doesn’t like is like piloting a ship into the harbour. It needs a steady hand on the tiller.’

Jane laughed, suddenly nervous. She felt Lord Lansbury was only being polite and sensed he was uncomfortable and wishful to escape. A sense of disappointment rippled through her. How she wished he would look at her differently, that he would find her attractive.

‘Please don’t be concerned. My navigational skills are quite exceptional.’

‘I’m glad to hear it. Your father was a well-known writer and antiquarian, I believe.’

‘He was Matthew Mortimer, a knowledgeable writer on many things—Roman and Greek history and antiquities were his passion.’

‘He must have been an interesting man. My mother tells me you have spent a great deal of your time abroad.’

‘Yes. Together we travelled to many countries—Europe and beyond. We lived in India for five years.’

‘Really?’ Jane felt and saw his interest quicken. ‘You must find life here very different indeed from that hot clime.’

‘Very different,’ she said, trying not to let herself sound too regretful.

‘And dull.’

She laughed. ‘I’m afraid I haven’t had time to find out.’

‘You appear to be a sensible young woman, Miss Mortimer. I am sure you will adjust. I hope you won’t find the English winters too cold and miserable.’

‘I’m sure I will,’ she said with a wry smile. ‘I’m also sure that I’ll survive.’

‘You must miss your father.’

‘Yes,’ she replied, struggling to conceal the sadness she always felt when speaking of her father. She still felt his loss deeply. ‘Not only was I his daughter, but his assistant. When he died I’m afraid much of his work was unfinished so I have a lot of loose ends to tie up for his publisher. Lady Lansbury has kindly offered me the use of your library—when I’m not looking after Lady Octavia, that is.’

‘Of course. Feel free to use it any time. I am sure you will do an excellent job taking care of Octavia. I hope you will enjoy your time here.’

Jane’s heart skipped a beat as his beautiful grey eyes met hers. Pleasure washed over her. ‘I’m sure I will, Lord Lansbury.’ She swallowed hard, unable to think of anything else to say until he had turned his back on her and walked away. ‘Thank you,’ she finally managed to call out, but he must not have heard her words, for he did not turn to look at her again.

‘Oh, dear! My son is hasty sometimes,’ Lady Lansbury said, noting Jane’s dismay. ‘He has grave matters to worry him and he is always so busy. But come, my dear. I’ll take you to Octavia’s rooms.’ She looked at Jane who was somewhat flushed. ‘Are you all right, my dear?’

‘Yes—perfectly.’

A cloud shifted across Jane’s face and her eyelids lowered. The expression in them was unreadable, which was just as well, for she loved Christopher Chalfont from that moment. How else could these feelings that consumed her be explained—she, who had no experience of men in the romantic sense? She told herself that she should doubt her reactions to Lord Lansbury, the first man she had ever been attracted to. She was unable to understand why this should be.

The day she had left France and climbed aboard the boat bound for Dover would live with her for ever, because that was the day she had met him, the day he had entered her mind so that she was unable to think of anything else. Because the differences between them were too vast, she did not fool herself into believing it could ever be any different and that he would ever return her love.

Nothing was normal any more, least of all her feelings about herself.

Chapter Two

Jane had been at Chalfont for one whole month and had no reason to regret her decision. The servants were not quite sure about her position. The other young ladies who had cared for Octavia in the past had been employed as governesses. Although Miss Mortimer’s position filled that role, Lady Lansbury treated her as more of a friend. Miss Mortimer was frequently invited to dine with the family, but she always declined, opting to eat in the rooms she shared with Octavia.

Jane realised she had a talent for entertaining Octavia that surprised her. In spite of her lack of experience with children, she managed to win Octavia’s trust and arouse her eager curiosity with the activities they did together. They would walk in the beautiful grounds and at other times Octavia loved to draw and paint, but she was reluctant to learn her letters, so on Lady Lansbury’s advice she did not press her.

But it wasn’t always easy. There were times when Octavia would be silent for long periods and she was unable to concentrate any length of time on any one thing. She was often wilful and sullen and there were tears if she could not get her own way. But on the whole she brought much pleasure to Jane and Lady Lansbury was beginning to lose that tense, anxious look that Jane had noticed on first meeting her.

Hearing the gravel crunch beneath a horse’s hooves on the drive below, she was drawn from her thoughts as she watched Octavia painting pictures in her room. Drawing a deep breath in anticipation of the return of Lord Lansbury from his ride, she moved swiftly to the window and looked down at the man who occupied her thoughts both day and night. He had spent most of the past four weeks in town so she hadn’t seen much of him. The moment she fixed her eyes on his tall, powerfully elegant figure, as he dismounted and handed the reins to a waiting groom, she felt that familiar twist of her heart, that addictive mix of pleasure and discomfort.

* * *

Unaware that he was being observed, Christopher entered the house. At best, he was a fiercely private man, guarded and solitary and accountable to no one. At worst, he was a man with a streak of ruthlessness and an iron control that was almost chilling. He possessed a haughty reserve that was not inviting and set him apart from others in society.

There had been other women. He took them to bed, but he did not let them into his life. He could also be cold, calculating and unemotional, which was his attitude to the decision he was about to make regarding marriage to an American heiress, Lydia Spelling. The American dollars she would bring would go a long way to shoring up Chalfont’s finances. He was still feeling the effects of his father’s ruin, but the returns from his investments were at last beginning to show improvements.

Marriage to Miss Spelling would be advantageous in other ways as well as financial. The Chalfonts had become thin on the ground. To continue the line he had to give some thought to producing an heir. He knew how anxious his mother was for him to marry. If he didn’t produce a legitimate heir, the title was in danger of passing entirely out of the Chalfont family. It troubled him more than anyone realised and he knew he couldn’t go on ignoring the issue.

When his mother had decided to take Octavia on an extensive tour to visit New York and then Paris, reluctant to let them go alone, Christopher had accompanied them. When he’d embarked on the transatlantic voyage, the phenomenon of seeking to marry an American heiress as the solution to his financial situation and to continue the Chalfont line had not entered his head. He hadn’t reckoned on Oswald Spelling.

Spelling, a widower with one daughter, hadn’t passed up the chance to socialise with an earl—British aristocrats had become husbands of choice for American millionaires’ daughters. Invited to dine at the Spellings’s showy mansion on Madison Square, Mr Spelling had seated Lydia on Christopher’s right. It wasn’t subtle, but then it didn’t have to be.

Lydia Spelling was animated and she knew how to assert herself. Encouraged from an early age to express herself and fully confident that she was a worthwhile thing to express, she left Christopher in no doubt that she found him an attractive prospect. As an American heiress she enjoyed a freedom of movement and association that was reserved in Europe solely for married women.

When Christopher finally left New York, he had made no commitment and yet an understanding of sorts had been reached. Lydia was attractive and popular at any event. He did not love her, but making her his wife did not seem such a high price to pay for a lifetime free from financial worry. No sacrifice would be too great if he could restore some of Chalfont’s glories and ensure a more stable future.

* * *

Christopher was ensconced in Chalfont’s library reading the financial sections in the morning papers, one booted foot resting atop his knee,

It was a lovely room. With its beautiful Adams ceiling and Grinling Gibbons chimneypiece, highly polished floor and vividly coloured oriental carpets, it was like an Aladdin’s cave—a treasure trove of precious leather-bound tomes. It smelt strongly of polish and Morocco leather. It was a room which encapsulated every culture and civilisation of the universe, where bookshelves stretched from floor to ceiling, broken only by the fireplace and long windows looking out on to the gardens.

Christopher glanced up when the door opened and his mother swept in.

‘So this is where you are, Christopher. I thought I’d best tell you that I shall be taking charge of Octavia today. I thought it was time Miss Mortimer took some time off to get on with her work. I really wish she had accepted some kind of reward for what she did for Octavia on the ship. I did think of giving her a bank draft—a reward for saving her life—but she will be undoubtedly offended by the money.’

Christopher smiled disdainfully. ‘Perhaps she is not as eager for coin as some of the lower classes would be, who would try to wheedle some sort of monetary reward regardless of the reason.’

‘You’ve become a cynic,’ his mother teased blandly. ‘But Jane is not like that. She is without guile or greed. She is a lovely young woman, don’t you agree?’

Christopher gave her a narrow look over the top of the newspaper. ‘She’s certainly out of the ordinary—having spent her life, by all accounts, like a wandering gypsy. I’ve never seen you so taken with any of the other young ladies we have employed to take care of Octavia in the past.’

‘You’re quite right, and so far I’m thoroughly satisfied. Jane is an absolute treasure.’

‘Unconventional and hopelessly peculiar is how I would describe her,’ Christopher replied drolly, flicking back the next page of his paper. ‘I would have thought that a girl with her background would be devoid of social skills and find it hard to adjust to the kind of world we inhabit.’

‘You are too harsh. Jane is a thoroughly charming and engaging and well-adjusted young woman, with a remarkable intelligence. In the short time I’ve known her I vow she’s lifted my spirits considerably. I know you had reservations about her suitability from the start, but she has proved you wrong. The difference in Octavia is quite startling. You must have seen that for yourself.’

That Christopher had misgivings about Jane was etched into the troubled scowl on his face. His mother would hear no wrong said about the girl who had slipped so neatly and effortlessly into their lives, and for the sake of Octavia and his mother’s happiness he must accept the situation.

* * *

On the other side of the library door, which Lady Lansbury had left ajar, hearing voices and about to enter, Jane paused. Not wishing to intrude, she considered returning to her room, but on hearing Lady Lansbury mention her name, she halted.

Listening to what Lord Lansbury had to say, Jane felt tears of humiliation burn the backs of her eyes. She stepped away from the door, trying to recover her control. If what he said was to be believed, he didn’t want her at Chalfont, which meant his initial cordiality to her had all been a pretence. He was rightly protective of his sister, but that did not lessen the sting of his words or the terrible hurt that engulfed her on hearing them.

Fighting desperately to hold on to her rising anger and shattered pride, she raised her head. After all, it wasn’t her fault if he found her hopelessly peculiar. Lady Lansbury was happy to have her care for Octavia and was pleased with the rapport that had grown between them.

Taking the bull by the horns, she knocked on the door and pushed it open, forcing a smile to her lips when Lady Lansbury crossed towards her and trying not to look at Lord Lansbury, who had dropped his newspaper on to his knee and was looking directly at her, his face expressionless.

‘Come in, Jane. I’m sure you are impatient to begin work. I shall go and see Mrs Collins in the kitchen. I thought we might take Octavia for a carriage ride later if you can spare the time, Christopher.’

‘I will try, but I have a lot of work to do today. I have to go over the books with Johnson and I want to inspect one of the farms myself. Johnson claims they don’t really need a roof, but it’s going to be a rainy autumn and I want to make sure.’

‘Johnson is a very efficient and able bailiff, Christopher. I’m sure he can manage without you, but—if you must.’

‘I will try. I don’t want to disappoint Octavia. I’ll have more time this afternoon.’

‘This afternoon will be fine,’ she said, turning away. ‘I won’t be gone more than a moment. I’ll leave you to set out your work, Jane. Christopher will look after you until I return...’

Her voice faded away into the far reaches of the house and a door was heard to open and close somewhere. Then there was silence.

Without looking at the man lounging in the chair, but conscious of his presence, carrying her things, Jane crossed to a table tucked away in a corner by the window. It would be the perfect place for her to work. Lady Lansbury had introduced her to the library on her arrival at Chalfont, explaining that she would be able to concentrate on her work without interruption.

Christopher watched her pull out a chair and place her files on the surface of the table. With rigid back and head held high, she lowered herself into it. With a mixture of languor and self-assurance, absently drumming his fingers on the leather arm, Christopher let his gaze sweep over her in a contemplative way.

‘How do you find Octavia, Miss Mortimer?’

Her face was half-turned away from him. All he could see was the curve of her cheekbone and the long silky flutter of her black lashes. Her hair was drawn unflatteringly into its severe bun. Her face was composed and her eyes clear and untroubled. In fact, she looked as she always looked, unapproachable and detached from those about her. Yet she was paler than usual and he wondered if she was unwell. She was certainly quiet—in fact, she was as prim as a spinster at a church tea party.

She looked up from sorting out her work as though against her better judgement, and Christopher was mystified by her cool reserve. Her face was set in a mould of chill politeness and he could see it was all she could do to answer him. What the devil had he done to earn her animosity, he wondered, and in such a short time? Then he almost laughed. It was all so ridiculous. He was tempted to ask her outright what offence he had committed, then thought better of it. However, he learned the cause of her cold attitude when she next spoke, and he was contrite. His comments had been unflattering and hurtful.

‘Lady Octavia is a charming girl,’ Jane said crisply. ‘Where she is concerned I take my responsibilities seriously. You may not approve of me, Lord Lansbury, but be assured that I am not out to hurt her in any way.’

‘Ah. So, you overheard what I was saying to my mother, in which case I can see some form of apology is in order. However, since you mention it I did not say that I do not approve of you. On the contrary. I have nothing but respect for you and the work you do. However,’ he said, putting down his newspaper and getting to his feet, ‘what my opinions are concerning you has no bearing on the case. My paramount concern is Octavia’s happiness and well-being. As you will know, having spent some considerable time in her company, she is not like other twelve-year-old girls.’

‘That I do know. Lady Lansbury explained Lady Octavia’s situation before I accepted the post.’

‘I am sure she did,’ he said, moving close to where she sat, ‘but naturally I was concerned when I discovered that my mother had decided to employ you without discussing the matter with me first.’

‘I understand your concern. Lady Lansbury has shown nothing but courtesy itself, and I give you my word that I shall not abuse her kindness. What you must understand is that I did not seek the position she offered me. Indeed, having just arrived in London—having spent most of my life living the life of a wandering gypsy—to quote your own words, my lord—I was undecided on what I would do next.’

‘It would seem my mother came along at the right moment.’

‘Perhaps. Time will tell. I dare say the properly reared young ladies of your acquaintance would be horrified and fall into a swoon at the life I have led and liken me to a savage. I may not have been born with blue blood in my veins and all the advantages that come with it, but I have learned much and my life has been enriched by it. Yes, I have been to many places and seen things good and bad, but I would not change a thing. It is not where a person comes from that matters. It’s what a person is that counts.’

Christopher stared at the proud, tempestuous young woman in silent, cool composure. Her words reverberated round the room, ricocheting off the walls and hitting him with all the brutal impact of a battering ram, but it failed to pierce the armour of his reserve and not a flicker of emotion registered on his impassive features.

‘That, Miss Mortimer, was quite an outburst. Have you finished?’

Pausing to take a restorative breath, wondering if he might order her from the house following her outburst, Jane finally said, ‘Yes, I have.’

Cool and remote, feeling a stirring of admiration for this strange young woman who had dared speak her mind with such force, Christopher studied her for a moment, as though trying to discern something. When he had first set eyes on her he had thought her plain. But now, looking at her anew, he found himself revising his opinion. Her eyes were dark and soft and warm and were surrounded by absurdly long lashes. She had fine textured skin the colour of fresh cream. There were tiny lines at the corners of her eyes that told him she was a woman who smiled often.

But she did not smile at him.

Was she really as innocent and prim as she appeared? His instinct detected untapped depths of passion in her that sent silent signals instantly recognisable to a lusty male. The impact of these signals brought a smouldering glow to his eyes. So much innocence excited him, made him imagine those pleasures and sensations Miss Mortimer could never have experienced being aroused by him. If he had a mind, it would not be too difficult a task to demolish her pride and have her melting with desire in his arms.

Briefly, the idea of conquering her appealed to his sardonic sense of humour—if that was what he had a mind to do, which he didn’t. The idea of seducing any woman for his own gratification was unthinkable. It would put him on a par with his own father, who had been the most corrupt and debauched man he had known. Christopher was his son, but there the association ended. He was not like his father and he never would be. Where Miss Mortimer was concerned he must remember that for him, because of the position she held, she was untouchable.

The lazy smile he bestowed on her transformed his face. She stared at him, as if momentarily captivated by it, unaware of the lascivious thoughts that had induced it. Hot colour washed her cheeks under his close scrutiny and he had no doubt that she hated herself for that betrayal. He smiled infuriatingly.

With a slight lift to his eyebrows, he said, ‘Do I unsettle you, Miss Mortimer?’

‘No—no, of course not,’ she replied, completely flustered as she lowered her gaze and began sorting out the papers on the table, unable to prevent her hands from shaking.

‘Come now, you’re blushing,’ he taunted gently, being well schooled in the way women’s minds worked.

‘I am not.’ Jane’s unease was growing by the second, but she tried not to show it, attempting to maintain a facade of disinterest and indifference.

‘Yes, you are.’ Chuckling softly, he turned away. ‘I see you are busy so I will trouble you no longer.’

The smile disappeared from Christopher’s lips and was replaced by a dark frown as he strode from the room. His conversation with Miss Mortimer had unsettled him and he could not escape the fact that already she had caused a rift in his well-ordered routine—a disturbance that had brought a feeling of unease which was beginning to trouble him. Perhaps it was because, despite her ability to stand on her own two feet, there was a vulnerability about her. Or perhaps it was the fact that she had no flirtatious wiles or it was her candour that threw him off balance. Or those eyes of hers that seemed to search his face as if she were looking for his soul.

Suddenly he found himself wondering what it would be like, having a wife to light up his life with warmth and laughter—a woman to banish the dark emptiness within him.

He caught himself up short, dispelling such youthful dreams and unfulfilled yearnings. He had experienced them once before with Lily, foolishly believing that a beautiful woman could make those dreams come true. How stupid, how gullible he had been to let himself believe a woman cared about such things as love and faithfulness.

Striding away from the library, he scowled as he realised Jane Mortimer was suddenly bringing all those old, foolish yearnings back to torment him.

* * *

When Lord Lansbury had left her, Jane sat looking at the closed door for a long time, her heart palpitating as a whole array of confusing emotions washed over her—anger, humiliation and a piercing, agonising loneliness she had not felt since her father had died.

Despite the unpleasant things she had overheard him say about her and the forthright manner in which she had retaliated—and the way he had looked at her, commenting on her embarrassment—her heart continued to beat with a chaotic mix of every emotion she had ever felt. And when he had smiled at her it was the most wonderful smile she had ever seen and full of provocative charm.

Even she, as immune to charm as she was to good looks, could feel the potency of both in this man. Feeling her heart somersault, she thought that when he smiled like that and looked at a woman from under those drooping lids, he could make a feral cat lay down and purr. Yet the hawk-like shrewdness of those beautiful silver-grey eyes spoke plainly of a man who would not be easy to manage.

* * *

Lord Lansbury’s association with the American heiress was all the talk at Chalfont. It would appear that although an understanding had been reached, they were not formally engaged. An announcement was expected soon. Accompanied by her father, Miss Spelling had stopped off in London en route for Paris. They had arrived at Chalfont the day before Lady Lansbury’s fifty-fifth birthday celebrations.

Octavia was caught up in the excitement and had talked of nothing else for days. Concerned that her young charge would tire herself out before the party started, taking her hand, Jane led her to the bed.

‘You must rest, Lady Octavia, so you are not too tired to enjoy the party later.’

‘I love parties, Jane. You will come, too?’

Jane stared into Octavia’s face. It was brilliant with hope. Her eyes never moved from Jane’s and she scarcely seemed to breathe as she waited for Jane to speak.

Even though Lady Lansbury invited her to attend social events, Jane preferred not to, but since it was Lady Lansbury’s birthday and because Lady Lansbury had insisted she attend, she had accepted.

Jane laughed, turning back the down quilt on the bed while Octavia put Poppy in her basket. ‘I shall, Lady Octavia. I understand from your mama that lots of people will be coming. Now come along. Into bed with you and go to sleep, otherwise you will be too tired to enjoy the party. When you wake you’ll be ready for your bath. I’ll lay out your prettiest party dress—the rose brocade with raised pink rosebuds you like so well. You’ll be the prettiest young lady at the party.’

‘What are you going to wear? Will it be as pretty as my dress?’

‘No, Lady Octavia. I have nothing as pretty as that. I don’t know what I’m going to wear. I haven’t decided.’

Jane tucked the bedclothes around Octavia as she closed her eyes and in no time at all she was asleep. She sat on the bed for a moment, looking down at her young charge. Octavia looked adorable with her curling blonde hair rumpled and falling over her brow, her cheeks flushed and her breath coming softly through her parted lips.

* * *

What to wear for Lady Lansbury’s birthday party was proving a headache for Jane. It wasn’t something that usually concerned her since she was never invited to parties and the like where the guests were made up of fashionable ladies and gentlemen.

Miss Spelling would make her appearance beside Lord Lansbury. Try as she might not to dwell on this, Jane could think of nothing else and would make an extra effort with her appearance. When she tried to picture this unknown American heiress, she was beset with apprehension and a sharp twinge of jealousy—a feeling totally alien to her until now and she rebuked herself for it—all the greater because she had no right to such feelings when Lord Lansbury was going to marry someone else.

A lovely wise old lady she had met in India had told her that whenever a special event occurred, one must cover oneself in silks and perfumes to make one feel secure in one’s own being. To do this would send out whatever messages one wished from this simple subtlety.

Jane had taken this advice to heart, but ruefully she thought how simple that advice would be to follow if one looked like some of the fashionable beauties she had seen in London. At twenty-one years old she was capable of self-analysis and knew it would take more than silks and perfumes to stave off the disharmony she felt for herself. She chided herself for not purchasing some new clothes on her arrival in London. Aunt Caroline, eyeing her out-of-date gowns with distaste, had suggested taking her shopping, but Jane had put it off, telling her she would think about it later. She now had cause to regret not doing so.

Looking through her much-travelled battered old trunk, she drew out a brilliantly hued gown of sapphire silk. It was far more elaborate than her usual day dresses and she was sure it would be suitable for the party. The style was perhaps a little old-fashioned and would not flatter her figure, but it was certainly eye-catching.

The colour glowed and gleamed in the light as though it had a life of its own as she slid the sensuous fabric over her bare shoulders and felt its caress against her skin. The ripples of silk rustled very softly, enticing and provocative. The neckline was modest, the sleeves to the elbow trimmed with the finest lace. The tightly sashed waist and billowing skirt with its layers of supporting underskirts accentuated the feminine shape of her body.

She felt the aura of the old lady very strongly as she twisted this way and that in front of the mirror, assessing herself as never before, as if through someone else’s eyes—Christopher Chalfont’s eyes.

* * *

When Octavia saw her she gasped with delight, reaching out to lightly finger the fine silk.

‘Oh, you look so pretty, Miss Jane. So pretty.’

‘Do I, Lady Octavia?’ Jane asked, looking back at the mirror and frowning slightly as if that image of herself were not quite what she had expected to see.

‘It’s a lovely dress.’

‘This is a very special gown, Lady Octavia. It’s travelled with me all the way from India.’

‘India was where you lived, wasn’t it?’

Jane tilted the child’s face up to hers and smiled fondly. ‘Yes, I told you all about, it if you remember. It’s a country far, far away. Now, I think we had best present ourselves to your mama, don’t you? We mustn’t be late for her party.’

* * *

With Octavia, Jane left their rooms and walked along a wide passage crossing the width of the house. They passed bedrooms and drawing rooms, dining rooms and studies. The Great Gallery was a room of tremendous proportions and a hushed church-like atmosphere. Its floor was of polished oak and its walls supported a huge vaulted ceiling of decorative plaster. Set in rows along the walls were the family paintings, many larger than life and all housed in elaborately gilded frames. They gave the impression to anyone entering the gallery that they were stepping into the presence of nobility.

The afternoon was warm and sunny. Lady Lansbury had opted to have her birthday party on Chalfont’s magnificent lawns, where tables beneath parasols had been set out for the guests. Footmen were on hand to assist an enthusiastic stream of guests from their carriages and see that the vehicles and horses were taken around to the stables.

Beneath a red-and-white-striped awning, trestle tables covered with pristine white tablecloths were laden with a magnificent array of food—every delicacy which was considered necessary to tempt the appetite: pâté, lobster, all manner of succulent meats, pies and jellies, bottles of hock and claret, bowls of punch and fortified wine for the ladies. A large complement of servants flitted about to wait on the guests’ every fancy.

It was quite a spectacle for Jane when she stepped out of the glass doors which opened on to a broad terrace. Octavia in her pretty pink dress, her pretty bonnet held in place by a wide band of embroidered pink ribbon loosely knotted under her chin, held her hand tightly, an anxious look in her eyes. Jane knew she was always uneasy when in the company of so many people and she had promised not to leave her side for a moment.

The scene that confronted them was a kaleidoscope of colour. The gardens were ablaze with blossoms and islands of rhododendrons and azaleas, the air heady with the sweet fragrance of magnolia. Hanging flowers and a profusion of roses and laburnum climbed and trailed over a covered walkway. Elegant sculptures were set against dark green yew trees and an Italian fountain discharged water into a giant lily pond.

Rising above all this was Chalfont House, standing like a magnificent work of art, the brilliantly lit stained-glass windows of the seventeenth century glinting as they caught the sun. The effect was stunning.

Set against this background of unashamed opulence, the lawns and terraces were swarming with titled, wealthy and influential guests, their beautiful gowns, jackets, bonnets and parasols competing with the flower-filled beds. Lady Lansbury presented an imposing figure in a high-necked gown of eau-de-Nil shot silk with a matching turban trimmed with plumes of a moderate height.

Into this select assembly the proud figure of Lydia Spelling stepped on to the high terrace to make her grand entrance. This was the first time Jane had seen her close up and her heart sank at the exquisite picture of fashionable sophistication she made.

Miss Spelling was sandwiched between the Earl of Lansbury and her father, a short, portly man with mutton-chop whiskers, his face carved in hard lines. With her dark hair perfectly coiffed beneath a plume of tantalising white feathers, and a fitted, high-necked jacket of quilted deep-rose satin that hugged her body and accentuated the full swell of her breasts, Lydia Spelling’s appearance was dramatic and could not be faulted. She was not beautiful, or even pretty, but alarmingly arresting.

A hush descended as conversation petered out and every head turned in her direction. Chalfont’s gardens offered the perfect stage on which an ambitious young woman might make her mark, but it was a world in which Lydia Spelling’s place was already secure. It was a grand entrance carried out as only Lydia Spelling could, with enormous panache, and Jane was grudgingly forced to admire it. She saw before her an experienced woman of the world, at ease with men and determined in her goals.

Watching her, Jane was both resentful and fascinated. Whatever she had expected of Miss Spelling, nothing had prepared her for the remarkable presence of the American woman. Jane remembered everything she had heard about her from the servants and now she could believe it all. Miss Spelling had the magnetism and the power that Jane could never possess.

Jane felt strangely inadequate, knowing she could never compete with the worldly experience and fascination of Miss Spelling. She felt vulnerable and gauche.

Lord Lansbury fixed his steady gaze on the figure of his mother seated in a high-backed chair beneath a large parasol, presiding over her birthday party. Accompanied by Miss Spelling and her father, he made his way towards her. Without exception the guests stepped aside so that their progress was unimpaired and before the three of them had reached the Countess of Lansbury conversation had resumed.

Octavia immediately grasped Jane’s hand and pulled her in the direction of her brother. They were both breathing heavily by the time they reached the group.

On reaching his mother, Christopher bent his head and kissed her cheek before drawing Lydia forward.

Lady Lansbury smiled as her eyes settled on the woman who might well become the Countess of Lansbury, her daughter-in-law. ‘Lydia, my dear. How charming you look. I am so pleased you and your father are here to enjoy my birthday party. I am sorry your visit to Chalfont will be brief, although I am certain you will enjoy your trip to Paris.’

‘I’m sure we will, Lady Lansbury. We leave tomorrow, but we were keen to attend your party.’

‘I hope you have a pleasant few weeks. You will miss her, Christopher.’

‘I’m sure I shall,’ he replied, smiling at Lydia.

‘Perhaps you will appreciate me all the more when I return,’ Lydia remarked, trying to catch his eyes, but his attention was caught by Octavia practically jumping up and down to get his attention, bringing a frown of disapproval to Miss Spelling’s brow.

Jane thought Lord Lansbury seemed taller and more elegant than ever. Trying to still her racing heart, not wishing to intrude on the group, she hung back, reluctant to put herself forward. Lord Lansbury received her with polite courtesy and Miss Spelling, with kid-gloved hand placed in a possessive manner on his arm, with a practised smile and noticeable coolness.

Laughing gaily, Octavia wrapped her arms about her brother’s waist, much to Miss Spelling’s annoyance. She took a step back as if she’d been stung when the child reached out to touch one of the flounces on her skirt.

‘Please don’t touch my dress, Lady Octavia,’ she snapped.

Octavia snatched her hand away and stared up at her before sending Jane a look of piteous bewilderment, not liking the tone of Miss Spelling’s voice and not knowing what she’d done wrong.

Seeing the hurt and distress on Octavia’s face, Jane took her hand and drew her to her side. ‘Lady Octavia was only admiring your dress. She has done no harm so please don’t shout at her.’ Looking down at Octavia, she smiled. ‘Don’t be upset, Lady Octavia. You have done no wrong.’

Taken aback by the sharp firmness in Jane’s voice, Miss Spelling stared at her with severe reproach. ‘And why should she not be reprimanded? Spare the rod and spoil the child is what they say, is it not?’

‘They can say what they like,’ Lord Lansbury said with a deadly calm. ‘We like spoiling Octavia.’ Turning from her and looking fondly at his sister, he stroked her cheek. ‘Are you all right, poppet?’ She nodded up at him and he smiled tenderly, hoping that what could have turned out to be an awkward situation had been averted. ‘Allow me to introduce you to Miss Mortimer, Lydia,’ he said. ‘I don’t believe the two of you have met.’

Miss Spelling looked at her with a mocking air, making no attempt to hide her scrutiny. Her eyes were hard as she looked Jane up and down that was only a shade away from insolence. She assessed Jane in a manner suggesting she thought she must have fallen on hard times.

‘Do come closer, Miss Mortimer. There is no need to be so ill at ease, I assure you. I bark, but never have I been known to bite. Lady Lansbury has told me about you. You are Lady Octavia’s governess?’

In that intense moment, surrounded by the opulence of Lady Lansbury’s guests, Jane felt some emotion from Miss Spelling, pressing in on her, squeezing her with icy, inflexible fingers. The woman was striking, secure in her own strength and sure of her own incomparable worth.

‘I suppose Miss Mortimer does hold the position as Octavia’s governess, but she is more of a companion to her,’ Lord Lansbury provided. ‘We met on the ship when we were returning from France. Her quick actions saved Octavia’s life. We have much to be grateful to her for.’

Miss Spelling gave Jane a look which suggested that her presence devalued the occasion, shaking her head as if pondering what the world was coming to when the upper classes entertained their servants.

‘You have been abroad, Miss Mortimer?’

‘I have lived abroad almost all my life,’ Jane answered. ‘My father was an historian—a writer and collector of antiquities. We travelled extensively.’

‘Really?’ Miss Spelling replied, seemingly unimpressed. The full red smile never wavered, but her eyes were cold. Everything about her was precise and impeccable. ‘How very odd.’

Jane managed to retain a cool and unruffled expression as she watched Miss Spelling’s diamond earrings flash against her cheeks. She looked in vain for some trace of softness in her, but she was as hard as the trunk of the stout oak tree behind her. ‘Not at all. His work was interesting.’ Jane felt Miss Spelling’s eyes on her once more and an aura of sensuous rose perfume wafted around her.

‘And did you assist him in his work?’

‘Yes, I did.’

‘And do you miss the work?’

‘I do, although it didn’t end when he died. I still have much to do to complete the work he left unfinished. I enjoyed working with him and we travelled to many interesting places. We even travelled on a camel train from China to Northern India. After that we went to Europe, to Greece and on to Egypt, which was where he died nearly four months ago.’

‘It sounds—unusual, to say the least. But what manner of man takes his daughter round the world with no protection other than himself—and then...?’

Jane heard reproach in the deep, husky voice and her spine stiffened. For some mysterious reason Miss Spelling had clearly taken an instant dislike to her. She suddenly resented the rounded curves, the dark hair piled up on the haughty, fascinating head. Her own eyes narrowed.

‘What? Died? My father was a good man, Miss Spelling, loving and caring,’ she said in his defence, trying to keep her anger at the woman’s rudeness in check, ‘and you insult me by implying otherwise. Until his death he was a healthy, vigorous man. He didn’t know he was going to die. And he taught me well—mainly how to cope when things became difficult. Which I did.’

For one vivid instant the air between them shivered with tense friction. But if Miss Spelling was disconcerted by Jane’s abrupt and forthright manner, she hid it quickly under a mask of indifference.

‘I see.’ She looked towards where a lady seated next to Lady Lansbury was beckoning to her with a hand glittering with sapphires. ‘Excuse me, Miss Mortimer. I am being summoned.’

Jane nodded, feeling irritated that she should be so summarily dismissed. ‘Of course. Don’t let me keep you.’

* * *

Lord Lansbury watched Lydia go before turning to Jane. Her violet eyes with their long shadowing lashes were following Lydia. In one quick glance he saw the change her dress had made to her, the long creamy neck exposed. He saw the tiny dimple in her chin and the voluptuous curve of her red lips. He saw the tiny black mole high on her cheek where the rose faded into the gleaming white of her forehead. She was sensuous, provocative, glowing with colour like a country girl, and it seemed to him she was quite out of place among the elegant and sophisticated guests.

His granite features softened as if he understood how angry and humiliated she must be feeling by Lydia’s thoughtless remark. ‘I apologise for Lydia,’ he said. ‘She shouldn’t have said that about your father. I can see she has offended you with her frankness.’

At any other time she would have been absurdly flattered by his courtesy and concern, but now she was perplexed and shook her head. ‘Frank to the point of rudeness.’

‘I am sorry you see it that way. Lydia is American and tends to be outspoken.’ His voice was polite as he tried to smooth over the awkwardness of Miss Mortimer’s strained meeting with his future fiancée.

‘That does not excuse her. I am not used to Americans, but I am not prejudiced against the race. Miss Spelling should not have said what she did. I allow no one to speak ill of my father. He was a fine man. A clever man and a loving father. I could not have had better.’

Christopher’s entire face instantly became hard, shuttered and aloof. ‘You are fortunate in that, Miss Mortimer. More than you realise.’ With a slight inclination of his head, he said, ‘Excuse me.’

She stepped back. ‘Of course,’ she said stiffly, somewhat bewildered by the small knot of tension in the centre of her chest.

* * *

Jane knew a keen and surprising sense of disappointment when Lord Lansbury left her so abruptly. She watched him join the animated circle of guests that had collected round his mother. The hum of voices and laughter rose. Jane caught Lady Lansbury’s eye. The conversation between the three of them had been observed by Lady Lansbury, who was not too lost in her own that she was unable to monitor the situation a few yards away.

Jane let her eyes dwell on Lord Lansbury’s face. She had dressed with care, imagining the moment when she found herself in his company. She wanted to do something to make him look at her, and if not exactly see her, then at least realise she had the ability, the mind, perhaps, to capture his masculine attention. She so wanted to see that look in his eyes that he reserved for other females, the look that told them they were the most important person in the world to him at that moment.

Never had any man looked so attractive or so distant, and never had her heart called out so strongly to anyone. She knew she must fight her attraction for him. It would be madness to consider herself anything but out of his class, a social inferior. And his standards were not hers. She tried to pull her wits together, all too aware that the other women were studying her with furtive curiosity. She saw Lord Lansbury smile down into Miss Spelling’s upturned face. For one terrible moment she was seized with passionate hatred for the other woman, so terrible and so unexpected that she was shocked by it.

Normally Jane would feel no qualms about joining a group in conversation, but something about the way Lord Lansbury commanded the attention of those around him and the presence of Miss Spelling made her hold back.

She could not hear what he was saying, but she could tell that this was not just polite attention on the part of the listeners. Lord Lansbury held his audience in thrall. A moment later he laughed at a remark thrown his way, looked up and caught sight of Jane. He raised an eyebrow and then resumed his conversation.

‘Come, Christopher,’ Miss Spelling said, hooking her hand possessively through his arm. ‘I care little for standing still in the hot sun. Shall we circulate?’

The two moved off to exchange social niceties and introductions with the other guests, Miss Spelling sailing forth, very much aware of the stir she had created and obviously enjoying it as she and her handsome escort went from one group to the next.

As Jane watched them from across the stretch of lawn that lay like a rich green carpet between them, Lord Lansbury led Miss Spelling in the direction of a summer house, where several guests were seated, the servants dancing attendance on them. She suddenly realised that although he was perfectly attentive, there was no singular affection between them. There was a distance there and Miss Spelling seemed more interested in nodding and greeting those they encountered than engaging Lord Lansbury in conversation.

As if Lady Lansbury had read her thoughts, moving to stand beside her, she said, ‘So you have been introduced to Miss Spelling, Jane.’ She sighed deeply, shaking her head as her eyes followed her son and the woman who might be his intended as they conversed with the guests. ‘She is an American—which I suppose explains a great deal. And she is attractive, do you not agree, Jane?’

‘How could I not? She is very beautiful.’

‘Yes,’ Lady Lansbury said, somewhat absently on a wry note. ‘She has youth, beauty, excellent connections and wealth and a certain fashionable notoriety. What more could a man desire in a woman?’

Continuing to watch the pair, in answer to Lady Lansbury’s wistful comment Jane thought perhaps money was a useful commodity, and property. But then, as the only daughter of an American millionaire, Lydia Spelling had all that. But would she be as desirable if she wasn’t dressed by France’s finest couturiers and wallowing in luxury and wealth? Of course she was as attractive and amusing as any of her contemporaries, but, Jane wondered, was it her money that preceded her whenever she walked into a room? Was it her money that triggered all those sideways covert glances, the conversations that faltered when she approached?

‘Her father is very rich,’ Lady Lansbury went on, ‘made his money in industry—in railroads and armaments and commodities. But he is not a part of the social circle. Some would say Miss Spelling is a good catch, but rich American girls are not accepted by the New York Knickerbocker set.’

‘Then it could also be said that Miss Spelling has landed on her feet.’

‘Exactly. It appears that American girl’s outspokenness and independent spirits are characteristics that Englishmen find charming. On the whole that is the case. Lydia is Mr Spelling’s only child. He is ambitious. He wants only the very best for his daughter—a title, which is why he has brought her to Europe to display her like a costly gem to be admired. This gem is destined for a coronet, at least. Christopher can provide him with that. I can only hope my son knows what he’s doing.’

‘I’m sure he does, Lady Lansbury,’ Jane answered, careful to hide her envy of Lydia Spelling while wishing with every fibre of her being that she was the woman being flaunted on Lord Lansbury’s arm.

‘I’m not at all sure, Jane. I have great affection for my son, but he does have his faults. I’m concerned about him doing the right thing. But of course I take care not to let such comments reach his ears. It is his affair, after all, who he marries. But if I were a betting woman I’d wager he isn’t in love with her.’

‘Not everyone who marries is in love,’ Jane said quietly. ‘In some of the countries I have visited, men and women have their marriages arranged by their parents. Sometimes the couple don’t meet until their wedding day. I’ve heard the opinion that love and marriage are two separate things.’

Lady Lansbury studied her closely. ‘And what is your opinion, Jane?’

‘That those who expressed that opinion must be sadly cynical people. What other reason is there to marry?’

‘Children is a good place to start.’

Jane gave Lady Lansbury a look of feigned astonishment. ‘Oh! I did not realise one needed a wedding ceremony to beget children.’

Lady Lansbury laughed. ‘What a wicked observation, Jane. Some would say you are quite shocking.’

‘Wicked, maybe, but also sensible.’

Lady Lansbury’s smile died. ‘You are a wonderful revelation, Jane, and I shall enjoy continuing our conversation on marriage at another time.’ She glanced once more in the direction of her son, but then, recollecting herself, she looked directly at Jane. ‘Forgive me, my dear, for being so forthright, but—what I said about Christopher, I am sure I can rely on your discretion.’

As if reading her mind, Jane said, ‘Of course, Lady Lansbury. I never betray a confidence.’

A look of understanding passed between the two women. ‘Thank you, Jane,’ Lady Lansbury answered.

Considering Lord Lansbury’s affairs nothing to do with her, Jane thought it prudent to keep any further opinions on marriage to herself. For the time she had known Lady Lansbury, she had discovered she had a forthright friendliness she liked. They often talked together. Lady Lansbury was very frank. She told Jane how much she admired her Aunt Caroline, who had made quite a niche for herself since her husband’s death ten years ago.

Observing Octavia who was watching her brother, Jane noticed her cheeks were flushed and her eyes were larger and brighter than she had seen them. ‘Are you all right, Lady Octavia?’

She nodded. ‘Can we go and get something to eat? I’m hungry.’

‘Of course we can. If you will excuse us, Lady Lansbury.’

‘Of course, my dear. Run along,’ she said, looking with concern at her daughter as she fidgeted from one foot to the other. ‘Octavia is looking a little flushed. Perhaps it’s the sun.’

‘I’ll get her a glass of iced lemonade—and I’m sure an ice cream would not go amiss,’ she suggested, knowing of Octavia’s love of that particular desert.

‘I don’t like Christopher’s friend,’ Octavia said, in a childishly conspiratorial whisper when they were far enough away from her mother to be overheard.

‘But why? Why don’t you like her, Lady Octavia?’

‘She’s always cross. I just don’t like her. She isn’t my friend.’

And just as suddenly her agitation was gone and she looked up and searched Jane’s face with her soft blue gaze. There was a gentle elusiveness about her that declared her to be as fragile and vulnerable as a summer flower and she possessed a strange, tragic quality that always touched Jane deeply.

‘We shall always be friends, won’t we, Jane?’

‘Yes, Lady Octavia, I will always be your friend,’ Jane said with genuine warmth.

Octavia continued to search Jane’s face. ‘Truly? Cross your heart?’

Jane smiled, then with her forefinger she made a sign over her own heart. ‘Cross my heart,’ she promised.

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