“Thank you,” she said, and squeezed his hands when he gave them to her. “How can I ever thank you sufficiently?”
“For the books?” He frowned. He had forgotten about the books. He had intended to take her straight up to bed today, to have his brisk pleasure of her before leaving to get on with the rest of his day, undistracted by thoughts of her. He had intended to get this relationship properly on track. At the same time he had hated the thought of Kimble’s or Brougham’s ribald remarks, which he was sure to hear this evening, and his own knowledge that there was truth in them.
“A mere nothing,” he said curtly. He freed his hands and motioned for her to precede him into the sitting room.
“To you, perhaps,” she said. “But to me, everything. You cannot know how I have missed reading since I came here.”
“Then why the devil,” he asked her irritably, closing the door and looking about the room, “did you not let me take you to the library?”
And why the deuce was she so ashamed to be seen? His other mistresses had never been more happy than when he escorted them somewhere where they would be seen in his company.
She was probably the daughter of a damned clergyman. But he would be double damned before he would start feeling guilt at having had her virtue.
She would not answer his question, of course. She smiled again, tipping her head to one side.
“You are in a black mood this afternoon,” she observed. “But I am not to be cowed by it. Has something happened that you would like to talk about?”
He almost laughed.
“The Forbes brothers have slunk off out of town to bring on reinforcements,” he said. “They are afraid to confront me with the odds of three against one. They are planning to increase them to five against one. They will discover that the odds are still in my favor. I derive a certain relish out of dealing with bullies and cowards.”
She sighed. “Men and their pride,” she said. “I suppose you will still be brawling when you are eighty, if you should live so long. Will you sit down? Shall I order tea? Or do you wish to go straight upstairs?”
Suddenly, strangely, alarmingly, he did not want her. Not in bed. Not now. It just seemed too—too what? Sordid? He almost laughed again.
“Where are the books?” he asked. “In the bedchamber? The attic?”
“In the next room,” she said. “I have converted it for my own use when you are not here. I think of it as my den.”
He hated the sitting room. Even though it was now elegant and tasteful, it still reminded him of a waiting room, an impersonal space in which certain civilities were observed before the inevitable adjournment to the bedchamber. And there were no personal touches here that made it Jane’s sitting room.
“Take me there,” he commanded.
He might have guessed that Jane would not simply turn and meekly lead the way.
“It is my room,” she said. “This is where I entertain you—and occasionally, perhaps, in the dining room. The bedchamber is where I grant you your contractual rights. The rest of the house I consider my personal domain.”
Jocelyn pursed his lips, undecided whether to bark at her for the satisfaction of seeing her jump with alarm or to throw back his head and laugh.
Contractual rights, by thunder!
“Miss Ingleby.” He made her his most elegant bow. “Would you grant me the privilege of seeing your den?”
She hesitated, bit her lower lip, and then inclined her head.
“Very well,” she said, and turned to leave the room ahead of him.
The room was Jane. He felt that as soon as he stepped through the door. He felt as if for the first time he was entering her world. A world that was elegant and genteel on one hand, industrious and cozy on the other.
The fawn-colored carpet and draperies had always made the room look dreary, and all the attempts of her predecessors to brighten the room with cushions and shawls and garish gewgaws had only emphasized the gloom. The mirrors, added by Effie, had merely multiplied the gloom. He had made it a habit never to set foot in here.
Now the fawn colors, which Jane had made no attempt to mask, made the room seem restful. The daybed was gone. So, not surprisingly, were all the mirrors. Some graceful chairs had been added as had a desk and chair, the former strewn sufficiently with papers to indicate that it was not for display purposes only. The bookcase was filled with his books though one lay open on the small table next to a fireside chair. In front of the chair at the other side of the hearth was an embroidery frame over which was stretched a piece of linen. About it were strewn silken threads and scissors and needles.
“May I sit down?” he asked.
She indicated the chair by the book.
“If you wish,” she said, “you may deduct the cost of the desk and chair from my salary since they were purchased for my private use.”
