“Yes.” She licked her lips.
“Why are you cowering there, grasping the doorknob?” he asked her. “Are you afraid I will make a grab for you and have my wicked way with you?”
She shook her head and advanced farther into the room. “I am not afraid of you.”
“Then you should be.” He allowed his eyes to roam over her. She was clad in pale-lemon muslin. Her hair glowed. “I have missed you.” But after all, he could not allow himself such vulnerability. “In bed, of course.”
“Of course,” she said tartly. “Where else could you possibly mean? Why have you come, Jocelyn? Do you still feel honor bound to offer for me because I am Lady Sara Illingsworth rather than Jane Ingleby? You insult me. Is the name so much more significant than the person? You would not have dreamed of marrying Jane Ingleby.”
“You have always presumed to know my thoughts, Jane,” he said. “Do you know my dreams now too?”
“You would not have married Jane Ingleby,” she insisted. “Why do you wish to marry me now? Because it is the gentlemanly thing to do, like facing death in a duel rather than call a lady a liar? I do not want a perfect gentleman, Jocelyn. I would prefer the rake.”
It was one of the rare occasions when his own temper was not rising with hers. The fact gave him a definite advantage.
“Would you, Jane?” He made his voice a caress. “Why?”
“Because the rake has some spontaneity, some vulnerability, some humanity, some—oh, what is the word I am looking for?” One of her hands was making circles in the air.
“Passion?” he suggested.
“Yes, precisely.” Her blue eyes gazed angrily back into his. “I prefer you to be arguing and quarreling with me and insulting me and trying to order me about and reading to me and p-painting me and forgetting all about me and the rest of the world while you lose yourself in music. I preferthatman, odious as he can be. That man haspassion. I will not have you acting the gentleman with me, Jocelyn. Iwillnot.”
He held his smile inside. And his hope. He wondered if she realized just how suggestive her final words had been. Probably not. She was still in a towering temper.
“Will you not?” He strolled toward her. “I had better kiss you, then, to prove how much I am not the gentleman.”
“Come one step closer,” she told him, “and I will slap you.”
But she would not, of course, take one step back to put more distance between them. He took two steps closer until they were almost toe-to-toe.
“Please, Jane.” He made his voice a caress again. “Let me kiss you?”
“Why should I?” Her eyes were bright with tears, but she would not look away. And he was not sure whether they were tears of anger or sentiment. “Why should I let you kiss me? The last time you made me believe you cared even though you said nothing. And then the morning after youbeckonedwith your fingers and looked cold and arrogant, just as if I were your dog being called to heel. Why should I let you kiss me when you do not care a fig for me?”
“A fig?” he said. “I do not even like figs, Jane. I like you.”
“Go away,” she told him. “You toy with me. I suppose I have much for which to thank you. Without you I would be in Cornwall now battling it out with Sidney and the Earl of Durbury. But I am not convinced you did not help merely for your pride’s sake. You were not there for me when I really needed you to confide in. You—”
He reached out and set one finger across her lips. She stopped abruptly.
“Let me tell it,” he said. “We grew close during that week, Jane. Closer than I have ever been to anyone else. We shared interests and conversation. We shared comfort and emotions. We became friends as well as lovers. More than friends. More than lovers. You convinced me without ever preaching at me that to be a whole person I had to forgive myself and my father too for what happened in the past. You convinced me that being a man does not consist of cutting off all one’s finer feelings and more tender emotions. You taught me to feel again, to face the past again, to remember that there was joy as well as pain in my boyhood. And all this you did by just being there. By just being Jane.”
She drew her head free of his finger, but he would not allow her to speak. Not yet. He cupped her chin in his hand.
“You told me,” he said, “that you would have confided in me as I had in you if I had not discovered the truth about you just when I did. I should have believed you, Jane. And even when I first learned the truth, I should have reacted far differently than I did. I should have come to you. I should have taken you in my arms, as you had taken me the night before, told you what I had discovered, and invited you to tell me all, to trust me, to lean on me. I knew how difficult it was to relive some memories. I had got past that difficulty just the night before and should have been far more sensitive. I failed myself, Jane. And dammit, I failed you.”
“Don’t,” she said. “You are despicable. I cannot fight you when you talk like this.”
“Don’t fight me,” he told her. “Forgive me, Jane? Please?”
She searched his eyes as if to judge his sincerity. He had never seen her so defenseless. She was not even trying to hide her yearning to believe him.
“Jane,” he said softly, “you have taught me that there really is love.”
Two tears spilled over and ran down her cheeks. He blotted them with his thumbs, cupping her face with both hands, and then he leaned forward to kiss the dried spot on each cheek.
“I thought you were going to d-die!” she blurted suddenly. “I thought we would be too late. I thought I would hear a shot and find you dead. I had a feeling about it here.” She patted her heart. “A premonition. I was desperate to reach you, to say all the things I had never said, to—to…oh,whycan I never find a handkerchief when I most need one?” She was fumbling around at the pocketless seams of her dress, sniffing inelegantly.
