Why hadn’t he come after her?
Why?
26
Lindley told himself not to be a fool. Yet that next morning he sent her a bouquet of white lilies. Their pristine paleness pleased him and reminded him of Jane.
He wondered at the events that had changed her and made her a woman with secrets.
He wondered what Shelton would do if he knew he had seen her.
Lindley was torn. He was not a fool, and never had been one. He clearly remembered that summer almost two years ago. He remembered Jane’s eyes, big and blue and able to see no one but his friend, Nick. He remembered Shelton, dark and angry, more so than usual, and he knew Nick had been attracted to her too. It was still amazing to him that Nick had let her go to the theater.
Unable to help himself, telling himself they were just friends, Lindley sent Jane a note, asking her if he could take her to tea. The invitation was politely declined by her maid.
Another invitation was also declined, and not one to rely on dismal chance, Lindley went to her cozy home on Gloucester Street three days later. He was not infatuated, he was too worldly, yet he was intrigued and he had thought about her quite a lot. He was shown into the parlor, and Jane appeared, looking both stunning and innocent—an impossible feat, he thought—in a rich wine gown.
“Hello, Jon.” She was polite but cool. And there was caution in her eyes.
“Hullo, Jane.” He took her hand and kissed it. Unlike the first time, she did not flinch as if burned, and he wondered how many admirers she’d had. And lovers? It was a rude thought, one he’d had before, and he shoved it away. Yet he was certainly not the only man to be intrigued. She was a charming, disturbing combination of innocence and worldiness, and he didn’t know what to make of it. “Jane, I have the feeling you don’t want to see me.” He, of course, expected her to politely refute this, and then he’d charm her into seeing him.
“What is the point?”
Surprised, he could only stare.
“Why have you come?”
“Jane, you’re a beautiful woman and an old friend—or at least it feels that way. Why shouldn’t I want to see you?”
“I have no time in my life for anything other than my profession,” Jane said firmly.
“I find that hard to believe,” Lindley said easily, but he was hurt by the rejection. He was not used to it.
It must have showed. Jane’s eyes softened, and she touched his hand lightly. “I’m sorry. I’m being terribly rude, when you’ve never done anything but be kind to me. Shall we walk in the park?”
“How about Covent Gardens?” he suggested, grinning, the hurt gone.
Jane flashed him her beautiful smile. “All right,” she said.
Two weeks later Lindley knew Shelton was back in town from the gossip. He felt a stirring of guilt, but told himself he was ridiculous. It was ridiculous because it had to do with Jane, whom he’d seen four or five times. And whom he was planning on seeing again.
She was wonderful company, all light and laughter, and she was beautiful. He had stopped kidding himself that he wanted to be with her as old friends. He wasn’t in love with her, which was good, because it wouldn’t do for him to fall in love with an actress when one day he must marry from his own class. Still, she was his friend, and he hoped that soon she would become his mistress.
But, because she was a lady, and so young, and her innocence was a tangible thing (and he was confused by just how experienced she was), he hadn’t even tried to kiss her. Now, on his way to greet Shelton, Lindley had a disturbing thought. Jane was only nineteen. Was she still technically Dragmore’s ward? If so, he knew he’d forfeit his life if he made love to her. The thought was as shocking as cold water thrown on his face.
He hadn’t intended to mention Jane to the earl, but now he wondered if he’d better sound out the sensitive topic. How did one tell one’s best friend that he wanted to make his ward, now a stage actress, his mistress? It was all terribly complicated.
The earl was glad to see him. “I was wondering when you’d bother to come by,” he said, the barest of smiles turning up the corners of his mouth.
Lindley grinned back. “You know where I live, old man.”
“But knowing you,” Nick shot, “you’re abed with God knows whom until God knows when, and God forbid I should disturb you from your philandering.”
Lindley laughed. “And how’s Amelia and Genevieve and who’s the Spanish dancer? Therese?”
Ignoring all sense of decorum, the men had coffee liberally laced with cognac and cigars at 10A.M., proceeding to catch up on news, pertinent gossip (only), and their own affairs. They had long since reconciled from the time when the earl had thrown Lindley off Dragmore, although Lindley sensed, always, that something had changed between them and that it would never be quite the same again. He knew Shelton well enough to know that he did hold a mean grudge. He also knew Shelton had forgiven him for taking liberties with Jane. Forgiven, but not forgotten.
“I’ve seen her,” Lindley said an hour later.
