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There was truth in that. This pain and the love were both hers. If only she could dull them to a low hum in the deepest part of her heart, she might be able to move on.

Nicholas rode away from the woman he loved—loved, no matter whether it was returned or not—under the crushing weight of disappointment.

He wasn’t angry. Anger would have filled him with purpose. Instead, he felt adrift. If he couldn’t have Jane in his life . . . he didn’t know what to do. In the few short days he’d known her, she’d captured him without even trying. But he wasn’t what she wanted, and now he felt as though he’d been cut loose.

Effie and Helen. They were the reason that he’d found himself on the road in the first place. For years they’d been the motivation behind every move he made. He’d harbored every worry in silence lest they too fret over the future, unsure where the money would come from to give them the life they deserved.

Meeting Jane—falling for her—had thrown everything into question. It wasn’t as though he’d ever abandon his sisters, but Jane had muddied the waters, because now Effie and Helen weren’t his sole concern. For the first time in a decade, he’d begun to think that what he wanted might be important too. That his happiness might be worth fighting for.

He wanted to give Jane the world, and he hated that the moment he offered her everything he had she seemed to retreat back into the woman he’d met in the innyard all those days ago. Bold and brave and brazen, yes, but also all too aware of how things stood. She was a governess. He was a baron, for all the good it did him. In her world, he was an exalted figure who could never stoop so low as to marry beneath him. Except that she wasn’t beneath him. She was daring and intelligent and beautiful and caring and more. Jane Ephram was unequivocally more than any person he’d ever met.

He hadn’t been entirely convinced when she’d told him that she couldn’t love him. How could he be? She was once again holding herself back, leaning too heavily on the belief that any association with her would tarnish his sisters’ reputation. That it was a risk, he wouldn’t deny. The girls would have just one season to make their mark on the ton, and anything that jeopardized it would have to be worth it. And wasn’t Jane?

“Apparently not,” he muttered, forcing himself to go forward through the rain. He refused to look back. Searching out the lights of the village through the daytime gloom would only make the wound ache even worse.

He had no future with Jane. She’d made her choice and now he’d make his. He’d put Merlin out to stud, collect his money, and then get back to the business at hand. At home, surrounded by the sound of his sisters’ bickering, the account books piling up, and the bills that never seemed to stop, he’d lose himself. Anything would be a welcome distraction as he tried his hardest to fall out of love with the woman who insisted he leave her behind.

Chapter Eleven

Jane stared up at the large, polished, silver knocker that hung silently on the front of No. 12 Belgrave Square. It was just as it had always been.

For a city that was always changing, London seemed in many ways just as when she’d left it, except that nothing was the same because she was so very different. Nicholas had changed something fundamental in her until she could hardly recognize herself.

Who was this woman who’d marched a contrite if not entirely grateful Lady Margaret to the station and caught the first train back to London? And what of the woman who had delivered Lord and Lady Rawson their daughter, not even flinching at the look of shock on their faces when they realized that their governess and child were not in the country, as they’d thought. Nor did she back down when their anger finally broke when she refused to explain why she and their daughter had never reached Holmesfield Hall. That was Lady Margaret’s story to tell, and the young woman hadn’t chosen to divulge it. Instead, she’d taken Jane’s hand as her father yelled, and squeezed it, a simple gesture of solidarity but one that Jane didn’t miss the significance of.

In the end, the earl declared Lady Margaret would stay with her aunt and uncle in their grand house on Washington Square in New York as punishment, and ordered the maids to begin packing her trunks immediately.

Jane gave her notice, as she’d told Lady Margaret she would. Lady Rawson sent her away with no letter of reference, which stung even though she’d known it was a very real possibility. In ten years of working for the same family, she’d slipped once, but that was enough.

Under the watchful eye of the housekeeper, Mrs. Walker, Jane had packed what few things hadn’t been sent on in Lord Rawson’s carriage when she’d gone on her quest to find Lady Margaret. Mrs. Walker had promised to send on whatever she’d left behind, the sympathy clear in the woman’s tone. But still, Jane had been unceremoniously turned out onto Berkeley Square, the service door slamming behind her with all of the force of the earl’s condemnation.

That was how she’d ended up here, in front of No. 12, preparing to swallow every ounce of her sometimes considerable pride and ask for help. With a deep breath and a trembling hand, she picked up the knocker and let it fall with a hollow thud to the silver plate mounted on the door.

No. 12 had always been a well-run house, so it was hardly surprising when Warthing appeared less than a minute later. The butler’s eyebrows rose a half inch as he surveyed the bags at her feet and the grim expression on her face.

“Miss Ephram, do come in.”

“Are Lord and Lady Asten at home?” she asked as the butler stepped back. The last thing she wanted to do was intrude where she wasn’t welcome.

“Lord Asten himself gave instructions that you and Mrs. Fellows are to be shown in no matter what time of day or night it is. I believe his exact words were ‘The house is at their disposal, Warthing.’ ”

The earl had made it clear over and over again that he considered any friend of his wife’s to be an extension of his own family. For a woman who’d known no real home since she was a child, the generous gesture meant more than she could ever express.

Warthing showed her straight upstairs and into the private sitting room of the still-new Countess of Asten. When the butler pushed open the door and announced her, her friend Mary looked up from the mint-colored chaise where she was reading and exclaimed, “You’re back! But I thought you were to be exiled in Holmesfield Hall for the rest of the season.”

“I’m back,” Jane said, her voice just as deflated as she felt.

“I don’t understand,” said Mary with a frown.

Jane folded her hands in front of her and slid her eyes over to Warthing. Immediately Mary said, “Warthing, I know I said we weren’t to have callers today, but would you ask Cook to send up a tray? Plans have changed.”

The butler gave a little bow and melted out of the room with hardly a sound.

“You do that very well,” Jane said when the door closed behind Warthing.

“Take off your coat and make yourself comfortable,” said Mary, gesturing to the sofa across from her. “And what is it that I do well?”

Jane smiled. “Give orders as the mistress of the house.”