a bump, causing one of Jane’s books to topple. G cut a glance toward Jane, expecting her to stage a dramatic rescue of the fallen tome, but her face remained a blank mask. Her chest heaved, perhaps still out of breath from the tumult of the attack. Just below her collarbone, her skin was red and splotchy.
G grabbed his flask of water, splashed a bit on a handkerchief, and handed it to her.
She looked at it warily for a moment, and then took it and pressed it against her delicate neck, along her collarbone, and just under her hairline in the back. She did it so gracefully that G decided he would include a description of the motion in his poem about her pout and the curve of her neck.
Oh that I were the handkerchief in that hand, that I might touch that neck. . . .
“Thank you,” she said, handing him back the kerchief.
Her silhouette against the moonlit window was lovely. This creature was his wife, he thought again with a kind of disbelief, and no matter what her (incorrect) perspective was, he’d saved her back there. At this instant, he could feel a pull toward her, a desire to protect her always. For the briefest of moments, G considered the romantic notion of secretly shoving the handkerchief inside his shirt, against his heart. He caught himself leaning ever so slightly toward her.
Jane turned to him, a blush on her cheeks. “My lord, if you’d be so kind as to remain on your own half of the seat. My books are crushed as is.”
Ah. There she is. The aloof and disappointed lady. G mentally slapped his own cheek, over and over until it burned red under his imaginary hand and he was sure he’d slapped out every romantic notion. He wanted to tell her she’d have more room if she’d just get rid of her books, but he supposed that in her case, it would be like telling a mother she’d have more room if she threw out her children.
So instead, he took the handkerchief, smiled sweetly at his lady, and let it fly out the window.
As the carriage pulled into the country house, his concerns about the Pack were momentarily replaced by his exasperation with Lady Jane.
The house staff was there to greet the happy couple, usher them into the parlor, and offer them water and wine—no more ale for G. They moved the copious amounts of luggage inside and then, in the tradition of servants faced with honeymooners (especially after news of ripped clothing in the marital bedchamber had reached their ears) they disappeared, leaving the couple alone. To do whatever it was that newlyweds did at night. On their honeymoon.
Which, judging by Jane’s behavior, consisted of staring out the window, counting the stars.
She hadn’t yet forgiven G for when he’d stopped her from hurling herself at the wolves, but seriously, what was her plan of attack? Drown them in petticoats? Crush them with her bulky knowledge of Herbs and Spices Indigenous to the Spanish Highlands: Volume Two? Maybe he should just call it a night. He opened the door to exit the drawing room, but was met with two servants.
“Your bedchambers are being prepared,” one of the men said.
G rolled his eyes as the servant closed the door in his face. Perhaps his father had instructed the staff to promote as much couple time as possible. “Don’t let one leave the room without the other,” he could imagine his father saying.
Jane was still staring out the window. He wasn’t sure she had even noticed his attempted departure. G was pretty certain there’d be no persuading her to the bedchamber at this point, but they had one month in this house, and the only way to survive the honeymoon would be a congenial companionship, rather than the scornful disdain of the present. So he tried to be affable.
“Can I get you anything, my lady?”
She didn’t turn around. “I have servants for that.”
G sighed loudly and sank onto a sofa. “What, exactly, have I done to you? Besides the offensive act of existing, and being forced to marry you?”
Jane turned around. “Those two grievances are beyond your control, and I would never hold you accountable for things beyond your control.”
“What then? What have I done to offend thee?” he said in a mock-formal tone.
She made a fist so tight, her knuckles turned white. “You are a drunken lothario who . . . who . . . cannot keep