As they left the house in the curricle, he considered his course of action and toyed with a number of ideas, but he couldn’t determine which would ensure the desired result.
He’d thought of Sherbourne and Lucy’s advice, many times, for lengthy periods, but it didn’t fit, wouldn’t work. His and Jane’s marriage wasn’t ordinary, and to bow at her feet, admit he was wrong, humbly apologize, and declare undying love for her, no matter how sincere he might be, would not make the lasting impression he needed. Within a month, some other dilemma was bound to crawl from the wainscot, and they would be at loggerheads, yet again. He was tired of drama, of worry and anxiety and unhappiness. He was not intended to be gloomy, surely. There was a time when he rather looked forward to things, anticipated the day when he rose of a morning.
Not until Jane came to live with him did he remember those days, and long for them. Perhaps because waking up beside her filled him with hope and eager anticipation of what the day might bring. Even now, with her wishing him to the devil, he loved reaching for her warm, soft body in the chill of early dawn, dozing with her wrapped around him, slowly waking with quiet desire.
Soon, very soon, she wouldn’t wish him to the devil. She would look at him as she did before, as though she expected the sun to rise and set in him. He’d become accustomed to it in a very short time, and now that it was gone, he missed it dreadfully. That he loved her had not been such a startling revelation, but the realization that he could, that he might want to die if he lost her, but would not go mad after all, was certainly amazing.
It changed everything. He was simply unsure how to go about telling her, how to set things back to rights. He continued to think about it, confident he would come up with something.
They decided to call on the Marchioness of Bloomsbury first. As she was undoubtedly the staunchest, most persnickety of all society matrons, a stalwart guard of the respectability of the ton, passing muster with the old battle-axe would be a clear indication of their reception in other homes.
Jane was brave and held herself as a duchess, the slight tremor of her hand upon his arm as they climbed the steps of the Bloomsbury house the only indication of her anxiety. He patted her hand and smiled down at her before he lifted the knocker. “You are very beautiful. Is this a new gown?”
“Actually, no, it’s from several years ago.”
“We will go to the modiste and order some new frocks if you like.”
For the moment, while she was afraid and nervous, she forgot to dislike him. Her smile was tremulous, her blue eyes wide, her fingers tightening against his arm. “Yes, Blix, that would be lovely, thank you. I really should update, I suppose, especially if we are to attend any social engagements. Oh! Here is the butler . . . oh, my.” She grew an inch, straightening her back as they were waved into the front hall.
He presented his card and said in his best aristocratic, imperious tone, “The Duke and Duchess of Blixford, to call upon Lady Bloomsbury.”
They were shown into a small parlor to the east side of the hall, and asked to wait while the butler went to see if the marchioness was in.
Jane remained on his arm while he glanced at his watch. Even if they were received, it might be accounted for as a mere courtesy to him. The true test was a matter of time. The longer they were made to wait before being escorted to the drawing room, the less they were deemed acceptable.
Minutes crawled by and with every one, his wife’s eyes widened a bit further.
After ten minutes, she was pale and shaky. “Please,” she whispered, “can we go?”
“Not until we’ve been told she’s not in.” She was mortified. He was livid with rage. What went on here? He’d not actually expected to receive a cut of any kind. She was a duchess. The daughter of an earl. Her past indiscretion of jilting the man who ruined her was not beyond the pale, was completely reconciled by their marriage. Something was very wrong. They stood in the center of the parlor and waited another ten minutes before the butler returned and asked them to accompany him up the stairs.
They were announced in the drawing room and all within immediately became silent.
As they crossed the room toward the marchioness, who rose from her seat and watched their progress, he noted friends and acquaintances seated about the room, none of them looking in his and Jane’s direction. It was a cut from all sides. It was a disaster.
Jane apparently held a well of hidden courage and he admired her tremendously when she swept into a beautiful curtsy and smiled perfectly –not too friendly, not too coldly –at the marchioness. The older woman didn’t return the smile, and didn’t greet her. She didn’t, in fact, look at Jane at all, but rather focused on him. “Good afternoon, Duke.”