He was clearly unimpressed. “Bereft, indeed. I’d gather from his look he was severely aggravated that the heir he covets didn’t live. What you witnessed was not a husband mourning his wife, but a duke’s annoyance at losing his heir. It’s paramount he beget an heir, Jane. As the last male of his line, his titles, holdings, and wealth will revert to the crown upon his death. Centuries of Blixford dukes will fairly spin in their graves should he allow such a catastrophe. It is, I believe, why he’s here, at his sister’s house party. Everyone knows Blixford detests social events, yet here he is, attending a veritable stable of young ladies, yourself included, from which he will choose his next brood mare.” Robert nudged his gelding close and reached out to touch her arm. “I would wish much better for you, Jane. He can never love you, and I have my doubts that you love him. It is only your sympathy and frankly, imagination, that have captivated you. Please trust me about this, and set your cap elsewhere besides Blixford.”
Jane listened to Robert, as she always did, and accepted his counsel for what it was; the concern of her closest brother, borne of love and respect for her. But she wouldn’t heed it. He didn’t understand, and she could never adequately express her reaction to that minuscule moment when the ducal mask fell away and she witnessed the man beneath. She’d never forgotten. Every suitor she acquired during her first Season was soundly rejected, solely due to her desire to marry Blixford as soon as he was ready to try again.
That time was now, and she would not be dissuaded from pursuing him. Her chances were excellent, she thought. He seemed to pay particular attention to her, although he did appear to be impressed with Lady Letitia’s ability at the pianoforte. Jane was dismal at the pianoforte. She was also not adept at stitching, or painting, or idle conversation. Lady Letitia was a model of decorum. Jane was not.
But she was of impeccable birth and great fortune, the only daughter of an earl. Her mother’s death and father’s refusal to take another wife meant she assumed the duties of a large household at a very early age. She was well qualified to step into the role of duchess, despite her failings in the drawing room. Blixford was bound to see this, and assuredly would offer for her within the fortnight, before the end of Lady Bonderant’s house party.
“I’m truly confounded by this infatuation of yours. He’s six years your senior, a great lummox of a man, not considered handsome in the least. If you marry him, your brats shall all sport rather large noses.”
Jane’s back went up. “I’m ashamed of you, Robert. How can you be so unkind? Yes, Blixford has a strong Roman nose, but it’s his best feature. Unique. Frankly, I find him quite attractive.” Much more than quite, but she could not say so to her brother. He’d keel over in a dead faint if she told him what her imagination had conjured during the previous week. Most definitely not ladylike. Low, common and terribly earthy. As for Blixford’s size, being on the tall side herself, she found his height and breadth intriguing.
“I suppose he does cut a fine figure, but he positively glowers. I suspect he’s foul tempered, and you would dislike living with anyone not jolly.” He gave her a solemn look. “You should know our father feels as I do. He won’t stop you marrying Blixford, if indeed the man asks, but he won’t like it.”
“Perhaps he won’t offer, and yours and Papa’s concern will be for naught.”
“One can only hope.” He caught her expression and hastened to add, “I’m not being cruel, Janie. I would see you happy in marriage, and I’m convinced Blixford is incapable of making you anything but miserable. He would hide you beneath a basket with his foot firmly atop, and you would smother.” He nodded ahead. “He wouldn’t allow you to run.”
“Ah, but he need never know. I’m here, now, about to beat you soundly to the end of the lane. Blixford is undoubtedly fast asleep and none the wiser.”
She watched her brother closely. As usual, he heard only the challenge. Robert slowed his gelding and met her gaze, a wide smile lighting his face, his sober expression vanishing. “Ready?”
“At your will.”
He laughed, as did she, and they took off, thundering down the lane, neck and neck, shouting insults at one another.
“Bloody sloppy, sir!”
“Damned incompetent!”
“Disgrace to horseflesh!”
“You ride like a girl!”
It was a splendid run, a welcome reprieve from the sedate riding she’d been forced to do all week. She would return to the house and dress for breakfast in a new morning gown. She would partake of her eggs and coffee, then change back into her habit and go for a ride with the others, prim and perfect. It would not feel so confining, because she had already had a run.