All the more reason to stay well clear of her.
Only five more days.
***
From a dark corner of the vast front hall at Margrave Park, a stately clock chimed the hour of two. The house was asleep, including the servants. Confident she wouldn’t be discovered, Jane made her way down the stairs and crossed to the library, a candle lighting her way. She carefully opened one side of the double doors and slipped inside, closing the door behind her. The fire had long since died, leaving only the faint glow of embers to dimly illuminate the room. Holding her candle aloft, Jane glided across the floor on bare feet, straight to the third shelf of the east wall. She scanned the titles, searching for one book in particular. Mr. Paisley’s Discourse, In Three Parts, of Australian Aboriginal Tribes, With Accompanying Etchings. Ah, there it was. Turning, she set the candlestick on the small table to her left and just behind before reaching for the book.
It was shockingly naughty of her to look, but her curiosity managed to get the best of her. Not to mention, she was positively dying for some diversion –something, anything that could be considered exciting.
Lady Bonderant’s house party had become exceedingly tiresome. The past three days, Blixford had cooled considerably toward her, and she rather thought her chances of betrothal to him were narrowing to somewhere near nothing. She was at a loss how to go on. She tried harder, and the result was such a strain she thought she’d go mad. Just this morning, she’d gotten up before dawn, dressed in her habit, and went for a run, all by herself, hopeful that some new method of attracting Blixford’s attention would come to her.
It did not.
He was clearly set on Lady Letitia, and Jane was left out in the cold.
Her heart would surely break when an announcement was made. She would return home with Robert and Sherbourne and nurse her disappointment until the start of the Season. Then she supposed she would return to London and see if she could make a go of it with another suitor.
What else could she do? Living her life on the shelf was unthinkable. She would not be a doddering, maiden aunt to her brothers’ children, if and when any of them finally married and had any.
For now, she was certain she was bested, and had decided to have what bit of fun she could while suffering through the remainder of what had become a detestable house party. If she could pull it off without severe rudeness and ill-mannered consequence, she’d pack and leave, straightaway.
The book was terribly disappointing. Letitia had lied. Or perhaps Letitia’s expectations were less than Jane’s. She expected ‘horrid masculinity of the sort no lady should ever look upon.’ Jane was determined to look. Squinting in the dim light of the single candle, she peered at the etchings. How very curious. Her sole experience with a male member was limited to horses. She was intelligent enough to realize a man would not be so large as a horse, but the men in the etchings seemed hardly adequate. Proportionately, it was confounding. She continued turning the pages, but each etching was less impressive than the last. Nothing resembling horrid. Not even particularly masculine. The etchings might be of breastless women with appendages smaller than her fist between their legs.
She yawned. How tiresome. She’d stayed up late for this.
Then she noticed a slip of paper peeking out from the back spine of the book. With a tug, she withdrew it and her eyes widened considerably. This was well worth losing sleep over. She stared down at a charcoal sketch of a nude man, his member extraordinarily large. Oh my. It was a bit awkward, wasn’t it? How peculiar to have something like that between one’s legs.
What was between her legs made itself known and she shifted her weight from one bare foot to the other. Surely she would be torn apart by a man whose maleness was that spectacular. Was the duke thusly endowed? She blushed furiously, but didn’t replace the charcoal in the book. She laid it there, on the table, while she replaced Mr. Paisley’s dry discourse upon the bookshelf.
When she turned back toward the table, she let out a squeak of alarm.
The Duke of Blixford stood just to the other side. He was still in his evening clothes, looking devastatingly handsome. In his hand, he held the charcoal of the nude man with the imposing member.
Jane rather thought she’d like to die.
“Well,” he said. “Well.”
He managed to give a sermon in two words. One word, actually. Spoken twice, undoubtedly for effect.
Choosing to ignore the obvious atrociousness of the situation, Jane reached for the candlestick with one hand and clutched the neck of her dressing gown with the other, straightening her spine until she grew another inch, composing her features into one of haughty formality. “My sympathies, Your Grace. You are similarly afflicted with insomnia. I shall bid you good night, then, and pray you sleep well.” Moving around the table, she struck out for the door, certain she would faint of embarrassment. Why had her curiosity got the best of her? Oh, how she wished she’d gone straight to bed after the evening’s entertainment was done, instead of reading until the hour grew late enough to slip down to the library.