Page 16 of Who’s That Earl

Only when he had readied himself for bed and slipped between the cold sheets did Mrs. Murdoch’s comment about the dogs wiggle its way back to the front of his mind.

They’ve always been dead skittish around men.

He supposed she’d meant to say that the man’s dogs disliked other men. It was all a bit odd, though. Not unlike Ratliff himself. The reclusiveness, the lengthy absences—it all added up to a strange, shadowy figure, a man only Jane seemed to know well.

Thomas had been wrong when he’d said she hadn’t changed. The girl he’d known had been open, trusting—too trusting, perhaps. The woman was guarded, wary, reserved. What had happened to make her so?

He stared up at the ceiling, waiting for the bed to warm enough for him to fall sleep. He hadn’t told Jane the truth about who he was or why he’d come.

But he was beginning to suspect he wasn’t the only one with a secret.

Chapter 6

Jane lay on her back staring up into the canopy, Athena and Aphrodite snuggled against her ribs on either side. The bed had been her one true indulgence, with its silky linens, an extravagant number of pillows, and curtains of wine-colored brocaded velvet cascading down in swags from a gilded tester. Every woman deserved such a bed, all to herself—well, shared with her dogs, of course. It was a haven to which she could retreat when the words wouldn’t come or lofty critics turned up their noses.

Tonight, however, though the bed was as comfortable as ever and the hour was late, sleep eluded her. Restlessness prickled beneath her skin, like an awkwardly situated itch that demanded to be scratched at the most inopportune moment. She felt every bit as unsettled as she had earlier in the evening, maybe more so, despite telling herself repeatedly that nothing had really changed.

She was perfectly safe—the writer of that letter had sent it to London, not here, obviously not knowing where she lived.

She still held the lease on Dunnock and had received no official word it would not be renewed.

Work on The Brigand’s Captive was coming along nicely.

The only real difference between last night and tonight was the arrival of Mr. Sutherland, which hardly signified, because—

She heaved a sigh. Athena protested the movement of her human pillow by laying a paw on Jane’s upper arm to hold her in place.

Jane had been telling herself for an hour or more that it was perfectly pointless to let herself get worked up about Mr. Sutherland. No matter that he had appeared out of nowhere on the same day as those dreadful letters. No matter that he had offered an explanation that held less water than a tin pail with a guinea-sized hole. No matter that he obviously intended to stay and poke around in matters that didn’t concern him...or did they?

No matter that she’d once fancied herself in love with him.

She stifled another sigh. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t talk herself out of her unease. While he might not be dangerous, he was definitely trouble.

Years ago, she had made the decision to close the door on one life and open another. The moments, the people, the places—all shut up and tucked away in the darkest corner of the deepest drawer in her memory. Now, however, in what might have been a scene from one of her own books, the box in which she’d buried her past had started to rattle ominously. What lay inside was still alive and demanding to be let out.

And it was all Thomas Sutherland’s fault.

She’d spent no—well, very little—time in the last seven years thinking about him. What a shock to discover that the attraction she’d felt to him at seventeen hadn’t faded. She supposed it wasn’t exactly surprising for a young woman to be drawn to a tall, handsome gentleman, to enjoy his laughing eyes and ready smile, to wonder what it would be like to run her fingers through his dark, wavy hair.

But it had always been more than that.

Now, as then, he exuded confidence. Confidence without arrogance, which in her experience was a rarity, especially among men. Something about the way he carried himself, his willingness to laugh at himself—she’d never known anything quite like it, either before or since. She...well, to be honest, she envied it.

She was proud of her success, confident in her creative abilities. Nevertheless, a certain degree of anxiety lingered. It wouldn’t be going too far to call it fear, though precisely what she feared was difficult to pin down. Maintaining the world she’d made for herself required control and reserve and, yes, secrecy. Unlike some, she couldn’t afford to be easygoing.

But when Mr. Sutherland’s ample personal charms were combined with the way he’d looked at her years ago—the way he’d looked at her tonight—it wasn’t hard to understand why she was lying awake thinking of him, even if she shouldn’t.

The first time she’d seen Mr. Sutherland had been in Ford’s general store. Her brother Jonathan had stopped for something, most likely a stick of barley sugar, on his way to the rectory, where the curate tutored him three times a week in Greek. Though Jonathan might not have been past the age of skipping lessons to go fishing, he had surely been past the age of believing no one would be the wiser if he did. Long past the age of needing his elder sister to walk with him to the rectory, in any case. But Jane had clung fast to the custom, which offered her three golden opportunities each week to get out of the house.

When the bell above the shop door had tinkled, announcing the arrival of another customer, she had turned out of habit, a movement that afforded her a more thorough look at the man she’d first noticed standing across the street. By his dress, she could guess he must be part of the small band of officers that had recently arrived in Tenchley. Village gossip said they’d been stationed temporarily on the coast while awaiting further orders.

Will Ford had called out a greeting from behind the counter, and the newcomer, Mr. Sutherland, had answered in a pleasant Scottish burr that had tickled strangely in her ear. He’d been speaking to Will, of course.

But he had been looking at her.

She could not remember ever seeing approval in anyone else’s gaze. When examining her only daughter’s appearance, Mama had been prone to purse her lips and shake her head. Papa had often frowned. Even Julia Holloway, her dearest friend, had been known to cluck with pity and call her plain.

Nothing in Jane’s experience had ever encouraged her to be any kinder to herself than others were. When she peered into her glass, she saw just what everyone else did—or so she assumed: an unfashionably plump girl with heavy brown hair that refused to hold a curl. Her blue eyes, though a pretty-enough shade, were insufficiently striking to constitute a “redeeming feature.”