Page 17 of Who’s That Earl

But if Mr. Sutherland’s expression had been anything to go by—the sparkle in his own eyes, the beginnings of a smile—he saw something others didn’t.

Mortified by his notice, suspecting a trick, she’d promptly spun about and busied herself with a display of rather gaudy ribbons. Young men in red coats expected a great deal of attention and generally got it. She refused to answer his expectation.

If she had ever considered that their first meeting would not also be their last, she might have behaved less rudely.

Three days later, she’d found herself at tea at the Holloways, where she was allowed to visit unaccompanied, partly because their house was in sight of Papa’s, but mostly because Sir Richard was the mayor of Tenchley and almost as protective of Jane as of his own daughter.

For that reason, she had certainly not expected to find three of the officers among the company. Sir Richard had made the introductions.

“Miss Quayle, may I present Lieutenant Sutherland?”

An awkward curtsy, made more so by her inability to drag her eyes from the twinkle of recognition in his.

An answering, easy bow. “A pleasure to meet you, Miss Quayle.”

Afternoon had stretched into evening, tea into supper and cards. He’d hardly left her side. Eventually, she had made up her mind that if he was determined to be gallant, she could make an effort to be amusing. He’d listened attentively while she’d told tales about the village and its residents, not really intending them to be comic, though he’d laughed, and so had she. He’d said she had a gift for storytelling. More than once she’d caught Julia’s eye across the room, sparkling with encouragement.

When Sir Richard had walked her home, and her father had frowned at the lateness of the hour, she’d once more expected that to be the end of it. But two days later, as she’d walked with Jonathan to the rectory and then seated herself on an iron bench outside to wait, Mr. Sutherland had appeared out of nowhere to join her.

Every other day, for several weeks, they’d passed the hours of Jonathan’s lessons together. Beneath the mellow September sun, they’d strolled arm in arm over the rough ground of the churchyard—an ideal location to woo a budding gothic novelist, though she had not dared to speak to Mr. Sutherland of her writing, and she had tried not to think of his attentions as wooing. He’d told her of Scotland and of army life, and she’d been unexpectedly fascinated by both—fascinated by him and his inexplicable fascination with her. And at the end of those idyllic weeks, fascination having deepened almost imperceptibly into something more, she’d happily promised him a pair of dances at the village assembly.

As late as the afternoon of the assembly, she’d been afraid it would prove to be a promise she wouldn’t be able to keep. It had threatened rain all day. Mama had been recovering from a head cold and refused to venture out. Papa had been delayed on business in a neighboring town and was not expected until after nightfall.

Sir Richard Holloway had once more saved the day. His special pleading on Julia’s behalf had earned Mama’s grudging permission that Jane might attend with them. She’d fussed over her appearance as much as she could without drawing her mother’s or brother’s unwanted speculation. She’d prayed for the rain to hold off and been astonished when her prayer was answered. She’d entered the assembly on Sir Richard’s left arm—Julia had been on his right—and scanned the room with eager eyes.

When she’d seen no telltale flash of scarlet, her foolish, girlish heart had threatened to break.

Mr. Sutherland and the other officers had arrived very late. He’d found her in the wallflowers’ corner, just as the company had been about to disperse to dine. Though the dancing was already over, she’d put her hand in his, expecting to be led into the crush of the supper room, stiff with disappointment. Instead, he’d taken her outside, into what passed for a garden, though an early frost had left it sere.

They’d walked for some time in silence before he’d worked up the—no, not courage; she had not believed even then that he lacked courage—the resolve, then, to tell her that the delay had been caused by some of the other officers receiving their new orders late that day. His own would surely arrive soon.

Even expecting it, the news had momentarily robbed her of breath. Their time together, though mostly stolen, had given color to her colorless days. No sooner had his words been spoken than the familiar grayness had begun to press on the corners of her vision.

Then he’d looked down at her, the mischievous sparkle in his eyes turned to toe-curling warmth.

“Miss Quayle, may I steal a kiss?”

She’d heard rumors about soldiers using their uncertain, dangerous futures to lure favors from young ladies, favors that couldn’t be taken back. Even officers were not always gentlemen.

“It’s a sin to steal, Mr. Sutherland,” she’d told him, the mixture of longing and grief in her voice sounding more prim than anything. “And I wouldn’t want another’s sins on my conscience.” Then her breath had caught in her throat, and she had to moisten her lips before she could continue. “I’ll grant you one instead.”

She’d waited, eyes closed, lips pursed, heart frozen in her chest, while his fingers came up beneath her chin and his mouth descended softly over hers. A hint of gentle pressure, a flicker of heat, and her first kiss—their goodbye kiss, she’d called it—was behind her.

He was, she felt certain, a man of the world. Of experience. Yet when he drew back and straightened his spine, she saw a touch of bewilderment in his face. And then he’d said, his voice a trifle unsteady, “May I call on you at home tomorrow?”

At home. Difficult not to infer that he meant to speak to Papa. Might tonight be not the end after all, but a beginning? Behind him, stars had twinkled in the sky. The clouds had moved off. Her heart, which had seemed to stop beating an age ago, had stuttered back to life. After a moment’s hesitation, she’d nodded her consent.

Had he done it? She’d never known, because by dawn the next morning, she had—

Ruthlessly, she slammed shut the lid on her memories before anything else could escape.

Subsequent events ought to have driven Thomas from her mind. Instead, she could recall those golden weeks with him in perfect clarity, when she’d still been naïve, prone to believing in love at first sight, as told in tales of romance. But since the night of the assembly, she’d been forced to confront reality. Now she knew exactly how such fictions were made. She understood the source of their power, and she used it for her own ends.

Carefully, so as not to disturb the dogs, she burrowed deeper beneath the covers and closed her eyes. It had taken a great deal of effort to push the memory of those days, the memory of him, down into the locked box with the rest of her past, where it belonged. Thomas Sutherland might have elbowed his way into Dunnock Castle. But she didn’t have to give him space in her head. Nor in her heart.

And certainly not in her bed.

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