Page 25

“Please, sit down, Miss Grant,” said the dowager. “Would you like more tea?”

Jane exchanged a glance with Richard. Her heart slammed hard in her chest. She had briefly hoped that this would be over, that she’d be free to leave, and their questions and interrogating glances would not torment her any further.

A loud slurping sound came from the corner, and everyone looked at Reuben, who was draining his cup.

“May I have some more, Your Ladyship?” he asked.

“Of course,” said the dowager. She looked at the footman who stood at attention by the wall, but Reuben had already walked towards the tea table, leaving dirty shoe prints on the carpet. “Oh, here you go,” said the dowager with a warm smile as she poured tea. “Milk?”

He nodded and she poured the milk. He picked up three more biscuits from the plate and shoved one into his mouth, crunching loudly.

“I will have our cook, Mrs. Landon, pack a box for you,” said Calliope with a sweet smile.

“Thank you, Your Ladyship,” said Reuben.

While the dowager poured Jane another cup, Calliope turned to Richard. “I’m curious to learn the circumstances of how you two met. How did your love come to fruition?”

Richard sat back down on his chair. “We met at Lady Fitzroy’s soirée.” He looked at Jane with warmth. “At first, I didn’t notice Miss Grant, to my chagrin.”

Jane felt her cheeks heat. She could easily imagine the scene they had invented. An elegant social event. He, handsome and charming, not a minute passing by where he was alone. She, shy and awkward, sitting on a chair in the corner, solitary and invisible.

“But then someone introduced us, and I was immediately charmed by her. Who wouldn’t be? She has more wit and more heart than most ladies in the ton. Not a drop of pretense. Not a drop of ego or desire for attention.”

Jane felt like she was flying, looking into his intense blue eyes as he said that. Did he mean it? Surely not. Just a rake, she told herself. This was what he did.

Still, warm tingles rushed up and down her body. It was so sweet, so seductive to imagine that a man like him could possibly admire a woman like her. And even though this was all a lie, she loved the sound of it and wanted more. She could just imagine them meeting at the fictitious soirée, and him seeing her intelligence and her heart instead of noticing her gray clothes and spectacles.

The dowager smiled and cocked her head at Jane. “I can easily see that, Richard. What a good observation.”

“What did you talk about, Miss Grant?” asked Lady Calliope, and everyone looked at her.

“Dogs,” said Jane with a sudden onrush of embarrassment as all eyes in the room were drawn to her. “We both like dogs.”

Calliope chuckled. “How did you come to that?”

“Miss Grant has a charming English foxhound called Hercules,” said the dowager. “I met the beast, and he’s quite a feisty one.”

“And what do you think of Richard, Miss Grant?” asked the duke. “Do not tell me it’s his brains that equally intrigued you.”

Surprising herself, Jane felt protective towards Richard. “Actually, it was, Your Grace,” she said, meeting Preston’s eyes boldly. “Your brother is very pleasant to talk to. We can talk for hours about anything, can’t we, Lord Richard?” She met the eyes of her betrothed and smiled at him. “Dogs. Cats. Literature. Society. Family. He spoke very highly of each of you. How dangerous it is to play chess with you, Lady Calliope. How Your Grace may be sharp with your judgment and your tongue at first, but you’re the most loyal and protective brother. How wise you are, Your Grace,” she said as she looked at the dowager. “And what a talented artist you are,” she said to the Duchess of Grandhampton. “And I couldn’t wait to meet you all.”

“Where did you even manage to meet after the soirée?” asked Lady Calliope.

“At Hyde Park,” said Jane. “With my brother present, or my maid, or Reuben…”

Reuben gulped loudly and nodded as she’d instructed him to do on their way here in the carriage.

Calliope’s narrowed eyes bounced between the two of them. “What else do you like to do?”

Jane’s mind raced trying to think of another lie, although it felt less and less like pretending and more and more like dreaming of the relationship she wished she had.

“We’re both quite competitive card players,” Jane said with a smile.

“Indeed we are,” Richard said. “And while we play, we often find ourselves engaged in discussions of various topics, literature being one of our favorites.”

Jane beamed at him. “Like in one of the novels by Jane Austen, Sense and Sensibility.”

“Ah,” said Richard, smiling, “Austen is indeed my favorite author.”