The Last Rogue. Deborah SimmonsЧитать онлайн книгу.
told herself she must grow accustomed to his perusal, she was still uncomfortable under his regard. He showed no outward signs of disdain, but Jane was well used to being judged, and she would avoid it, if she could. Alone with him in the coach, however, Jane did not see how to escape the blue gaze that rested on her with a casual familiarity she did not want to allow.
Jane swallowed, her throat dry from all her speech, and stared out at the sights and sounds of London, hoping they would draw his attention away from her. But he appeared to have little interest in the city, and she could not concentrate on her surroundings in his presence, especially when she felt the faint prickle of his eyes on her.
His careless sprawl along the seat did not help matters, for Jane found herself keenly aware of the way his gloved hand rested along one muscled thigh. She recalled the touch of those fingers on her shoulders as she sat before his parents, and the memory unnerved her further. Jerking her gaze away, she told herself that only a rogue would spread himself so blatantly upon the cushions. A gentleman would behave more modestly. Even if the only other occupant were his wife?
Jane could feel herself beginning to perspire when at last they reached their destination. It was the West End, Raleigh told her in his usual amiable voice, though the name hardly seemed fit to describe the clean, paved streets and elegant squares lined with stately homes of mellow brick. Raleigh’s town house rose four stories from the ground, and Jane eyed it in trepidation, hoping it was not as forbidding as Westfield Park.
It was not. The welcoming smile of the footman at the door seemed to set the tone for the residence. All of the servants looked more human, greeting Raleigh with genuine pleasure rather than the rigid restraint. Obviously, this was his domain more than his father’s, and Jane could only breathe a sigh of relief at the discovery. Although luxurious, the interior was less lofty and smelled of beeswax and potpourri. The hallway and reception rooms boasted marble statuary and delicately carved cornices, but on the upper level colorful wallpaper and gently curved furnishings were more delightful than intimidating.
Jane had just peeked into one such sitting area when a small, wiry gentleman, impeccably groomed, came hurrying toward them. “My lord!” he cried, and to Jane’s surprise, Raleigh rushed forward to greet him.
“Antoine! Oh, thank God! I feared you had left me!” he said, throwing his arms around the smaller fellow. Who was this? Jane wondered. Was he a relative?
“No, my lord, but I was considerably vexed when I learned of your departure.” He had a small, dark mustache that twitched when he spoke, as if to rebuke the viscount.
“I had a cup too much,” Raleigh admitted with a grin. “But look at me! I am at a loss without you,” he said, spreading his arms wide.
The little man stepped back and shuddered in horror as he inspected Raleigh’s person, though Jane could not imagine what he could find to fault in her husband’s perfect appearance. The viscount’s dark blue coat fit him superbly, stretching across shoulders that needed no padding. They seemed higher than normal, and with a start, Jane realized that Raleigh was much taller than she had thought. She had so often seen him with the towering Wycliffe that she had failed to notice his own exceptional proportions. Though slender, he must reach at least six feet in height.
Suddenly, he turned toward her, and Jane, embarrassed to be caught studying his person, blushed crimson. Raleigh, if he noted it, did not comment on her discomposure, but swept an arm toward the waiting gentleman. “Jane, I would like you to meet my valet, Antoine, the inventor of the Exceptional,” he said, grinning proudly.
His valet? Jane swallowed a startled gasp. Raleigh was making such a fuss over his valet? Then again, why should she be surprised? Such theatrical antics should be expected from a vain creature who put his looks above all else. “The Exceptional?” she asked.
“One of the most imitated of neck cloth designs,” Raleigh explained, while the little fellow preened visibly. “Antoine, this is the viscountess, my wife.”
“Your wife!” the valet exclaimed, lifting his hands to his face in what looked like horror. Watching his bright gaze dart from her wrinkled traveling clothes to her face, Jane lifted her chin, as if daring him to comment on the unlikely match. His small eyes appeared to bulge from his head before he recovered his composure.
“Your wife. But, of course! Congratulations, my lady, my lord. This is exceptional news! But you have just arrived. Would you care to repair your appearance?” he asked. Although the little man continued to view Raleigh askance, Jane suspected he was aiming his question at her. Stiffening at the implied insult, she felt her pleasure in the town house fade, proclaiming her out of place once more.
“Eh?” Raleigh asked, absently. “No, you can fix me up when I dress for dinner.”
“But, my lord—”
Raleigh cut off the servant with a languid wave of dismissal. “In a bit, Antoine. I wish to show my wife around first.”
And he did. Jane felt the tension in her dissipate as Raleigh gave her a tour of the house. As usual, he was amiable and amusing, uttering foolish comments and jests, but making her feel as if she belonged here somehow. They ended up in the study, where he threw himself down into a wing chair and put his booted feet upon the shining surface of the satinwood desk.
Swallowing a scold at such conduct, Jane perched on the window seat, enjoying the scents from the walled garden. She would have to investigate it before they left, but it was dark now and she was content to sit quietly while Raleigh looked through his correspondence.
For a while the room was silent, and Jane wondered if she ought to make her exit. Charlotte had told her that most men spent their time away—with business, clubs or worse—leaving their spouses to shop and pay calls. The knowledge both frightened and saddened Jane, for she did not want to live like that. What would Raleigh do? Although he certainly had no business to conduct, he could go out drinking or gaming, and what could she do about it?
Just as she began to sink deep into morose speculation, her husband startled her with a shout. “Gad, look at this!” he said, and Jane turned her head in time to see a scrap of white float to the carpet near her feet. Leaning over, she retrieved an elaborately engraved invitation to a summer ball to be held at Bradley House.
“Odious affair,” Raleigh said over his shoulder. “Glad we’ll miss it!” His comment was followed by another flutter of paper. And another. “Wretched squeeze! Dreadful boor!” he noted. While Jane watched in astonishment, her husband carelessly tossed invitations toward her as if they were some of her brothers’ paper creations.
Reaching out to try to snatch them from the air, Jane realized how foolish she must appear and put her hands in her lap to frown at him instead. He grinned, unrepentant. “Gad, it’s deadly dull here in the summer!” he complained, even as the litter of planned routs and soirees scattered the thick carpet between them.
“It almost makes me look forward to Northumberland,” Raleigh said. “Almost,” he qualified, flashing her an irreverent smile. Then he turned to his desk, leaning back to tip his seat dangerously. Jane opened her mouth to tell him to keep the chair on the floor only to close it again when she realized he was neither James nor Kit, but a man full-grown and heedless of proper behavior.
Unfortunately, she was finding it increasingly difficult to remain put out with him for long. Today she had been the object of the viscount’s undivided attention, and the feeling was heady. His reputation for charm was well earned, although Jane hastened to assure herself that she wasn’t in danger of succumbing to it.
Still, she had to admit that she would rather have his companionship than not. Raleigh was so full of good humor that it seemed to fill the room, enveloping her like a warm breeze. His spirits were vitalizing, not the kind that sapped her of her strength like a day of dealing with energetic Kit. No, this was something different, a kind of gentle pulsing that bespoke an easiness that she had not often found at the vicarage.
Jane felt a swift guilt at the thought, but it rang true. Although her father was kind and caring, he was a busy man, and after her mother’s death,