The Runaway Countess. Amanda McCabe

hadn’t held her there.

      Jane always had exquisite manners, was always concerned about the people around her. Including those blasted visitors today? What was their name—Marton? Yes, that Marton was too good looking, too polished and perfect and serious. Damn him. Somehow Hayden had imagined Jane saw no one at all here in the country.

      He shifted on the chaise and his leg sent out a stab of fresh pain in protest. There was the soft sound of voices outside the door, one of them the doctor’s, stern and gravelly.

      The other was Jane’s, a gentle murmur, and its very softness hurt him even more. It made him think of the first time he came home drunk, after they returned to town from their long honeymoon at Ramsay House and he left Jane one night to go to the club with his friends. Those days alone with Jane had been so golden, so perfect and peaceful, unlike any he had ever known before in his life.

      Then his friends had laughed about his new ‘settled and domestic’ ways, about how he would soon become one of those men who followed their wives about London like puppy dogs.

      Hayden couldn’t be that way, couldn’t depend on anyone. Need anyone. He had seen how that had killed his parents. After his flighty, beautiful mother died in childbirth, his father couldn’t bear it and followed her soon after. He had always vowed never to be like them. Yet he could see then how much he was coming to rely on Jane. That very night, his first night back at the club as a married man, he only wanted to leave his friends and go home to her. He couldn’t have that. So he drank more than his fill of brandy to prove it.

      Just as his father had always done.

      And Jane had spoken to him softly that night as well. Had watched him with those concerned eyes as Makepeace helped him up the stairs.

      ‘Not to worry, my lady,’ Makepeace told her. ‘This is merely what young men do in society.’

      ‘But surely Ramsay does not…’ she had said. Then she learned that Ramsay did and he saw that bright hope die in her eyes. He had killed it.

      Hayden opened his eyes and found himself not a callow newlywed at his town house, but alone in a strange room with Jane’s familiar voice outside. He studied the chamber for the first time since she brought him in there.

      It wasn’t a large room, but it was cosy and warm with thick blue curtains at the windows muffling the patter of the rain. There was the old chaise, a small inlaid desk piled with papers and ledgers, and a dressing table cluttered with pots and bottles and ribbons. The bed was an old one, dark, heavy carved wood spread with an embroidered coverlet. A dressing gown was tossed across its foot and a pair of slippers had been hastily kicked off on the faded rug beside it. A screen across the corner was also hung with clothes.

      This had to be Jane’s own room, Hayden realised with surprise. He recognised the silver hairbrush on the dressing table; he had run it through The silken strands of her hair several times, winding the long, soft length of it around his wrist. The smell of her lilac perfume still hung in the air.

      He had forgotten what it was like to live with a lady, to be surrounded by cosy, feminine clutter. Why would she put him in here of all places?

      The door opened and Jane herself appeared there. Emma peeked in behind her, her eyes wide with curiosity until Jane gently but firmly closed the door between them.

      ‘The doctor said your leg is not broken, but the wound is a rather deep one. You’ll have to stay still for a few days and let it heal,’ she said. Her face was as still and smooth as a marble statue’s, giving away nothing of her real thoughts.

      Nothing about how she felt to have him in her home.

      ‘Is this your own room, Jane?’ he asked. His voice came out too rough, almost angry, and he felt immediately guilty when she flinched. He had never known quite how to behave around her—except in the bedchamber, when they knew how to be together only too well.

      ‘Yes,’ she said. She plucked up the silky dressing gown from the bed and stashed it behind the screen. ‘I’m afraid we have few guests here at Barton, so only my room and Emma’s are ready to be occupied. I can stay with her tonight and we’ll tidy another chamber in the morning.’

      ‘I can sleep in your drawing room,’ he said, forcing himself to be gentler, quieter. Jane’s face was turned from him so he could see only her profile, that pure, serene, classical line of her nose and mouth he had always loved.

      He suddenly longed to push back from the chaise, to grab her into his arms and pull her against him. To kiss her soft lips until she melted against him again and that ice that seemed to surround her melted. Until she was his Jane again.

      But he knew He couldn’t do that. The walls between them had been built too strong, too thick, brick by brick. He had done that himself. He had wanted it that way.

      But he still wanted to kiss her.

      ‘You’re ill,’ she said. ‘I’m not helping you all the way downstairs again just so you can injure yourself once more.’ She took a small bottle out of The pocket of the white apron she wore over her pretty green dress and put it down on the desk. ‘The doctor left that to help you sleep. I’ll bring you some water and something to eat. You must be hungry after your journey.’

      ‘Jane,’ Hayden called as she turned towards the door.

      She glanced back at him over her shoulder, her hand poised on the latch. There was a flash of something, some emotion, deep in her hazel eyes, but it was gone before he could decipher it.