His and Hers Read online

  Lonely spinster, anyone? She could already see bits of herself withering away and dying from lack of human companionship. Maybe she and Violet could become best friends.

  At that moment, Jane's gaze happened to land on Violet, who sat stiffly in her chair, fingers clenched together and her mouth set in a narrow line of defeat She didn't look like someone who would kick off her shoes, kill a bottle of wine and share confidences.

  So, maybe… not.

  Focus, Jane. Focus. Happy endings take work.

  A hero. A heroine. One plus one equals two, right? If only it were that easy. Oh, God, if her anxiety level ratcheted any higher, she'd fell right over in a crash of curls and jarring notes. End up with keys etched permanently into her skin. Never mind that Mary wouldn't let it happen. Mary. Who had no idea how to create a romance. Who needed help.

  Because of a stone and a wish made in a moment, or maybe a lifetime, of desperation.

  James led the polite applause and murmurs of appreciation when Jane finished her piece. As she rose, she let her eyes meet his, trailing her long, now apparently musical fingers across the wood of the instrument. So far, so good. But, what was this? Mary was having her drop her gaze. More of the demure stuff. No, Mary.

  Jane fought. Not hard, just firmly. Keeping her eyes on James, working to curve her mouth into the beginnings of a smile. Not shying away. It was an effort. But Mary seemed to be letting her do it. There was an invisible line here. She just had to be sure not to cross it.

  One of James's brows began to lift. As she passed next to him, she concentrated on her hand, needing just… the fingers to… okay, this was tough, but she could do it… and there it was, her fingertips lightly brushing his sleeve. Saying nothing, hopefully saying everything.

  Ye-e-s. If she could have, she would have run a quick victory lap around the room, but it felt like winning a race and then having to hope they didn't do drug testing. As she sank gracefully into her chair, skirts behaving admirably, she slid a glance toward James.

  His chin was high and pointed straight ahead, but she could see him looking at her from the corner of his eye.

  This could work. It could. Mary hadn't released them, yet. She was still writing. Jane concentrated hard, forcing her lips to open. Then she made them come together to form the first letter of the word she wanted to say. "P—Perhaps we might… take a stroll," she managed at last, nearly panting from the effort, though Mary allowed nothing to show.

  James didn't hide his surprise. "A stroll?"

  Mary. Let go of my tongue. "It is… a beautiful… evening." And she promised not to bring up anything about women voters. Or ask about the Chartists even though she was dying to. Or grab James and throw him to the ground in a frenzy of kisses. She would behave herself, but she had to get him alone. Did Mary really think he would propose in a room full of people?

  "Indeed," he murmured.

  She focused every drop of strength in her body on one area. Her tongue. "I fear I feel a bit faint. The air would surely do me good." And, again. Concentrate. "Will you escort me, sir?"

  He rose from his chair, extending his arm. "Most certainly. I am distressed to learn you are unwell."

  A little formal, a little distanced, but she'd take it for now. Jane also rose, laying her hand on his arm.

  "Mrs. Hathaway, I am sure, would accompany us." He turned, mouth opening in the direction of the woman, who was chatting merrily with Mrs. Stonewalter.

  "No!" The vehemence of her whisper startled even Jane. Mary must have backed off, decided to watch and see what happened. Why not? The author could cross out things, throw the pages in the fire. Ouch. Briefly, Jane wondered if that would hurt. She shook away the thought. "Please, James. Let us go outside."

  He had a way of looking at her that said she was half out of her mind, but because he was a gentleman, he would be nice and go along. I'll call that look, she thought to herself, and raise you one possible romantic moment.

  She had no idea if she could muster one up, if she could Find some sort of feeling, passion even, for this man. But she had to try. There had to be some reason the author had fallen for the person she had based him on.

  As they walked through and out of the room, with James trailing a wake of explanations, Jane began to mentally list his good qualities on a giant list. First… um, manners. Yes, he had them. Definitely. Second, looks. She didn't want to seem shallow about this, but she wouldn't be realistic if she didn't acknowledge physical attraction had something to do with romance. Or even a lot to do with it. And James was handsome. Very. He had a face that could grace the cover of a romance novel. The kind of guy that, in a picture, you might suspect his image had been altered with PhotoShop because he looked so perfect.

  Chiseled features, eyes that could gaze meaningfully into the distance or, better yet, into a woman's. Tousled hair that, even though it might be showing the first signs of thinning, looked as though he'd just stepped out of a hairdresser's chair. A gallant, confident kind of walk, even if he did always seem to be trying to be taller. The way he lifted his chin as if striving for another quarter inch…

  Anyway. Points for handsomeness. Moving on.

  He had money. Piles of it, apparently. And an entire estate, coming to him because he had the right birth circumstances and gender. And on that subject, how could that sort of thing go on? It was so unfair, so—

  Out of place on James's Good Qualities list.

  He had financial security. Points for that.

  They had reached the front door. James opened it for her and they walked out into the cool night air. A bright moon shone overhead, casting its light around them.

  "Are you chilled?" he asked. "Would you like me to fetch your cloak?"

  Concern for others. Had she added that to the list? Wait She took out her giant mental eraser. She'd already given him credit for manners and he hardly showed even a pinky finger of concern for his brother. Or sister. So only a quarter of a point on concern.

  They emerged from the house into the night air and stood by the solitary outside light, side by side, for a moment. Then James said, "I often like to ride in the darkness of evening. When it is cool and damp and the creatures of the night have come out from their hiding places of day."

  Interesting. So, any points for a sense of adventure and daring? She considered it. Okay, one point. Maybe. On the other hand, he could be shooting those innocent nocturnal creatures for sport. She didn't want to know. Change it to half a point.

  "There is much to be said for the solace of the night," Jane heard herself say. Really? She'd never found much solace in being alone at night.

  "Solace it can be, indeed. With my horse as true and faithful companion." He turned to her with a smile. "Perhaps, Jane, you would find my horse a more talkative creature in the evening hours."

  A couple of points for something that veered toward a sense of humor. Unless he was serious and would rather be with a horse than with a woman? Impossible. Mary wouldn't write that in a hero. At least, she hoped not Victorians could be a strange bunch.

  Change the humor category to half a point, too. He had very nice white, even teeth. Had she already considered… ? Yes. He had points for good-looking. Plenty of them.

  "I am certain, sir," she said with that half-sweep of lashes, "that I should welcome the chance to find out." Then she concentrated hard on the sentence she wanted Mary to let her say. "And what would your horse likely confide to me about you?"

  His eyes widened and his mouth twitched in apparent amusement. He stepped away from her, his shadow long and narrow on the ground. "Perhaps he would assert that his master is a reasonable and fair man who sits a horse well and on occasion favors a hard ride through the blackness of night."

  As a warm and cuddly description, that one didn't quite make it. But if a person wanted to read some sort of double entendre into his words…Jane did a quick check on her pulse, heart, stomach. Not a single quiver, shiver or tingle. Mary needed a nudge. A big one. "And what," she s
aid after some effort, "would he tell me about the heart of his master?"

  Could not get a better setup than that. Here was the chance for him to tell her how much he longed for a woman at his side, to be his partner, his lover… well, however that sort of thing was said in Victorian terms, anyway. It was his chance to flatter her, take her in his arms. She moved toward him, laying a hand on his arm.

  He looked down at it and then into her eyes.

  This was it. It. Now it would happen. She waited, resisting the urge to shake him.

  He parted his lips. "He would say—"

  Yes, James. He would say…

  "That is—" Again, he broke off, taking a deep breath in and then letting it out "He would say that his master's heart is true and strong."

  Eh? James seemed to be having quite the struggle here. She dug her fingers into his arm, trying to force the words from his mouth. She couldn't go too far, though, or Mary would cut this scene right off. "Is it not true that his master would…" Keep going. "Welcome the companionship of a wife?" she prompted.

  He glanced down at his arm and she released him with the guilty realization that she'd probably hurt him, since her fingers had nearly gone numb. This wasn't going well. At all. How did she get him to literally and figuratively sweep her off her feet, vow that he needed her, that he longed for her, that—

  Oh. No. She had just managed to get Mary to write essentially what she'd said to Byron. No wonder this wasn't going well. How could it?

  Mentally, she shut her eyes and waited. For the whole fragile world, built on words, to come crashing down as James tiptoed from the moonlight air to disappear forever.

  Of course, according to Mrs. Hathaway, this marriage deal was all but signed, sealed and delivered. Mary might forgive her bold move. She allowed her eyes to creep open.

  James leaned forward so quickly that she gave a small jump. His finger stroked her cheek, lightly, gently. Then his mouth closed in. Full lips pressed against hers with an intensity of purpose, as his hands gripped her shoulders and held on tight. James, her hero, was kissing her. He wasn't doing a bad job of it, either.

  She'd managed to get him to make the move, with the suggestion they walk outside into the moonlight, where romance danced in the cool air. By not giving up, by staying determined to maneuver Mary into the things that needed to happen to move this courtship along, Jane had done it. The author had even forgiven Jane's throwing the Wife word right out there into the open. Possibly even used it.

  The kiss. One he had instigated. And Mary had written. At last.

  And she didn't feel a damn thing.

  Chapter 11

  James drew back. His hands fell to his sides and he stood watching Jane, his face shadowed in the moonlight "We are," he said at last, "at a pause."

  "She's quit writing?" Jane asked in a whisper. The freedom of her tongue told her the answer as soon as the words were out.

  He nodded.

  "So… how was it for you?" She tried joking, but there was a catch in her throat.

  "Forgive my boldness, but it had to be done."

  It had to be done? Well, he was right. It had taken him long enough. She shook her head. "Nothing to be forgiven." Except the fad that I cannot seem to work up one iota, one little microscopic drop of simple lust for you. What would that mean for her, for James, for everyone? Being a heroine carried a heavy burden. One she apparently wasn't ready for.

  A half smile curved at his mouth. Or… No. It wasn't close to a smile. It was more of a… smirk, really. Now the heat began to rise in Jane, for an entirely different reason.

  "I gave in to your wishes. Perhaps sooner than would be wise, but it shall suffice for our purposes nonetheless." He gestured toward the door. "Shall we rejoin the others?"

  Rejoin the others? A simple enough question, but with all the bleeped words rolling around in her mind and crashing into each other, it was a little hard to think straight The only answer she could come up with was, "Are you out of your mind?"

  He blinked. "Jane?"

  "You gave in to my wishes?" She had begun to pace now. Back and forth, three steps one way, three steps the other. Never a good sign.

  "Did you not ask me to accompany you into the night air, to a place where we would be alone?"

  "Yes, you imbecile." Oh, this was so not the way to talk to her hero, but he was leaving her very little choice. How could he make it sound as though she'd practically begged him for a kiss? As though she were some sort of nineteenth-century charity case. Or, spinster. She'd tell him. Her shoes pounded into the dirt "Because you were not doing a single thing to move this story along. Because you apparently don't have a romantic bone or inclination in your body."

  "This is most—" he sputtered.

  "The most truth you've probably heard in a long time," she finished for him.

  "Truth," he repeated. His tone turned sarcastic. "And are you no longer feeling faint?"

  "Oh, for God's sake, James. I had to do something. You weren't."

  His mouth formed a round O of shock. "Within all that is proper—"

  "A hero isn't always proper. That's what makes him interesting."

  James took his turn at pacing, hands gripped behind his back, boots kicking up clouds of dirt "I took you into my arms. Kissed you, though it may have been an unforgivable action, given that we are not engaged nor have we even yet declared our regard for each other."

  She stopped and turned to face him, jamming her hands onto her hips. "About that kiss."

  "You cannot fault me. You implored me to do so. Yet you now judge me as though I have committed an act you find unacceptable. I would remind you that you yourself did such a thing not two scenes ago." He stopped and raised his palms to the sky, pleading with the moon. "How am I to understand the contrary ideas of a woman?"

  Different era. Same cop-out. And it had the same effect it had had on her in the past, causing her to second-guess what she'd said, what she'd done. Maybe she was the one who didn't know what was going on here. It was either that or the guy was a pompous jerk who wouldn't know a romantic moment if it sat up and smacked him across the face. Mary. How could you do this? She dug her fingers harder into her hips, ordering herself to maintain control of her colliding emotions. "That kiss—" she began.

  He took a step toward her. "You need not extend your apology."

  "My apology?" A virtual runaway freight train of anger ran straight toward him, taking out overhanging trees and entire landscapes in its path, villagers running screaming for the hills. As anger shrieked through her veins, she struggled to find enough control not to shake him. "I felt nothing from that kiss. Do you understand me? Nothing."

  His eyebrows lifted and a wrinkle of confusion appeared on his forehead. "Perhaps if you were to give more eff—"

  And there it was. The word that was going to make her turn a chamber pot over his head at the first available opportunity. "Effort? Are you really going to say that word to me, when I have been doing everything humanly possible to make this story work?" Pacing again, this time in short, sharp steps that made her toes hurt. "No. You are not going to do that."

  "Miss Ellingson!"

  The sharpness of his tone made her whirl around, feeing him again. She was not a five-year-old to be scolded. She was a grown woman, who had just been kissed, and badly, by a pompous ass. She sucked in a breath. "We have a problem."

  He shook his head. "I confess myself quite unable to comprehend your demands."

  That was one way to look at it. His way. The freight train picked up speed again, whistle blaring in one long and steady, piercing scream. She pressed her fingers to her forehead, shutting her eyes. "I don't know what to do here."

  "It is simple," she heard him reply, though she hadn't invited him to. "We await the author's pen."

  But Mary had to have known that kiss didn't go well. Or she would have had Jane swooning in his arms, swaying from weakened knees. Something. Even if Jane hadn't felt it inside, there would have been a physical r
eaction. Some sort of clue. "That's what I'm afraid of."

  She felt a pat on her arm, meant apparently as reassurance. "A female commonly has fears," he said, as though he knew anything at all about women. "There is, however, no need."

  No need. Right. Because all-knowing, all-powerful James was here. A groan, low and frustrated, escaped from her.

  He ignored it. "Shall we rejoin the others? I am certain they would take great pleasure in hearing you play once again. And it would no doubt calm you, as well."

  Her eyes flew open. She stared at him, her breath coming in furious puffs. In that instant, she did the only thing that kept her from derailing in a blinding crash of words and fury, leaving the wreckage strewn all over James.

  She pushed her way past him and ran into the night.

  The moonlight, at least, made it easier to barrel through the darkness, skirts forming a protective cushion on all sides. Behind her, she heard something that sounded like an oath from James, but she didn't hear sounds of him following her. He would have to, of course, because what kind of a gentleman would go outside with a lady and not return with her? That would be an explanation worth listening to.

  At this moment, she had to be anywhere but with him. Someplace where she could sort out the mess she seemed to be making of a life that was scripted for her. Where all she had to do was play along and say the words to win a nice, safe existence, free of accidental wrong-saying and wrongdoing.

  If she couldn't even manage that, she was a bigger failure than she had thought.

  She rounded the corner of the house and stopped, pressing one hand to the rough-hewn rock wall and another to her stomach. Been a while since she'd been to the gym. Last time, she'd managed to run straight off the treadmill when a very good-looking guy smiled at her. And here she was, running straight into the darkness, where anything could happen.

  Yet even as she offered up the excuse, she knew this ache in her middle had little to do with her athleticism. Or lack of it.

  In the distance, she heard James's voice, calling out. "Miss Ellingson?" Back to formalities. And he wasn't exactly in hot pursuit.