His and Hers Read online

  A glance at Mr. Stonewalter revealed a sixtyish gentleman with thinning hair and deep laugh lines around his eyes. "It makes an appearance on occasion," he replied.

  "On more than one occasion," Jane said kindly. "Do not be so modest, Mr. Stonewalter. I find your twists of phrase most amusing. It has been entirely too long since I have had the pleasure of your company." She smiled.

  Not too much. Or too little. She'd smiled just right, gauging from the approving reaction of the others. And the words came out so effortlessly. Jane thought about the time she'd gone to a comedy club with Byron and snorted right in the middle of a gut-wrenching laugh. She'd been laughing so hard, she'd actually been afraid she'd pee her pants, so all things considered, the snort wasn't that bad.

  But Byron had thought it was. He'd looked at her, startled out of his own laughter. She'd snorted in public. And snorted loud.

  Your twists of phrase. Most amusing. Check.

  "Oh, now you are attempting to turn my head, Miss Ellingson," Mr. Stonewalter said. "A younger man would do well to claim you for himself before I am reduced to playing the fool at my age."

  Laughter all around.

  Stonewalter aimed a meaningful look at James. "A gentleman could hardly find a gender, more well-bred wife."

  Jane felt a blush creep into her cheeks. "You are too kind, sir." Please, please don't have James bolt from the room like Byron. I don't even know him, but I know I couldn't take that right now.

  "Kindness is an admirable trait," James said, as though he didn't know Stonewalter's comment had taken direct aim at him. "One far too often forgotten these days, it would seem."

  "Jane's mother, my dear brother's wife, insists upon it," said Mrs. Hathaway. "A kinder household never will you see."

  "And you have demonstrated kindness in abundance, sir," Jane said to James, apparently having recovered herself. "In inviting my aunt, sister and me for a visit, despite the trying circumstances your father, and indeed your family, endures."

  James sat back in his chair, hands resting across the silver brocade of his vest. "My father wishes the halls of Afton House to once again ring with the sound of cheerful voices," he answered quietly. "I suspect he believes such gaiety will serve to answer those who contend he is in his last days."

  The guests murmured their agreement.

  A sudden click of the door and a low, threatening voice cut through the pleasantries. "Last days which you, my dear' brother," rumbled the voice of Curran, sarcasm dripping from the edges, "would choose to hasten, if at all possible."

  A small cry lodged in Jane's throat as her hand flew to her mouth. In one simultaneous motion, her head, and those of the others at the table, turned toward the doorway, through which James's brother, his expression ominously dark, was about to enter. His stance screamed challenge.

  Despite the tension his arrival caused and the shock she had apparently expressed, Jane felt a thrill of appreciation run through her. Curran had a certain Heath-cliff air going for him. Or at least Timothy Dalton, young edition. His presence seemed to fill the entire room.

  "I had known you to be away on business," James replied, his fingers drumming a beat on the table. He sighed. "Instead, I find you have returned, no doubt intent on laboring under the same delusions you harbored before leaving." He gave a shake of his head, the motion clearly dismissive.

  Violet piped up. "I believe—" she said in a high-pitched treble and then stopped, looking in distress from one brother to the other.

  "Perhaps you are suggesting the ladies retire to the drawing room, Violet?" Jane offered.

  Relief flooded the other woman's face before she managed to regain control. "Yes," she murmured. "I believe that would be best."

  "Ah. Right you are, Violet," James said, smiling benevolently. He cast his gaze upon Jane, who was preparing to rise with the others. "Please do not allow this interruption to trouble you, my dear," he added in a low voice meant only for her ears. "It is best to simply disregard Curran's unfortunate fits of temper. He is harmless enough."

  Harmless wasn't a term Jane would use to describe Curran Dempsey and she'd known him for all of… an hour or so? But she found herself giving James a quiet smile. "Sir, please do not give it another thought. I assure you, I shall not." At that, she rose, chin high.

  Curran stepped away from the door and Jane followed the lead of the other women, sweeping from the room in a swish of silk skirts. Without stumbling once. And without giving Curran a single look.

  Which was a shame, really. Because she would have liked to.

  Curran Dempsey turned from a brief glance toward the departing women to his brother, who remained seated at the table. A pity. Curran would have preferred to allow his gaze to linger on the heroine of this novel, who a short time earlier had revealed herself to be something other than the beautiful, obedient woman Mary Bellingham portrayed.

  Beautiful, indeed, but more bold of spirit and tongue than obedient. Intriguing.

  "You are not welcome here," said his brother. "Must we go over this yet again?"

  Curran crossed the room until he stood before James. "It is my home." Mary gave his words a surly twist.

  "Perhaps," James replied. "But only so long as my father does live. You have caused this family much grief, Curran, and I shall not permit it to continue."

  "You are not our father by half, nor shall you ever be." Curran would have shot back, had he been permitted. Instead, he heard himself say, "I am the oldest son and thereby entitled to the rights of—" He slammed his palm on the table, causing the dishes to jump and rattle.

  A pause. Curran waited. James cleared his throat, waiting as well.

  Mary's pen again took over and again he heard himself say, "I am the oldest son and thereby entitled to the rights of—" This time, a lift in his voice implied a weak resolve.

  James rose, slamming both of his palms on the table. Glasses overturned, leaving a stream of liquid on the cloth. "You, sir, have no legitimate rights." He narrowed his eyes in contempt. "Once my father is no longer here to protect you, I shall ensure your return to the city of your birth, where you will take up your rights to the very meanest of existences, as repayment for causing this family nothing but distress these many years."

  The two men glared at. each other for a long moment before the invisible hand again lifted. James bent his neck one way and then the other, stretching and relieving his shoulders. Then he left the room.

  Curran stayed, staring at the spot in the table that had borne the blow of James's hands. If Mary Bellingham could write a villain no better than this, the tale would be cursed from its opening pages. A small ball of fury formed inside, creating a heat that spread throughout his body. She knew him not. Wrote him not.

  It was all for James.

  Halls paneled in dark wood and lit by gaslights were not only dark and smelly, Jane discovered, but also drafty. No wonder she'd heard servants sneeze several times. Let alone the fact that they didn't seem to mind sneezing on each other and into food. In a time before antibiotics. Eeew. She shivered.

  Mary Bellingham had retired for the night, according to James, which gave Jane a chance to do some exploring on her own. Might be her only chance to roam through a nineteenth-century estate unescorted, even if every fixture and bowing servant lived only in someone else's imagination.

  She removed her shoes before tiptoeing down the hallway. The house itself was huge, filled with rooms both large and small. Each time she peeked behind another door, she found elaborate furnishings, curtains and artwork. The Dempseys, it seemed, had done pretty well for themselves. Or at least their ancestors had.

  But most of the rooms had a hollow, empty feel. As though they, with their elegant and largely untouched furniture, had grown old. Waiting for life to happen. For laughter. For love, which seemed conspicuously absent in this place.

  That had to be what James sought in this story. Why Jane was here, auditioning. Now appearing, in the role of heroine, she heard an imaginary voice boo
m, Jane Christine Ellingson. In acknowledgment, she paused long enough in her stocking feet to drop a deep curtsy to her fictional audience. Ha. She'd always wanted to go for a starring role.

  "Miss?"

  Jane's gaze shot up to see Sarah, dressed in a dark gray dress with a white apron and cap, staring at her, puzzled. When had she arrived? Jane lifted her chin. "I'll be in the garden," she said in her best imitation of an aristocrat, sweeping by the girl, who immediately gave a deferential dip. This lady-of-the-manor thing became easier by the second.

  Then she turned back. "But… um, thank you. You do a great job."

  Who was she kidding? An aristocrat, she wasn't.

  Before she went through the door, she jammed the shoes, black and in the style of slippers, back on her feet. Not the best for walking across grass and stone, but they'd have to do.

  It looked to be early afternoon, which she now realized could change at any minute. She could find herself at breakfast if the author awoke and began writing. Time seemed to be a random detail, subject to the author's whim. This had to be the best example of "live in the moment" Jane had ever heard of.

  She made her way through the house and outside, grateful she saw no one she was obligated to talk with or pretend not to see. As she marched in the direction of the garden, she closed her eyes and drank in the scent of grass, mixed with that of trees and flowers. Moisture hung in the air, clinging in tiny droplets to her face. She opened her eyes, reveling in the familiar promise of rain. Now that she was outside the dark, narrow corridors of Afton House, she had a sudden urge to turn a cartwheel, something she hadn't attempted since the third grade, when she'd accidentally taken out two hopscotchers on the way down.

  She decided against it. A dress with mammoth skirts and tight upper sleeves would have to lower the chances for success by a good… Well, the chances for success weren't good to begin with. Never mind. Who needed cartwheels.

  A broad expanse of lawn stretched before her, bordered by willow trees and flowerbeds brimming with color. Jane walked alongside them, stopping to smell here and there, both the bitter and the sweet, and in all, a stinging freshness. Birds twittered above her, offering up their songs and conversations.

  She didn't have to worry about answering phones that rang nonstop with constituents disagreeing on the senator's latest stand. Dumping toner on herself from a malfunctioning copy machine. Agonizing over which pair of jeans made her look the skinniest for a date with Byron and then analyzing his every single word to figure out what he really meant. If he really loved her.

  No. Here in this expanse of English countryside, no one expected anything from her. She could relax. Just be. If she made a mistake, Mary Bellingham could fix it, with the stroke of a pen.

  An inviting path bordered the garden, winding and disappearing from sight. She decided to take it, trailing her hand along the flowers, until gradually, she became aware of someone approaching from the other side.

  It was Curran Dempsey, dressed in black, with a white shirt and ascot, holding the reins of a large horse as he walked. She retreated with a step back and to the side, watching as he moved with an easy, determined stride, powerful legs moving in rhythm. Mary sure knew how to write a man who would raise the interest of a woman. Well, this man, anyway.

  And, okay, this woman. Even though her interest was purely appreciation of a very fine male body. Byron… might come back.

  Curran spotted her, pulling his horse to a halt "Miss Ellingson."

  She sucked in an appreciative breath. "Mr. Dempsey."

  "Out for a stroll?"

  "I needed the fresh air."

  "I see." He paused. "May I accompany you?"

  She almost responded that it was a free country, but stopped herself in time. It actually… wasn't. "If you would like."

  He busied himself with the horse for a moment and then stepped through a break in the flowers to fall into step beside her, reversing his previous course. She didn't know whether to be flattered or concerned.

  Jane was the first to speak. "You must be needing solace." She raised an eyebrow to let him know the reference to their previous conversation was a good-natured one.

  "As much of the family does not find occasion to stroll through the gardens, I find it an excellent place to linger."

  "Ah." She nodded. "Your family. I take it there isn't much love lost between you, James and Violet."

  "Much less than little."

  This was a man who measured his words, Jane decided. She kicked a small rock, watching it skitter across the path. "Quite the appearance you made at dinner."

  "My brother is arrogant."

  She flipped him a quick smile. "And you're not?"

  The muscles of his jaw tightened and his eyes narrowed as he looked down at her. "There is a distinct line between arrogance and purpose. Which do you suppose drives James?"

  She stopped, looking up at him. In the way he held his head, tilted to the side, and his hands, clasped behind his back, she saw a man who had asked a simple question. One that he knew the answer to. In his dark, nearly black eyes, she saw something else. Questioning. Drawing her in.

  Jane was the last one with any answers. She took a step away from him. "I wouldn't know. I'm not writing this thing. Only Mary would know that."

  His features relaxed and he took her arm, urging her forward on their walk. "It was not my intent to alarm you, Miss Ellingson."

  "Jane."

  "As you wish. Jane. Perhaps you could tell me what has you seeking the solace of the gardens? I know it is not because you wish to avoid my family."

  Her next words spilled out almost before she realized it. "I'm not really—you know, a heroine." She sucked in a breath as deep as her corset would allow. There. She'd admitted it. All these people who assumed she could actually lead a story would soon know the truth. Might as well get everything out in the open. Send her back to Seattle, find another heroine.

  "I don't understand."

  Well, neither did she. Of all people, she was confessing who she really was to the villain of the story? "It's all a big mistake. I made a wish, with a stone. Ended up, apparently, in the pages of a novel because my name is the same as the heroine's. Or, something like that happened, anyway. But I'm not really her. The heroine, I mean. And I'm pretty sure I'm not supposed to be here." Almost a shame. Could be worse places than this.

  "Your name is Jane Ellingson, is it not?"

  She pulled her mouth tight, letting her head bob to one side and then the other in grudging acknowledgment. "It is."

  "And you are here. Standing before me, that is."

  "Yes. Well, sort of. If you buy in to the idea that I'm only here because Mary Bellingham is writing me…"

  He pulled to a stop, staring down. "Do your feet not touch this ground? Is your voice not heard clearly in this fresh air you sought?"

  "Yes. And yes. But it's all a mistake. I'm a real person." A small sense of something she could identify only as dread began to build deep within her.

  "As am I." He reached out then and took her hand, clasping it between both of his. The touch of his skin on hers sent a shiver running up her spine. His hands were warm, strong. And his hold on her firm.

  She felt inexplicably flustered. "I'm sure you're very— You'll have a great life and all, but I have a—a different one."

  He said nothing, but continued to hold her hand and gaze intently into her eyes. She was all too aware of those muscular legs, standing only inches from her voluminous skirts. With her free hand, she began to fumble in her pocket, searching for the stone that would explain everything. "I have it. Here. I'll show you," she said. "It's right—"

  Except that it wasn't.

  Desperation stole over her with alarming speed until she shook off his hands to tear through her pocket with both hands, searching, turning it inside out.

  "Have you lost something?" he asked.

  Not something.

  Everything.

  Chapter 4

  "I've
lost it." As soon as she uttered the words, their meaning sunk in with a weight that caused Jane to stumble and lose her balance.

  Curran grabbed her arms, holding on.

  "I'm stuck here."

  "Stuck?" he repeated.

  "Without that stone…" She couldn't even think about it. Sure, she'd wished herself here. Wished herself out of her life. But that didn't mean—No. It couldn't. This wasn't forever. She wasn't cut out to be a heroine. Of anything. Hadn't she just admitted as much?

  Heroines were adventurous. Confident. Coordinated.

  "Listen to me." She mustered enough strength to shake off Curran's hands and grab his arms. "We need to retrace my steps. You have to help me find it."

  He didn't seem to be onboard with that. And he also didn't seem to like her grabbing him. With one quick jerk of his arms, she wasn't holding on to him anymore. And then his hands were on her arms again, holding her in their firm grasp. "You are a woman of some passion," he countered, "but not forthcoming."

  Not a compliment. But was that a spark of interest in those intensely focused eyes?

  Her breath came sharp and furious, even as her heart pounded. "Never mind. I'll do it myself."

  "I shall know what has distressed you so."

  "I—It…" She pressed a hand to her heart, determined to keep it inside her chest, despite its threat to hammer itself all the way out and onto the lawn.

  "Jane." His voice softened. "Tell me."

  Her panic began to edge away. "1 am looking for a stone," she said, struggling to keep her voice even, "about this big." She made a circle with her forefinger and thumb.

  "A stone."

  "Yes." She began to regain at least some of her bearings, fueled by the necessity of finding her ticket back home. No time to stand around. He either needed to help or get out of her way.

  "And what distinguishes this stone from the hundreds of others to be found in this garden?"

  Good question. And she hated that he had asked it, mostly because she had no answer. Pressing a finger to her head, she thought. Hard. "It's flat. And it has a rough spot on one side. My finger hits it about… here." She indicated a spot within the circle.