His and Hers Read online

  "Oh, Jane, you are a silly creature. The gentleman is devoted to you already," Mrs. Hathaway pronounced. "And I shall think nothing else, as… there is nothing else to think."

  Aunt Hathaway brought a whole new meaning to the phrase "nothing else to think."

  The door opened. Both women turned toward it to see James stride in with a flourish of his hand. "Good afternoon," he declared.

  "Mr. Dempsey!" cried Mrs. Hathaway, as though he were a long-lost relative, instead of someone she'd just seen.

  Jane felt a gentle smile curve at her lips.

  "Mrs. Hathaway." He gave a bow and turned. "Jane." He said her name with a confidence that implied he expected a warm reception. It was his house. And he was her hero. She just wished she felt… well, something.

  "I must attend to—That is, Miss Dempsey—" Mrs. Hathaway fluttered her hands as she rose from her chair. "I have only just been saying that I must find the child. So I shall take my leave of you now, Jane."

  "Yes, Aunt." Hands folded in her lap, Jane shifted her gaze from the departing Mrs. Hathaway to James, who stood waiting, a smile on his face. The picture of nineteenth-century gentlemanliness. Everything a heroine could wish for.

  She opened her mouth. Nothing came out.

  James opened his mouth. Nothing.

  He took a step toward her, mouth still open. Then a step back. And forward again.

  Both of them froze. And then Jane felt the sense of release that signaled the writer had loosened her hold on them. She let her shoulders sag and her chin drop, looking up at James through her lashes.

  He raked a hand through his blond hair. With a grimace, he paced back and forth before pulling to an abrupt stop in front of her. "'You must surely know the cause of her distress."

  Jane waited for clarity to arrive. When it failed to, she asked, "What?"

  "She holds the pen in her trembling hand, without the strength to put it to paper. Because she does not feel from you what she must" He clasped his hands together in a plea. "A conviction that comes from here." He tapped his chest in the vicinity of his heart "Effort, Jane. It is but little that she asks."

  If she had to hear the E word again, she might just show people what she'd had for breakfast, all over this beautiful Victorian rug. Whatever, that is, she'd actually had for breakfast.

  Scene after scene, she'd said the lines as written. Wearing a dress with skirts that could easily fit five children and probably a smallish adult under it Sitting patiently. While he talked about her effort Or lack of it.

  She wished she could say something. Defend herself. But she couldn't If she opened her mouth, let her own brain take over and insert a sentence here, it was sure to be the wrong one.

  His hands shot into the air, imploring the heavens. Or at least, Mary Bellingham. "How am I to turn this situation to good? The burden most assuredly rests with me to do so." His gaze landed on her. Pointedly.

  "I—can't do more."

  "Perhaps…" He rubbed a finger along his chin, then shook his head. "No."

  "No?"

  "Yes, it is the very thing."

  "What is the very thing?" Pretty soon she would need a guidebook.

  "I must kiss you."

  Jane was not one to dispute a hero's actions or intentions, given her own track record, but the romance part seemed to be seriously missing here. She struggled with how to respond, finally landing on, "Why?"

  "Once we have kissed, your heart will most assuredly be engaged." Relief crossed his face. "Any hesitation will be gone."

  She pondered that for a minute, wishing she had one tiny speck of that kind of self-confidence. He did set a certain level of expectation, though, and he'd better be able to live up to it "But Mary isn't writing now and she did try to write a kiss earlier. Shouldn't we… you know, let her?"

  "It must be done," he announced.

  Nothing like ending up on someone's To-Do list Jane rose. "I'm ready." She'd actually quite like to experience this kiss now, given the buildup.

  His brow furrowed.

  Okay. Back to demure. "I mean," she said, walking to him in a swish-swish of skirts, "please, sir. Kiss me." Her heartbeat skipped ahead, hoping James would land a knee-crumpling kiss on her that would send her right off a cliff in ecstasy, able to plunge into Mary's lines with a conviction that would infuse the story with fire and passion.

  And no inappropriate lines or accidents that involved red wine or body parts.

  His face softened. "Yes," he said, voice lowering as he gazed into her eyes. "You must leave it to me now, Jane, as I have had experience in these matters."

  And she hadn't? Rolling around in bed with Byron until both of them glistened with sweat and the sheets had disengaged to wrap themselves around their two exhausted and spent bodies didn't count? Oh. She was Book Jane. Twenty-six and never been kissed. Got it.

  She lifted her chin and whispered, "Yes, James."

  He laid a hand on each side of her face, leaning in until his mouth hovered less than an inch from hers.

  She closed her eyes and waited. For her future. For that cliff, for the parasail that would take her off its edge and into—

  "Jane!"

  The high-pitched female cry pierced the stillness of the room. Jane and James broke apart, James's hands slapping his sides and Jane's wrapping around her rib cage.

  "Anne," she said at the sight of the girl.

  "Oh!" Anne muffled her giggles. "Dear Sister, please forgive me. I knew only that you were in the parlor. Not that"—she looked at James, mirth dancing in her eyes, though her expression remained innocent—"Mr. Dempsey was here as well."

  Behind Anne, Mrs. Hathaway burst into the room, clearly irritated. "There you are, you annoying creature," she said as though she had been searching for Anne instead of hiding behind the parlor door. "You must come with me at once."

  "Aunt Hathaway, I seek my sister's advice on a matter of utmost importance." Anne's eyes were round with innocence.

  "Nonsense, child. Can you not see that she and Mr. Dempsey are having a conversation?"

  Once again, James's palms turned upward in a plea.

  "Come, Anne." Mrs. Hathaway hustled the girl from the room, fingers clamped on her arm.

  "Aunt! You need not pinch so!"

  "Hush," the older woman hissed. Then she turned back toward James and Jane. "Pay us no heed," she squeaked over her shoulder.

  James turned back to her, his embarrassment both boyish and appealing. "Well, Jane."

  She waited. He made no move toward her. What would Book Jane do? "Um, sir…" she stammered.

  "While I suppose we might make another attempt, it does appear as though the time is not ideal. Perhaps it is for the best that we allow Miss Bellingham to take charge of the matter."

  She could think of all kinds of things to say, most of them involving the fact that her lips and emotions were not a "matter" to be dealt with, but if she said them, she could be sure only that her hero would be riding fast on his fiery steed in the other direction. Not worth the chance. So she remained silent.

  Then he appeared to find his resolve. "We shall await Miss Bellingham's pen. When next we gather, she shall determine what is to be done." He flashed her an apologetic smile, accompanied by a wink.

  So, Jane thought, her big moment. Never happened. Story of her life.

  Wake up, Mary.

  When it appeared clear Mary wouldn't be waking up right away, Jane left the parlor to wander through the main floor of the house and then outdoors. She found herself walking through the gardens yet again, craving the sense of peace and isolation they offered. If nothing else, she could retrace her steps for the fiftieth time, looking for the stone that represented her escape clause.

  Not that she could imagine herself using it right away. What kind of a life did she have to go back to? Holly, her former friend, still wouldn't be speaking to her. The bride might even have to resort to a backup wedding dress. All because of Jane's inability to hold a glass upright.


  The various organizations that had so enthusiastically supported Senator Alice Tate were probably blanketing the airwaves by now with calls for her immediate resignation. The rehab center director would be on TV, citing privacy laws and refusing to offer information, which would leave everything open to the reporters for speculation. There was a lot to speculate on.

  And Byron. He'd be figuring out how not to call her. Ever again. Marriage. She had been an idiot to jump ahead like that. He would have come to it on his own. Eventually.

  If only life were like a CD. Delete what was on it and burn a new one.

  Nothing remotely like this would ever happen to her brother Troy. He led an orderly, organized life. No huge faux pas. No surprises. Thank God the family had Troy to make them proud. He'd be marrying his fiancée, Susan soon and they'd live happily in the suburbs with an obedient dog and 2.2 kids. If anyone could figure out how to have a .2 kid, it would be Troy, who'd scored A's in math all through school.

  Things would also be a lot easier if she didn't actually like her brother and not just because he was family. He'd never held himself up as a pinnacle of correct living. He couldn't help doing things right. Any more than Jane could help messing them up.

  She scanned the grass and dirt, searching once again for the stone. How could she ever have lost it? It seemed incomprehensible. Unless, of course, you considered that it was Jane. Tears stung her eyes. Too bad the stone hadn't been able to carry her back to the womb, letting her start again from scratch. At this late stage, her life might be considered beyond repair.

  Gradually, she became aware of someone else beside her. As she glanced up, Curran said, "It appears the search for the elusive stone continues." His expression softened when he saw the moisture in her eyes.

  Embarrassed, she brushed it away with the back of her hand. Then she straightened, meeting his eyes. His steady, dark gaze had a way of causing her stomach to fold over itself in anticipation. She pressed a hand against the area of her ribs, sealed off by the corset. "I haven't found it, yet."

  "Unfortunate."

  She nodded.

  "May I offer my assistance?"

  "Please."

  He got down on his hands and knees, apparently caring little about the black pants he wore and the effects of the dirt and grass he was about to crawl in. Jane, who had been searching from an upright position, hesitated. Then she told him, "It's a little difficult for me to get down on the ground. I don't seem to be able to manage it very well." Her fingers itched to undo the dress and rip the corset right off. Who had invented a thing like this? No doubt a man—who, of course, didn't have to wear it.

  Curran glanced up. "Ah, yes. Your clothing would make it such." He seemed unfazed that they were talking about the instrument of torture known as her corset. Points for Curran. "Perhaps if you were to tell me from above where to look?"

  She gave him a relieved smile. "Teamwork. I like it."

  He turned back to the task at hand. They worked in companionable silence for a few minutes, Jane inching along behind him and pointing out suspicious rocks. At one point, she moved too far too fast and her skirts covered his hands and nearly his head. Quickly, she drew back, hoping he didn't see how thrilling she found his nearness to her legs. He looked up, but didn't say anything.

  After a few more minutes of silence, Curran asked, "How are you finding our author's tale?"

  She pondered her answer for several seconds before she turned her gaze to the top of his head and said, "It may have a flaw or two."

  His own eyes remained focused on the ground. "Ah," was all he said.

  "What do you think of it?"

  "It is her tale to author."

  Oh, no. He didn't get to ask her and then not tell her what he thought. Carefully, she lowered herself, corset and all, until she could sit on the ground beside him without too much danger of toppling over. "If you really thought that, you wouldn't have asked for my opinion."

  Curran halted his forward progress. "Perhaps."

  "There isn't any perhaps about it. I know you were upset with the last scene between you and James. I got the distinct feeling that you wanted it to go very differently. And, oh, by the way, I've met your father."

  He turned and sat back on the ground, gaze darkening as he rubbed his hands together, loosening the dirt. "My father."

  "He's not all bad. Gruff. Demanding. Narrow-minded. But not all bad."

  A shadow crossed Curran's face.

  "He claims that all of your character traits come from your mother, but now that I've met him, I think I actually see a lot of him in you."

  He drew his brows together. "I disavow such an idea."

  Disavow away, Jane thought. Doesn't change that I saw a determination in Benton Dempsey, beaten down by illness though it was, that came pretty close to matching yours. "Would it be such a bad thing?"

  "You have made the acquaintance of my father." This time, he didn't sound quite so convincing about disavowing any connection.

  The guy was fascinating. A brooding Heathcliff one minute, a complex Heath Ledger the next "If you're not like him, then he must be right. You're like your mother. Can you tell me about her?" Jane asked.

  His eyes turned unreadable. "Undeserving of the fate she received at his hands." Nothing unreadable about his terse, tight voice.

  "Was he—Did he hurt her? Physically, I mean?" She pictured Curran as a toddler, watching the shadowy figure of a younger, healthier Benton Dempsey strike his mother. No wonder the illegitimate son would turn into a villain, seeking revenge.

  Though Curran's eyes fixed on her, they didn't seem to see her. "She was young, little older than your sister Anne, when first he chanced upon her out walking." His words gathered speed, anger. "He bought her fine things. Things she could only dream of. And dangled them before her until she succumbed. Then he abandoned her. As her family had earlier."

  Indignation stirred and rose within Jane. Too damn early for laws that prosecuted older men for preying on minors. Too bad, or Benton Dempsey would have been thrown in jail, where throwing a dish at someone wouldn't even be an option. "So you two had only each other."

  "She was little more than a child herself when I was born."

  Jane shook her head. A child raising a child. By herself, in a time without any social programs to help. "It must have been very hard for her."

  "She died at his hands." His gaze had gone cold. Hard.

  So she'd been right. That murderer, that scumbag, that—Just let her at him. She'd bring him his tea, all right, laced with something that would help to hasten the peaceful death Mary no doubt had planned for him. "Why wasn't he prosecuted?" she burst out. "He's just lying up there in his own bed, waiting to die."

  "There was no prosecution to be made. The weapon was a subtle one, though a weapon all the same."

  What? How do you subtly kill someone? Butter knife? "I don't understand."

  "He abandoned her to the illness that claimed her life."

  "He knew she was ill and didn't help?"

  Curran nodded, mouth pulled tight and jaw muscles working. "His wealth could have afforded the services of a surgeon. Though it was beyond her means, the cost to him would have been a mere pittance. When at last he deigned to answer her pleas, it was too late."

  She pictured Curran's mother lying in a rat-infested hole of a place, hungry child at her side. Knowing she was dying and that the one person who could help had refused. "I'm sorry." It seemed so little to say.

  "I do not seek your sympathy."

  "Then why did you tell me about it? I'm not the kind of person who could hear about this and not feel sorry for you. And your mother." She held his gaze. "I'm sure you have that much figured out."

  He leaned forward, eyes boring into hers.

  She'd said the wrong thing. Yet again.

  "You have a most—" He drew out the words, but broke them off.

  "Impudent tongue?" she finished for him. Then she looked away, clearing her throat while she tried to reg
ain her composure. He shouldn't get that close to her. It did things to her. Things that… "It's not the first time I've heard that."

  After a long moment, he said, "We shall resume the search." He got back on his hands and knees, brushing the ground with long, strong fingers.

  At last, he seemed to feel her eyes on him. "What are the consequences," he asked the ground, "if this stone is not found?"

  "I don't go home." A place she didn't want to be, but couldn't imagine living without.

  He pulled himself to a standing position, extending his hand down to help her up. He wasn't asking, he was telling. She took his hand.

  "Where is your home?"

  "Not… here." She occupied herself with brushing dirt from her dress, unable to look up. If she did, he might see the fear she was certain stood naked in her eyes.

  "And you want to return."

  She exhaled sharply. "I don't want to not return." With a glance up at him, she added, "If that makes any sense at all." He didn't indicate one way or another. Instead, he seemed to be waiting for her to tell him more. She did, because there was something about his eyes, the way they looked at her, as though he really wanted to know. "I've sort of made a mess of things lately. All I wanted was to leave, go somewhere far away. Start again. But I didn't mean this far away. Without that stone, I don't have a choice. Do you know what I mean, what that feels like?" Ohhh. She herself might not have known exactly how it felt, until right this moment It felt incredibly… frightening.

  His hand reached forward, taking hers. The warmth of his roughly gentle skin on hers sent mini tidal waves washing over her and she swayed for a moment, losing her balance. He steadied her with his other hand, which didn't help her equilibrium any. "We shall find your stone."

  "If we don't, Mary Bellingham may be stuck with me for good." A little hiccup gave away the fact that she wasn't doing well at trying to make light of the situation.

  "Stuck with you."

  She nodded.

  "Then it appears as though we must ensure your future."

  "No one can ensure the future. Life doesn't work that way."

  "This is life as our author sees it."

  "Right…" she said slowly, not at all sure it was right at all. "Then don't we have to wait to see what she… sees?"