The breakfast room door opened. The butler stood there, his face entirely devoid of color. He clutched a silver salver to his chest as if it were a shield. He didn't even look at the card on it. "His grace, the Duke of Ashbourne," the butler squeaked.
Martha made a sound that resembled a dying teakettle. She dropped into a curtsy so deep she nearly hit her chin on the edge of the breakfast table.
Henry stepped into the room. He seemed too large for the cramped space. He was dressed for riding, wearing dark leather boots splashed with mud, tailored breeches, and a heavy woolen coat. His cravat was tied with the same negligent haste as the night before. His dark hair was windblown, falling over his forehead. He did not look like a duke paying a formal call. He looked like a storm that had just blown off the moor.
His sharp gray eyes swept the room, entirely dismissing Martha's trembling curtsy and the secretary's terrified stare. His gaze locked onto Jane.
"Lady Lynfield," Henry said, his voice smooth and cold. "Leave us."
Martha gasped, standing up so quickly she swayed. "Your grace, it is highly improper, without a chaperone—"
"Leave," Henry repeated softly. He did not raise his voice. He didn't have to. The authority in the single syllable was absolute.
Martha swallowed hard, grabbed the secretary by the collar, and practically dragged him out of the room, shutting the door firmly behind them.
Jane remained seated. She did not rise. She did not curtsy. She gripped the edges of the table until her knuckles turned white, forcing herself to meet his gaze. For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The ticking of the mantle clock sounded like hammer blows in the quiet room.
"You look terrible," Henry said finally.
"I am entirely overwhelmed by your flattery, your grace," Jane replied, her voice dripping with ice. "Did you come here to critique my appearance, or simply to admire the ruin you made of my life last night?"
He stepped forward, pulling out the chair opposite her and sitting down. He sprawled slightly, his long legs stretching out, taking up too much space. He rested his forearms on the table, leaning in.
"I didn't ruin your life," he said.
"You lied to me."
"I never told you I wasn't a duke," he countered calmly. "You made an assumption based on my boots. You let me mock you. You let me stand there and tell you you were worthless knowing all the while that you owned half of England."
Jane slammed her hand on the table. The teacups rattled. "It was a cruel, arrogant game. You used me to shock a room full of people you despise."
Henry did not flinch. He watched her outburst with a steady, unblinking intensity. "I did despise them," he agreed quietly. "I despise the way they look at each other, the way they sell their daughters like prime cattle. I stood against that pillar for an hour watching them operate, and I wanted to burn the house down."
He leaned closer, his voice dropping to that rough, gravelly murmur that had undone her the night before. "And then I saw you standing in the shadows, looking at them with the exact same disgust I felt. You weren't playing the game, Jane. You were surviving it." He paused. "I didn't dance with you to mock them. I danced with you because you were the only real thing in that entire damned house."
Jane felt her chest tighten. His words were a dangerous drug, offering the exact validation she had craved for years. But she was not a fool.
"You have the luxury of reality," Jane said bitterly. "You are a duke. You can wear mud on your boots and insult your host, and they will bow to you. I am a penniless spinster. My reality is entirely dependent on their approval. When you pulled me into the center of that floor, you didn't elevate me. You exposed me." She stood up, pushing her chair back violently. "You played a part last night. But the play is over. Go back to your estates, your grace. Leave me to clean up the mess."
She turned to walk away. He moved faster than she thought possible. He was out of his chair and blocking the door before she had taken three steps. He didn't touch her, but his proximity was a physical barrier. She could smell the rain on his coat, the leather of his riding crop.
"I am not playing a part," he said, his voice hard, stripped of any aristocratic drawl. "And I am not leaving."
"Then what do you want from me?" she demanded, her voice cracking.
He looked down at her, his jaw tightening. "Get your cloak. We are going for a walk."
Aunt Martha had practically shoved Jane out the front door, weeping tears of pure joy into a lace handkerchief. Now Jane walked beside the Duke of Ashbourne along the gravel paths of Hyde Park. The rain had stopped, leaving the air biting and sharp. The sky was the color of bruised iron.
Despite the cold, the park was crowded. It was the fashionable hour to promenade, and they were the main attraction. Jane kept her eyes fixed straight ahead, but she felt the stares. They burned against her skin. Carriages slowed as they passed. Groups of ladies huddled tightly together, their whispers carrying over the damp grass like the hissing of geese. She was walking entirely unchaperoned with the most eligible man in the country. It was a scandal of epic proportions. It meant either she was entirely ruined or she was entirely untouchable. The ton was desperately trying to figure out which.
Henry walked beside her. His pace matched perfectly to hers. He seemed entirely oblivious to the gaping mouths and pointing fans. He swung his silver-tipped walking stick with a lazy rhythmic motion.
"You are clenching your jaw," he observed casually, not looking at her. "You will give yourself a headache."