"We are," he agreed easily. He offered her his arm. "Shall we continue our walk? We have a solid 30 minutes left before the betting pools close."
Jane looked at his offered arm, the heavy wool of his sleeve, the solid strength beneath it. She took a breath, letting the biting wind fill her lungs, and slid her hand into the crook of his elbow. "Fine," she said. "But if I am to be thrown to the wolves at dinner, you are sitting next to me."
Ashbourne House did not merely sit on Park Lane. It loomed over it. The massive stone facade was imposing, lit by blazing torches that reflected off the polished carriages lined up at the curb. Inside, the dining room was a masterclass in suffocating opulence. Heavy crimson velvet draped the walls. Silver candelabras heavy enough to bludgeon a man marched down the center of a table set for 20. The air smelled of roasted meats, heavy sauces, and the cloying sweet perfume of the women who sat around the table waiting for blood.
Jane sat to Henry's right. It was the seat of honor. It was a target painted directly on her back. She wore her only other acceptable gown, a pale gray muslin that was utterly out of fashion, lacking the heavy lace and ribbons the other women wore. She looked like a dove trapped in a cage of peacocks. She knew it. They knew it.
Across the table sat Lady Mary, the heiress who had dropped her fan. Beside her was her mother, Lady Jersey, a woman whose smile was as sharp as broken glass.
"Tell me, Miss Jane," Lady Jersey began, her voice carrying effortlessly over the clink of silver on porcelain. "We were so surprised to see you in the park today, walking without a maid. Is that a new Sussex custom or simply a consequence of Lady Lynfield's restricted staffing budget?"
The table fell silent. Forks paused halfway to mouths. This was the opening volley. Henry went still beside her. Jane felt the immediate tension radiate from him. He opened his mouth to speak, to shut the woman down with a single brutal command.
Jane reached under the tablecloth. She placed her hand lightly on his knee. Henry stopped. He looked at her. She did not look at him. She kept her eyes fixed on Lady Jersey, her expression one of mild polite curiosity.
"It is a consequence of preferring fresh air to forced conversation, Lady Jersey," Jane said, her voice perfectly modulated. "A maid tends to chatter, and I find that when one is in the company of a gentleman, silence is often much more instructive than noise."
Lady Mary bristled, her cheeks flushing a violent pink. "Silence is for people who have nothing interesting to say, Miss Jane."
"Or for people who are actually listening," Jane countered softly. She took a sip of her water, unbothered. "You should try it, Lady Mary. You might hear something other than the sound of your own fan snapping."
A low collective intake of breath circled the table. Down at the far end, the Dowager Duchess took a slow, deliberate sip of her wine, her eyes glittering with dark amusement.
"Well," Lady Jersey sputtered, her smile turning brittle. "I suppose one must develop a certain edge when one has been on the mart for four seasons without a single prospect. It must be terribly desperate for you knowing that it is your final year before you are officially a burden."
The cruelty was naked now. No more veiled insults. It was a direct calculated strike at Jane's greatest shame. The heat drained from Jane's face. The roast pheasant on her plate suddenly looked like ash. She felt the eyes of the entire room pinning her to the chair. They wanted her to cry. They wanted her to excuse herself and flee the room in tears, proving she did not belong in their world.
She felt Henry's leg tense under her hand. She squeezed his knee, a desperate, silent plea for him to let her finish this.
Jane carefully placed her napkin on the table. She looked directly at Lady Jersey, abandoning the polite smile entirely.
"It is not desperate, Lady Jersey," Jane said. Her voice was quiet, but it carried the heavy absolute weight of truth. "It is exhausting. It is exhausting to sit in rooms like this and pretend that a woman's entire value is dictated by the size of her father's purse. It is exhausting to watch young women twist themselves into knots to impress men who do not respect them. I have no prospects because I refuse to participate in an auction where I am the cattle." She swept her gaze around the silent table. "I am poor. I am 23. I am wearing a dress that is 4 years old, and yet I am sitting here and you are all terrified of me. Why is that?"
No one spoke. The silence was absolute.
"Because," Henry said, his voice shattering the quiet. It was rough, heavy, and undeniably proud. "You are the only person in this room who cannot be bought."
He reached across the table in full view of 20 of the most influential people in London and picked up Jane's hand. He did not kiss it. He simply held it, his large, warm fingers lacing through hers, resting their joined hands on the crisp white linen of the tablecloth.
Lady Jersey's mouth opened, but no sound came out. Lady Mary stared at their joined hands as if they were a live explosive.
"Dinner is concluded," Henry announced to the room. He did not wait for the servants. He stood, pulling Jane up with him. "You may all take your tea in the drawing room. Jane and I will take the air."
He led her out of the dining room without a backward glance. They did not go to the drawing room. He led her down a long, dimly lit corridor, pushing open a set of heavy oak doors that led to the library. The room was vast, smelling of old paper, leather bindings, and wood smoke. A fire crackled in the massive stone hearth.
Henry shut the doors firmly behind them, dropping the heavy iron latch into place. The click of the lock echoed in the quiet room.
Jane leaned back against the cool wood of the door. Her knees finally gave out, her body sliding down an inch before she caught herself. She was trembling so hard her teeth chattered. The adrenaline was leaving her, replaced by a crushing wave of exhaustion.
Henry walked over to a side table, poured a measure of brandy into a crystal glass, and brought it to her. "Drink," he ordered softly.
Jane took the glass. Her hand shook so badly the amber liquid sloshed over the rim. Henry reached out, placing his hands over hers, steadying the glass and guiding it to her lips. The brandy burned like fire going down, leaving a warm trail in her chest. She handed the glass back.
She looked up at him. His face was drawn tight, the shadows of the firelight accentuating the sharp angles of his jaw. The anger that had radiated from him in the dining room was gone, replaced by something raw and dangerously open.