Page 109 of The Favourite

Could it be, partly her grief still at work? Helen’s death had churned her up something dreadfully, but she did not think it could fully account for the way all her defenses crumpled with just his kiss. “You should not play your games with me,” she whispered. “I am not adept in them.”

His thumb swiped over her cheek, caressing her there. “Shhh, be calm, wife,” he murmured. “I will not do anything you would not like.” She relaxed at his words in spite of herself. His grip on her became solicitous, rather than amorous. He sighed against her hair, then turned them about so he was against the wall and looking outward.

“Breathe evenly,” he instructed, shifting her weight onto his one arm. “Take this. Wipe your eyes, then blow your nose.”

Jane’s hand groped for the kerchief he passed her. “Now brace yourself,” he murmured. “Lady Gilchrist approaches.”

It was strange, Jane reflected, steeling herself at the approach of the perfectly pleasant Lady Gilchrist. A month ago, she would have preferred a tête-à-tête with that lady over Lord Bardulf, any day. Now she rather resented her intrusion.

Squaring her shoulders, Jane allowed herself to be shepherded back out of the alcove. “Feeling better now?” he murmured, as though for all the world she had suffered a coughing fit rather than a kissing.

“Er, yes,” Jane managed to respond before Lady Gilchrist was upon them. She tugged slightly at his hand which was still at her waist, but he did not remove it.

“I am so glad to happen upon you!” the newcomer exclaimed, her eyes alighting with interest on their clasped hands. “But dear me, does something ail Lady Bardulf?”

“Why, nothing at all,” Alisander assured her urbanely. “She has merely been overcome with a sneezing fit.”

“Oh, so tiresome!” Lady Gilchrist sympathized. “My cousin used to suffer dreadfully in the summertime.”

“How is Sir Neville?” Jane asked, remembering the name of said cousin. “I hear he has been lately indisposed. It seems an age since he was at court. We have all missed his beautiful singing voice.” Alisander tensed beside her, and she sent him a quizzical glance.

“Oh, poor Neville,” Lady Gilchrist sighed. “He has always been sickly, since quite a child.” She spent the next ten minutes listing her unfortunate cousin’s complaints, along with the fears of his fond mother, her aunt. Jane duly tutted and sympathized, agreeing that, yes, poor health was a terrible affliction.

Lady Gilchrist hesitated a moment before moving away. “I was so sorry to hear about your sister, my dear,” she said, pressing Jane’s hand.

Jane’s breath caught in her throat. She had not received many commiserations on Helen’s death. “Thank you,” she managed to return, squeezing Alisander’s fingers in a deathly grip before she could stop herself.

“I had no idea you were so fond of Neville Wycliffe,” he commented blandly, drawing her hand through his arm before leading her toward the center of the room where the largest crowd was gathered.

“Fond?” Jane turned her head. “Nothing of the sort. He has a pleasant voice and nice manners, that is all.”

“It is his brother, Sir James, who is considered the more impressive of the two, I believe, though I seem to remember that you thought his legs unimpressive clad in hose.”

Jane spluttered. “I? Why, I have never even mentioned them! ‘Twas you who cast aspersions on his calves, as I recall.”

“In any case, stop changing the subject, wife.”

“Which subject is it we have strayed from?”

“Whether or not I need to add Sir Neville to the ranks?”

“Ranks, what ranks?” Jane asked in bewilderment.

“Those of your erstwhile suitors, my dear, along with Rodrey Morpington.”

Jane gazed at him blankly a moment before looking away. She felt a strange rush of disappointment that he would try and needle her this way. “Why are you being so disagreeable suddenly?” she asked with a slight catch to her voice.

“Because I am jealous, Jane. Is it not obvious?”

“Jealous?” She whipped her head back around to look at him. She had never imagined that he would suffer from such a thing. “Are you still teasing me?” she asked abruptly, pulling on his arm to halt their progress toward the others.

“Right now?” he answered, swinging about to face her. “No.”

Now that she examined his face, he did look rather annoyed. “Sir Neville must be a good five years younger than I,” she protested.

“What has that to do with anything?” he asked. “He is the boyish sort, ladies like to make a pet of and fuss over.”

“Well, yes he is,” she admitted, “but I have never admired that type.”