But thank God, finally, finally, something was happening.
It had been three days since Jane’s last conversation with Mr. Marshall, and in that time, she had imagined telling him everything a hundred times over. Last night, she had scarcely slept, thinking about what she would say when next she saw him. What it would be like to have someone who understood, who knew.
She had a list of things she would say—a calm, precise, rational list. She wouldn’t let words tumble out of her like a stream undammed, rushing back to old banks. He wouldn’t think her deranged at all.
That delusion lasted up until the moment she saw him again. Jane had just disembarked from the carriage and turned to wait for Mrs. Blickstall, who was right behind her. As she did, she caught sight of him on the other side of her horses.
He was walking on the pavement headed in the direction of the market a few streets over. His stride was determined and swift, his expression abstracted as if his mind were on anything other than her. He didn’t see her; he simply kept walking. Five strides, and he was already several yards distant.
She started to wave at him, but he bore a distant expression, one that arrested her hand.
He was a duke’s son. A man who, by his own admission, wanted one day to be prime minister. No doubt he had far more pressing problems on his mind than the piddling questions that plagued Jane: accounts of her sister’s guardianship and medical treatment. In the time it would take to hash through the sordid, petty details of her life, Mr. Marshall could review the entire text of every act passed by Parliament in their last sitting.
She curled her fingers in an abortive movement and brought her hand back to her side.
He’d been kind. He’d been clever enough to see a great deal about her. But it would be foolish to think that those two things meant that he actually cared about her. He had more important things to deal with than a young lady and her sister.
Jane squared her jaw and crossed the pavement to the bookstore. She wouldn’t watch him retreat down the street. She wouldn’t relive her stupid fantasies of friendship.
The store was musty and empty; Mrs. Blickstall, bored, took a seat at the front and folded her hands primly while Jane looked through the volumes at the back of the shop. She could hear the bell ring, idly, the murmur of a customer’s voice as he spoke with the shopkeeper. Jane picked one book from the shelves and then wandered down the aisle, perusing titles. She heard footsteps behind her.
Instantly her mind went to the man she’d commanded herself to forget. Mr. Marshall. It was him.
No, ridiculous. It wouldn’t be. He was already off to a very important meeting. He had no time for stupid girls in small shops buying—
“What is it that you have there?”
She jumped.
God, his voice. She’d never properly imagined his voice when she thought of talking with him. She wouldn’t have known how to describe his voice to anyone else. Warm, of course. Such breadth in it. The other night it had hissed with controlled fury. Now it sounded as if he was on the edge of laughter.
She turned, ever so slowly. Oh, God, the frisson was back—a crackling electricity that rushed down her spine. Jane sucked in her breath and dug her nails into her palm, but it didn’t help. Before she could help herself, she was smiling—an over-large goofy grin, far too revealing.
He had the kind of looks that improved with familiarity. That brush of freckles across the bridge of his nose invited her touch. As if he were whispering to her. Come, make yourself comfortable.
Jane swallowed and pressed her palm against her stomach, lest she do precisely that.
He looked…well, he looked. He was looking at her, not at some faraway point. With his attention focused on her, her whole being felt insubstantial. As if she might simply float away.
He was already carrying a book. A Practical Guide to P—
She couldn’t read the end of the title, as his hand was obscuring it.
“Mr. Marshall,” she said with a laugh. Don’t blurt out everything all at once, Jane. Whatever you do, don’t blurt out everything all at once. “How lovely to see you. How do you do?”
She was congratulating herself on her restrained manners when, to her faint horror, she realized that her mouth was still moving.
“I saw you on the street, but you looked busy and I didn’t want to interrupt. You were doing something important, no doubt. You probably still are. I should let—ah…”
Shut up, Jane, she commanded her fluttering nerves, and luckily, they obeyed.
He didn’t wince at the excessive flow of speech. Instead, he reached out and took the volume she was carrying from her.
“You should let me look at your book,” he said, turning the spine so he could read it. His eyebrow rose. “Mrs. Larriger and the Criminals of New South Wales?”
Jane felt her cheeks flush even hotter. He probably read important books, books with sober-sounding names, like A Practical Guide to Proper Behavior. That had to be what he was carrying. He no doubt thought her flighty.
“It’s not mine,” she blurted out. “That is, it’s for my younger sister. My sister, Emily.”
He looked faintly amused.
She wrinkled her nose at him. “I’m allowed to abuse her taste because she’s my sister, but don’t you dare.”
“I have three sisters,” he said mildly. “Four, now, counting my sister-in-law. I would never be so foolish as to speak ill of anyone’s sister.” He turned the book in his hand. “So, is it any good?”
The question surprised her.
“I haven’t read it.” She shrugged. “But I did read the first eight of the series. They’re awful, but they’re also curiously compelling.”
“I like curiously compelling. And I love awful. Should I get it?”
She choked, imagining Mrs. Larriger on his bookshelf next to A Practical Guide to Political Careers.
But he was flipping through the book as if he were considering the purchase.
“Mrs. Larriger is old, bossy, annoying, and I do believe she isn’t in her right mind. You wouldn’t…”
“She sounds a great deal like my aunt Freddy.” He smiled at her. “Old, bossy, annoying… She never leaves her home any longer, and some people speak ill of her for that. But don’t tell me my aunt isn’t in her right mind. It’s like with your sister. I love her too well to hear your criticism.”
She swallowed. “If you’re going to do this, you have to start with the first one.” She wandered back down the aisle and scanned the titles on the spines. “Here.”