Page 54 of Jane Deyre

“No, Edwina wasn’t—isn’t—gay. Nor was my mother. They were two beautiful, sexual women who could give each other pleasure. Satisfy each other’s needs. Make each other laugh. My mother gave Edwina what her husband, Bertrand, was no longer capable of giving her—adoration. Physically and emotionally. She worshipped the ground Edwina walked on. Like all lovers, their relationship wasn’t perfect. It had its fair share of ups and downs. Jealousies. Words fired; things thrown. Separations and silences. But they always had each other’s backs. Their short time together was passionate... intense.”

Jane seems intrigued. She pulls at her lower lip. “Were you aware of their relationship?”

“Yes and no. At the beginning, I was about the same age as Adele and just thought they were best friends. But as I got older, I heard strange goings-on in my mother’s bedroom. Sometimes explosive fights, others frenzied makeups. A lot of shrieking and giggles. By the time I was an adolescent, I began to suspect why Mother always looked aglow and a little disheveled after spending time with Edwina.”

“What did Edwina think of you?”

“She loved me like a son. She wanted a child more than anything... something her husband wasn’t able to give to her. She anointed herself my godmother and loved to spoil me. Called me little Lord Ward. She’s the one who exposed me to all the fineries in life.”

“Is their relationship going to be revealed in her memoir?”

I nod. “Yes. Edwina wants the world to know. And she’s going to expose it at her tribute. The memoir is partly a love story. An homage to my mother. My mother was there for her when she fell apart after the kidnapping of her baby daughter.”

A knowing look colors Jane’s face. “One of Hollywood’s greatest unsolved mysteries.”

“Make that one of the world’s. Scholars are still theorizing who kidnapped little Charlotte Mason. At one point, my mother was a suspect.”

Jane creases her forehead. “You don’t think she had anything to do with it, do you?”

“My mother was a little crazy, but no way was she a kidnapper... or murderer. She would never do anything to hurt Edwina.”

We both imbibe more of our brandies. A brief silence ensues until Jane asks me...

“How did your mother die?”

“She was manic depressive. Partly blamed herself for Charlotte’s disappearance and for Edwina’s breakdown. She committed suicide. Here at Thornhill.”

I stop myself. I can’t believe I’m telling this girl I’ve known for less than forty-eight hours all this stuff. My own personal tell-all. Yet, it feels easy. And it’s not just from the effects of the brandy. I’m comfortable with her. More comfortable with her than I am in my own skin.

Her face turns ashen, her eyes filling with compassion. “I’m so sorry. That must have been terrible for you.”

In one gulp, I knock back the rest of my brandy. I’m glad Jane doesn’t press me for details. With her still wearing the dress my mother gave to Edwina, I struggle to rid myself of the horrific memory before it materializes in my head. “Yeah. It was a life changer.”

“You’re an orphan like me.” Sadness laces her voice.

“Not really. I had... have... Edwina. My godmother. She’s always adored me and I’ve loved her as much as I loved my mother. Maybe more. My very own Aunt Mame. After my mother died, she took care of me. Sent me to the finest private schools. Paid for my Yale education.”

Jane’s face brightens. “Wow! You went to Yale?”

“Yeah, but that’s a story for another time.” I look down at her drink. It’s depleted. Like mine. I’m tempted to refill our snifters, but refrain, not wanting to get into my downward spiral following my mother’s death. “You said one drink...I’m going to honor your wishes.” A pause. “Plus, I need to pack my bag for my trip.”

Jane’s face falls. “Where are you going?”

“To New York... on business.” A half-truth and I leave it at that.

She sets her snifter on the coffee table and stands. She wobbles on her feet. I leap to mine and clutch her shoulders to steady her. I’m so close to her I can smell the liquor on her breath, taste it on my lips. I want to capture her mouth with mine in the worst possible way. I draw her closer to me.

A flush crawls up her cheeks. “I guess the brandy’s gotten to my head.”

It’s gotten to mine too. I can’t resist. Without giving it a second thought, I lean into her and press my lips against hers. They’re more delicious than I imagined. Warmer. Softer. So compliant. Electricity courses through my body, charging every atom of my being. She moans into my mouth, arousing me further. Then cups my face, deepening the kiss.

I can’t get enough of her. I’m about to coax her heavenly mouth open with my tongue, when reality suddenly intervenes. What the hell am I doing? Frightening simplicity. I’m kissing my daughter’s nanny. She’s totally off-limits. And I hardly even know her.

Fuck me.

As impulsively as I touched down on her lips, I pull away.

“Jane... I mean Miss Deyre... I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me. That was totally inappropriate.”