Page 73 of Jane Deyre
I take a deep fortifying breath. The Jane Deyre I see in the mirror is strong and beautiful.
I’m not going to let her get to me. I’m going to fight fire with fire.
Let the battle begin.
With renewed strength, I exit the guesthouse, leaving my cell phone behind, and head to Thornhill.
Tonight, I’m entering via the front door. Not the servants’ entrance.
CHAPTER 39
Jane
To my relief, Grace comes to the front door. She’s holding a silver tray with flutes of champagne and assorted hors d’oeuvres. She looks exhausted. But when she sees me, her toffee eyes twinkle and a smile lights her face. She mouths a word; I read her lips.
Beautiful.
“Thank you, Grace.” Just that one silent, unspoken word makes my wobbly confidence soar. She beckons me to follow her.
She leads me to the great room, sets the tray down on a sideboard, and departs. Scattered votive candles light the room, prematurely darkened from the overcast sky, and a fire burns quietly in the hearth. Above the fireplace mantel, the portrait of a younger Edwina in her magnificent red dress glows in the flickering candlelight. Her commanding presence fills every nook and cranny of the imposing two-story room.
I’m all alone in the vast room. The grandfather clock chimes. Six o’clock. Five minutes pass. The other dinner party guests must be running late. A sonorous voice breaks through the thick silence.
“Miss Deyre.”
I flip around. It’s Mr. Rochester. No longer obscured in the shadows of a corner. Freshly groomed, his obsidian hair slicked back, clad in all black—an elegant single-breasted jacket, turtleneck, and black dress slacks. My breath hitches in my throat. He looks devastating. Sexy as sin.
Nursing a cocktail, he strides over to me. “Miss Deyre, you look like you need a drink.”
A fire extinguisher is more like it. Every cell in my body is ablaze. A wildfire is spreading inside me, one I can’t put out. I open my mouth, but the words that burn on my tongue die on my lips. His intense gaze only proliferates the blaze. Makes the scorching fire within me burn hotter. Brighter.
His eyes dance between mine. “Would you like one?”
I suddenly feel parched. “Yes, please.”
“Some champagne or perhaps something else?”
“Champagne would be great.” I need something cold to quench the embers. To tamp the heat radiating to all of my being.
He hands me a flute. Setting down his almost depleted tumbler, he helps himself to some champagne too.
“Cheers, Jane.” He clinks his flute against mine.Ping.We each take a sip. I’ve never had champagne before; it tastes soft and tingly. The effervescence wakes up my tongue.
“Thank you for the dress.” My voice falters. “And for the shoes and the pearls.”
My words are minimal. I’m at a loss. No one has ever given me such lavish gifts. And no one has ever made me feel the way I do.
His intense, saturnine eyes roam down my body. Slowly like an elevator that stops at every floor. A tingling sensation skates down my spine. When his eyes get to my feet, they bounce back to my face.
They’re smoldering. “Jane, you look beauti—”
The merry sound of chatter and laughter in the entryway stops him mid-sentence.
Edwina enters the room, decked out in a shimmering plum velvet caftan, matching bejeweled turban, and a gold-flecked Indian shawl that seems to invest her with imperial dignity. Truly fitting for the “Queen of Thornhill.” One hand clasps a staff-like cane with an ivory bird-shaped handle. A beautifully groomed Pilote, with a sparkling amethyst collar, trails her. Her gait is unsteady, and with her cane, I’m more convinced than ever there’s something wrong with her though she manifests no pain. And her spirits are bright. She dramatically gestures with her free hand.
“Our guests have arrived!”
Following her is a small, boisterous entourage.