Law of Attraction Read online

  Jenny didn’t stop until she reached her room. By then, she was numb from head to toe and knew this was the way it would be from now on. This was what life without Jack felt like.

  Chapter Nine

  Present day: The Williams House, Park Lane, London. February 1867. Two days later.

  Daniel handed Travers his valise and hat and gloves and smoothed his hair self-consciously. Now he was standing upon the elegant marble of home, he wished he had stopped long enough to get his hair cut, first. In America and on the ship, people were less quick to judge by appearances and he had not bothered because he knew his family would not judge, either.

  The headlines in the first fresh newspaper he’d been able to find had made him rush here, all thought of tidying himself and finding a clean shirt evaporating.

  Yet, the quiet splendor of the big white house on Park Lane made him feel like an intruder, with the dust of travel still on his shoes.

  “Everyone is out this afternoon, Master Daniel,” Travers told him. “No one was expecting…”

  Daniel shook his head. “I don’t mind at all,” he assured the man. “It may be better this way. Is my room still where I left it?”

  “Of course, my lord.”

  “Could I bother the kitchen for a kettle of hot water? I should wash—” He cocked his head, as the lilt of feminine conversation reached him. “I thought no one was at home?” he said to Travers.

  Travers nodded. “Everyone is out, my lord, except Lady Annalies. However, Lady Annalies is not At Home today, if you understand my meaning. She had quite a bad upset two days ago and canceled all her engagements.”

  Daniel lifted his brow. “Lisa Grace has come out, already?”

  “Last season, my lord.”

  Daniel rubbed the back of his neck. “Now I know I’ve been away too long. The baby of the family is an adult…” He titled his head. “Wait. If Lisa isn’t at home, and everyone else is out, then who is she talking to?” He headed for the morning room, where the conversation was continuing, through the half-open door.

  “My lord, Lady Annalies was very clear about not wishing to be disturbed,” Travers protested, behind him.

  “She won’t mind me barging in,” Daniel assured him and pushed open the door and stepped into the pleasant, feminine room. It did not look quite the way he remembered it. Framed paintings stacked up against each other, resting against the walls, all around the room.

  There were two women sitting facing each other on the clawfoot sofa pulled up to the fireplace, for the day was a soggy, cold one. Both balanced saucers and teacups on their hands, sipping as they chatted. They had their heads close together as women who were good friends tended to do.

  Annalies was easy to distinguish. Her golden blonde hair had grown brighter and more beautiful as she had grown. Still, it was shocking to see a woman with a full figure when Daniel remembered a tall, colt-like girl with paint on her dress and her nose.

  Annalies looked up, a frown marring her forehead. Then the furrow smoothed out. “Dear lord…Daniel!” She put the cup aside and hurried around the sofa and threw her arms around him.

  Daniel squeezed her, gladness filling him. This was the impulsive, warm Lisa Grace he remembered.

  “You’re home. You’re really home!” she said, shaking him. “Oh, you must tell me about America! About the red men…do they eat people? What is New York like?”

  Daniel laughed, even though her flurry of questions set off a cascade of memories. Images of blood and pain and suffering. Of blue coats and ragged gray-clad soldiers fighting to their last breath. The stench of rotting flesh and screaming. “American was interesting,” he said honestly, even though he had no intention of ever sharing those memories, most especially not with sensitive, empathetic Annalies.

  The other woman on the sofa had put her cup aside, yet had not got to her feet. She had black hair and fair skin, the very opposite of golden Annalies. Her dark eyes examined Daniel with interest.

  Daniel did not intend to meet her gaze, not until they were properly introduced. The ways of society were returning to him at a rapid pace since the ship had tied up at the dock. Yet she was staring openly which made it hard to avoid looking at her.

  Their gazes didn’t meet. They melded.

  Daniel felt the impact travel through his spine, down to his toes. He put Annalies to one side and cleared his throat, giving himself a moment to recover. His heart was thrumming.

  “Do forgive me,” he told the dark-haired woman. “Annalies, perhaps you should introduce us?”

  Annalies laughed. The woman smiled. The smile revealed high cheek bones and made her eyes dance.

  Daniel swallowed. He had met all manner of women in America, including some of the most graceful, charming southern belles a man might wish for. The women of the south made a man feel like the bravest, strongest man in the world. It was little wonder southern gentlemen fought so fiercely to protect them.

  Yet not a single magnolia-skinned beauty had touched him the way this woman had. He’d traveled around the world and back again, to find her here. How ironic.

  Annalies’ amusement registered. Daniel made himself look away from the woman. “I’m afraid the jest is lost on me,” he told his sister. “Maybe I have been away too long.” In fact, he knew he had been away too long. The disorientation and shocks were piling upon themselves, forming a small mountain of unease in his mind and heart.

  The dark-haired woman stood. She was still smiling that charming, knowing smile.

  “Daniel! Really?” Annalies told him. She laughed again. “You don’t recognize Catrin?”

  “Catrin?” Daniel repeated, floored. “Baby Catrin Davies?” he clarified.

  Catrin’s lips pursed. “I haven’t been a baby for a long time.”

  “Eighteen years at least,” Annalies added.

  Daniel tugged at his crumpled jacket. More than ever, he regretted not stopping at an hotel between the docks and here, to wash and make himself presentable.

  Catrin watched his tell-tale gesture. Unlike most debutantes, who would have mercilessly capitalized upon his momentary vulnerability, she did not preen or flutter around him to drawn him into her snare.

  Instead, she said to Annalies, “Perhaps you should fetch the newspapers from Raymond’s office for Daniel to read. If he has just arrived in London, then he won’t know about the scandal.” Her voice was throaty and low. The sound of it stroked along his spine, reaching deep.

  Daniel did know about the scandal. As a journalist, his first instinct upon landing in England had been to gather the latest news and Jenny’s troubles were faithfully accounted in every newspaper, reputable or not. He remained silent, though, for if Annalies left the room, that would leave him alone with Catrin.

  Pleasure stirred in the pit of his belly. He liked that idea.

  Annalies’ expression grew troubled. She had always been as changeable as the weather. “Oh dear, yes. We’ve been keeping them all…” She picked up her hems at the front of her dress and hurried away.

  Fashions had changed considerably while he was gone. Hoops were no longer wider than any normal doorway could accommodate. Dresses were almost vertical at the front, now, giving a man a hint of a woman’s figure. The new fashions were intriguing.

  Catrin was studying him openly.

  Daniel moved around the round table that separated them. Catrin wore the same style dress as Annalies. It emphasized the narrowness of her waist and the round curve of her hips. “Are you engaged yet, Catrin?”

  “How very direct of you,” she replied. This close, her voice seemed to caress him.

  The perfect society response. Irritation flared in him. “You send Annalies out of the room, then play games. I left England because of such tiresomeness.”

  She threaded her hands together, holding them down low against her abdomen. Was it a natural gesture, or a practiced seduction? He only knew it was effective.

  “You sound like an old man,” Catrin replied. “One f
or whom everything is irritating.”

  “Compared to you, I am an old man,” Daniel replied. Disappointment touched him. Catrin, for all her beauty and wiles, was just like every other debutante.

  “You’re barely twenty-six. That isn’t old,” she disputed.

  “Sometimes, I feel I have lived a hundred years. Not that you would understand that,” Daniel said dryly.

  Something other than feminine superficiality touched her eyes. “Why do you say that? You know nothing about me. You didn’t even recognize me.”

  “I know you now,” Daniel assured her. “You have spent every waking moment since your debut, calculating how to best ensure a husband. You have no interest in anything else. Even this scandal the family faces merely drives you to tea and gossip on the nearest sofa.”

  Hurt flickered in her eyes, although she had no opportunity to respond, for Annalies sailed back into the room, a large pile of folded newspapers in her arms.

  Daniel wasn’t sure if he was pleased about the interruption or not. Firmly, he settled for pleased. He would not let himself be distracted by a social butterfly the moment he stepped back upon British soil.

  * * * * *

  Four Years Ago: London. January to October 1863.

  Unfortunately, a life without Jack did not mean that Jack was not in it. They lived in the same house. When Jack was not on one of his consulting projects, inspecting the bowels of mines and excavations across Britain, his presence in the house could be felt like the heat from a furnace. Jenny always knew when he was at home. On those days, her sleep was broken and her appetite non-existent.

  They barely spoke to each other, and Jenny tried to avoid being in the same room with him. If circumstances forced them to share the same space, Jenny would ensure that someone else was there with them, or she would leave.

  Home was no longer a comfortable haven.

  It didn’t help that Jack watched her whenever she was in sight. His gaze was steady, touching her flesh like a brand, making her spill tea, drop needles and pins and crush flowers instead of arranging them.

  Reading was impossible, whether he was in the house or not. There was no comfort in the moral observations of novelists, or the esoteric theories of future-thinkers.

  Jack seemed to have no interest in moving on, which made Jenny’s life all the more difficult. She would not talk to him directly about it. To speak intimately, to bare her heart and thoughts, would be far too dangerous.

  After three weeks of the torture, she settled at her secretary and vented upon the innocent page all her thoughts and worries and concerns. She spoke to the page as she would to Jack. Only, the page could not speak back, or argue, or touch her and make her forget everything she wanted to say.

  The sheet quickly filled. Then a second blotchy sheet joined it.

  Jenny sat back and stared at the almost illegible scrawl, as an idea occurred to her.

  She put a clean page on the center of the blotter and cleaned off the nib, then wrote in a far more readable hand.

  Jack:

  You must let go and move on with your life. Court Lady Mary, as your family expects. Stop watching me.

  Jenny.

  She dared not write anything else, even though the note was curt and to the point. To add more detail would give Jack material to argue over and shred with cold reasoning. She had no doubt he would try to dispute her. The way he scrutinized her all the time told her he would.

  She folded and sealed the note, then addressed it as she would any normal letter.

  The next morning, she slipped into the dining room before breakfast was announced and slid the note into the pile sitting by Jack’s plate. Then she asked Paulson to arrange for a plate and tea to be sent to her room and went back upstairs.

  The next morning, Jack replied. His strong, firm hand, denuded of any flourishes or curlicues, was instantly recognizable among the dozen invitations to balls, suppers, at homes and more. Society was determined to draw her out and marry her off, despite her reluctance.

  Jenny pushed her breakfast plate aside and broke the seal on Jack’s note.

  How can I move on, when all I can see, no matter where I go, is you? I hear your voice in the wind, see your face in the clouds. Every rose smells like you. My pillow reminds me of the day my bed was not so lonely.

  He did not sign the note. He had put no salutation in there. There was no need for either. Jenny would have known the note was for her and who it was from, even if she had found the sheet crumpled in a gutter on the other side of the world.

  She couldn’t help but look at Jack, at the other end of the dining table and across from her. While everyone else chatted and read their letters, Jack’s gaze was on her just as she had known it would be.

  Only, he was not wearing the implacable, neutral expression he had used for weeks. There was pain in his eyes.

  Jenny lurched to her feet, dropping her napkin and jolting the table. “I…please excuse me,” she said to no one and everyone, as the room became silent. She swept up her letter and hurried up to the sanctuary of her room and slammed the door.

  Shaking, she stood in the middle of the floor, on the thick carpet.

  Jack may have closed the door on her, yet it had been a gesture only. He had not really let go.

  What to do? How could she make him move on? He must find a life for himself, or the lump of cold iron she had exchanged for her heart would be wasted. The pain she had put Jack through would be for naught.

  How could she make him see beyond her?

  Jenny moved over to her secretary and sat before it. The neat stack of stationary beckoned. She pulled down a fresh sheet and wrote.

  Sometime later—she wasn’t sure how long afterward—her mother knocked and came in. Elisa bent and kissed the top of Jenny’s head. “Whatever are you doing?”

  “Thinking,” Jenny said, reluctantly putting the pen aside.

  Elisa laughed, looking at the sheets of paper that Jenny had filled. “What an odd way to do it.”

  “Daniel said, years ago, before he left for America—he said that writing was the only way to know exactly what one was thinking. Writing promotes clarity.”

  “Is that why you left the breakfast table so abruptly?” Elisa asked. “For clarity?”

  Jenny sighed. “Yes,” she said truthfully. “I believe I may have found it now.”

  “Then I am relieved.” Elisa smoothed a stray hair away from her temple. “Is there anything I can do to help, darling?”

  “May I borrow your mink stole this evening?”

  “My…” Elisa’s brow lifted. “You are going out this evening?”

  “And every evening I am invited anywhere,” Jenny told her. She lifted the stack of letters and invitations. “May I also be at home, at least once a week?”

  “You, my dear? Are you sure?”

  “I am not sure of anything, any more,” Jenny said. “Only, that something must change. This is one way I have of changing it.”

  When her mother left, Jenny spent the rest of the morning replying in the affirmative to every single invitation.

  Her life became a flurry of engagements. She had observed Sharla juggle engagements and a full social calendar for months and borrowed her strategies to attend as many events as possible.

  The tactic ensured that Jenny was rarely at home and if she was, she had guests to host. The more the better.

  She hated every minute of it.

  The first few weeks left her breathless and sick, drained of any energy. Her nerves were strained and there were moments when she found herself in the middle of a conversation with not a clue what to say next. Not a single thought would form. It was as if her brain had seized, like an overworked engine.

  She stopped taking breakfast at the dining table with the rest of the family, as most days she was too tired to rise early. Paulson delivered a breakfast tray to her when most people were partaking of morning tea.

  Then she would escape the house to walk in the park. Those
few hours in the park each day were soul-soothing. Even though hundreds of people took a turn about the park each day, she could walk among them without engaging, which left her mind free to roam. However, even those peaceful moments became fewer, for her widening circle of acquaintances wanted to chat or walk with her. Gentleman would insist upon escorting her.

  During the few moments when she was home alone, she would purge her thoughts and worries and her growing distaste for London society upon pages of stationary. The pile of botchy pages sitting upon the top of her secretary grew taller.

  Jenny was introduced to James Jackson Ryder, the new Duke of Burscough, on July 15th, 1863. She knew the date exactly, for she had written it upon her pages, along with the remark that he was not a couth man.

  Everyone knew about Burscough, of course. He had returned from India just over a year ago, to take up the title after the passing of his father. He was the third son who had never expected to inherit, and it showed. Burscough was a military man, as so many second and third sons were. His shoulders were broad, which reminded Jenny oddly of Jack—perhaps because Burscough wasn’t just endowed with a wide carriage but was also a physically strong man.

  That was where any similarities to Jack ended.

  Burscough was far older than Jenny. Weeks later, after he had proposed, Jenny consulted Burke’s. Burscough was forty-five.

  He had thick, wavy hair, shot with gray. His face and hands were heavily tanned from years of strong sunlight. He gripped Jenny’s fingers as he bowed over them, instead of letting them rest on the back of his hand as a gentleman would.

  There were heavy creases about his eyes that Jenny at first thought was from constant smiling. However, she would learn that Burscough did not smile. The creases were from frowning and from peering at the world suspiciously.

  His velvet evening jacket was old fashioned, even though it was new. His cravat was colored instead of white and it was not silk.

  Their first conversation was awkward. Burscough didn’t seem to know how to talk politely, while Jenny had learned to let the gentleman carry a conversation.