Jane slept soundlessly, snuggled up in her husband’s warmth, but the Earl, who had fallen into a deep sleep only to stir a handful of hours later, lay wide awake in the final glow of the dying fire in the grate, staring unseeing at the pleated canopy above his head. He was befuddled, bewitched and bewildered by his bride and it scared him half to death. His heart thudded against his chest, just as it had when he spied the seventeen-year-old Jane amongst the gentry assembled to see the hunt on its way; she had literally taken his breath away. He was overjoyed to discover that her astonishing beauty was matched by her decency of character and a forthright yet gentle nature. Here was a girl who was as honest as she was beautiful, untouched by cynicism and flattery. He had pursued her, courted her, and ruined her on her birthday. To all outward appearances he had played the Lothario landlord to the hilt. But this time it was different. She was different. He was different. He had fallen immeasurably in love and wanted to marry her and make her his countess.
