The last time it happens, she thinks she is prepared for it, but she is not.
Jane spends the week running herself ragged in preparations for the queen's ball. She takes too much on, wears herself out, nearly runs herself into the ground with exhaustion, yet offers her help again and again and again.
There are plenty of chores to be done: the stables need mucking, the silver polishing, the tapestries airing, the rushes changing. Anything to distract herself from the realization that has turned her entire worldview on its ear.
She ignores the niggling, teasing voice in the back of her mind which calls her afraid and coward and pushes herself to do more and more with less and less enthusiasm or energy.
It helps that Gunther is busy as well; their regular duties are suspended for the time being and he has his own tasks to perform. Jane rarely sees him for longer than a minute or two, and she cannot decide if it is a relief or a torment; despite her need for space, she misses their interactions. Misses him.
When their paths do cross, he tries to catch her attention with a snide remark or a poorly-constructed insult, but she finds she has no venom to respond. Jane smiles politely at his little jokes and jibes, and avoids meeting his eyes. It must confuse him, her sudden change in behavior, but she has neither the time nor the energy to deal with her feelings just now.
That is, after all, the point of working herself into distracted exhaustion.
The event arrives far too quickly for her liking - though quickly-arrived means quickly-over, and maybe - just maybe - once all the guests have departed Jane can wrangle her days back into some semblance of comfortable normalcy.
Even if said normalcy includes a constant, aching background noise of longing for something she can never have.
The guests appear, one carriage than another, as Jane watches from her tower. They flitter and flutter, delicate and spry, twittering happy songs like so many colorful birds.
Jane feels herself a different species altogether, and entirely unequal to their company.
Her nails are bitten and she's wrung wrinkles into the fabric of her skirt, but she's run out of excuses to dawdle so she leaves the safety of her domain for the crush of people below.
The ball is a rousing success - the queen will surely be pleased - it's wall to wall elbows and knees.
Despite her loitering Jane is early and the musicians have yet to sound the first chord. She makes her way to her mother, presenting herself for inspection, before she wings and wheels her way through the throng to stand by herself. She avoids the shadows and corners - nothing draws her mother's owlish attention faster than the suspicion of Jane avoiding her duty - and uses the brief reprieve time to cast her gaze about.
Jane's not looking for anyone in specific - she's NOT - but her keen eye finds him nevertheless.
She may be the one with the title, but he's the one that fits in here. Tall and trimmed, sleek and subtle. Jane thinks him strange in his finery, unapproachable despite their long association, and she's glad - her relief almost tangible - that she's sequestered herself on the far end of the dance floor.
Her anxiety does not prevent her from watching him, however. He hardly makes it into the room before he's all but besieged by admirers. They converge from every direction, a murmuration of taffeta, satin, ribbon, and curls. When the music begins he's tugged out to the dance floor in an unending stream of vibrantly plumed partners.
Of course, Jane receives plenty of invitations to dance herself.
She's obligated to accept them all, though she finds the activity about as appealing as mucking out the stables. But she knows her place and knows her duty; Jane is well aware her exploits have afforded her some modest renown - and a bit of infamy, as well. She is the queen's own special attraction, a novelty for the noble set, and no matter what she may plan for her future, there will always be this minor inconvenience of uncomfortable, unwanted display.
A rare formal evening to remind her she is more mudhen then peacock.
She has no choice, there is no option, and she cannot decline a titled partner. Each invitation is less of a request and more of an order, and Jane does her best to accept them with authentic good grace.
Bloody hell, there are so many invitations.
And they talk.
And talk.
And talk.
Her current partner is uncannily skilled - a veritable master of multitasking - he chatters and trills between each bow and twirl. Jane isn't sure which she finds more annoying; the garish display of his fawning or the occasional pinch from his wandering hands.
He reels her around, singing her praises. Jane wonders if her adventures would seem half so glamorous if the tales included her singed eyebrows or menstrual cramps, but she bites her tongue and says nothing when his jeweled fingers stray possessively to her hip.
Anywhere else, Jane would bend them for such liberties, but here she is on display and will not fail in her obligations.
The song ends and he is replaced by another. Then another. Then another.
It's more of the same.
Jane tries to pay attention - focuses hard on their boasts and crows - but they are too alike, too interchangeable. So instead, she smiles sweetly and steps on their feet - apologizing with learned grace - and laments the lack of of her boots.
Though it doesn't take long for her feet to protest the abuse.
Jane begins her nineteenth - twentieth? - turn about the room when she catches a glimpse of Gunther through the crowd. He's dancing with another cooing dove - she hasn't been watching, she hasn't - and he gives the girl that smile, the one he never gives Jane herself, and the girl practically melts as he leads her off the floor.
The annoyance, the anger, the - it's still hard to acknowledge - jealousy flares anew.
And it's stupid. Dear God, it is stupid because she knows that smile - that one - is just part of his mask. His armor. His gilding.
Gunther's real smile is a smirk, or a crooked grin, or even a look of delighted surprise when one of her insults is clever and catches him off guard. But the knowing doesn't change the feeling.
Fake or no, that smile catches the attention of the women around him and they flock to him; and it makes her jealous - jaw-clenchingly, heart-breakingly, gut-wrenchingly jealous - because he isn't trying to catch her attention.
And it hurts.
The song ends with a grandiose, triumphant flourish. The note hasn't even finished reverberating before another man grabs her arm, begging for a dance. Her nerves are frazzled and she knows she'll make a fool of herself if she tries to converse with anyone else, but she can't think of a good excuse to say no when -
- a familiar hand captures her own. It is rough, calloused, and he's been chewing at his cuticles but it is also strong, reassuring, and makes her insides feel both shaky and warm.
"Pardon me, sir," Gunther flashes the man that smile, "But I do believe Lady Turnkey owes me a dance."
The young noble doesn't answer - Gunther towers over them both and he has no option but to agree - so he just releases her arm and flees.
Jane watches his exit with feigned interest; she's glad enough to see him go, but Gunther is so close she's not sure she can handle being in such… intimate proximity - even in such a public setting.
He notices her frown and asks what she is thinking.
"I am afraid, Gunther," she says smoothly, "the queen will not appreciate you frightening away my dance partners."
He chuckles, a smirk twisting his lips, "I did no such thing." He grips her elbow and leads her her to an open space on the floor. "Though if anything has frightened off your dance partners, it is your abysmal footwork - how many have you injured in the last hour alone?"
She'd stepped on them on purpose, a means to discourage her suitors from requesting a second dance, but damn him for noticing such a small thing from across the room - and then using it to tease her.
Jane affords him her most scathing look. "I think perhaps your observational skills are lacking, though if someone were keeping tally, I imagine the number is about to increase by one."
She doesn't though - doesn't tromp his toes or mangle his instep. Instead she lets him take her hand in his, pull her around and through, spin her in circles as though her stomach isn't twisted or his closeness isn't making her dizzy. The crush of people, for which she'd been so grateful before, now works against her. The ebb and flow forces the steps of their carole smaller, pushes them closer together. The room is overwarm, stifling.
He notices her discomfort and without remark, begins the arduous process of leading them off the dance floor. He shoulders his way through the mob, one guiding hand on her hip. The reach the gardens, and there are still people everywhere - their dresses glitter in the torchlight - but there is open sky and room to breathe.
She takes a great gulp of air, holds it, then lets out a sigh of relief.
"Really, Jane, I could almost think you were not happy to dance with me. And after I turned down so many lovely offers just to be with you."
"Did you?" she quips, feeling only marginally better. He is after all, still leading her around the garden. "Perhaps I should be afraid for my safety? Am I in danger from the horde of beautiful women that have been vying for your attention all evening?" She means it as a joke, or at least to sound like one, but it comes out a little more spiteful, a little more bitter than she intends.
Gunther arches an eyebrow, surprised at her tone.
"Jane, are you jealous?" he asks with a habitual smirk, hoping to goad a reaction from her.
It is a familiar enough turn to their conversation, an insult here, a dig there, but this time it catches her completely off guard. His question stuns her, the accuracy of his aim, and she misses a step. Her clumsy feet send her careening forward - arms pinwheeling - and if Gunther had not already had a firm hand on her waist, she'd certainly have gone sprawling.
He rights her with casual ease and laughs to see her face.
She's gone a deep, dark crimson - a color surely not found in nature - from the roots of her now-mussed hair to the back of her hands. The pit of her stomach aches with embarrassment and Jane is certain she looks very much like she has swallowed a frog.
"Hardly," she manages, once she is again able to speak. It's defensive, oh lord, it's defensive even to her ears, but the words tumble out before she she can stop them. "The day I am jealous of the women who throw themselves at your feet, Gunther Breech, is the day I let you kiss me."
It shocks him - her pronouncement - and his expression shifts from amusement, to a scowl, to confusion, to something she isn't quite able to define.
The look on his face makes her angry, furious even. What right does he have to look confused or hurt or whatever this is? Has he really not noticed the effect he has? Is he truly unaware to the countless smiles, the gifts, the flirting, the little touches, and the meaning behind them?
Is he unaware of his effect on her?
Is it possible for someone to be so completely, so thoroughly, so utterly oblivious to the affections of another's heart?
Gunther Breech may be many things, but dense is not one of them.
"What?" she demands, already tired of his stupid expression.
"I cannot decide if that is a challenge or a trap."
"It is neither, you du- "
He leans over, puts his hand on her cheek, and stops her mouth with his own. Everything goes oddly quiet, the sound drains out of the world and is replaced by the roaring rush of the blood in her veins. His lips are warm, sweet, move gently against her own, and he pulls away before she can kiss him back.
"Because," his voice is rough; he seems as surprised by his actions as she is. "I would really just prefer to kiss you."
Jane is astounded, struck dumb and mute. Her mind is whirling, a vortex of incredulity and tangled emotions. She's caught between lighting into him for his arrogance - and returning his kiss. She almost expects him to tease her, make some small insult or joke that he's finally found a way to shut her up - but the longer she stares at him open-mouthed and gaping, the more uncomfortable, the more anxious he becomes.
Gunther shifts in place, clears his throat, and starts to back away.
There is uncertainty behind his eyes. A self-conscious, unusual lack of surety which is completely at odds with his normal proud and self-contained expression.
Is he insecure?
She can barely credit it, but he is.
In a flash of lightning-quick comprehension, Jane remembers the shared jokes and smiles, the simple gifts, his concern for her well being, making camp in the rain, his rescue on the dance floor, - hell, he'd even cleaned up her vomit -
- remembers her own musings on obliviousness -
- and sees, with astounding clarity, that maybe - no, not maybe - Gunther has been feeling the same secret adoration that she has.
For her.
She doesn't make the decision, doesn't think before she acts, just steps forward to grasp at the edges of his tunic, pulls him down, and kisses him back.