by Brenda Joyce
Amelia started to giggle.
The earl shot her a look with imminent murder on his mind. Her smile vanished. Nick said, “This is the Duke of Clarendon’s grandaughter, Jane. She is my ward.”
That truly shut Amelia up. She stared, eyes narrowed now.
The earl turned to Jane. She was staring up at him with such a hopeful look that he had the urge to lift her in his arms, carry her away on a white horse, and be her knight in shining armor. Which was, of course, impossible. He was no knight in shining armor. He would not carry her away to a happy fairyland, he would ruin her and hurt her and toss her aside. After all, he was a depraved son of a bitch. Even his wife, whom he had once stupidly loved, had thought so.
The earl gestured for both women to precede him in. He saw Jane’s fallen look. What had she been expecting? Him to tell her she looked beautiful while swooning at her feet? He started after them. Amelia paused so she could cling to him as they rounded the table. He saw Jane surreptitiously tugging up the bodice of her dress, which looked to be in imminent danger of falling to her waist. I will have to get her some clothes, he thought grimly.
Amelia whispered loudly, “You must do something about that poor child’s wardobe, darling. Perhaps I can be of assistance.”
The earl froze. Jane, of course, had heard. Calmly he said, “But I don’t want her dressing like a whore.”
Amelia gasped.
Jane had frozen, and she was white, tears threatening to spill down her cheeks.
Nick wished fervently that he was anywhere but there. He found himself taking Jane’s arm, his grip firm but gentle. He seated her. He knew she was surprised at his sudden manners, but what wrenched at him was how damn fragile she appeared, how bravely she was fighting the tears. Her mouth trembled. He wanted to kiss her wildly.
Amelia was clearly furious. Nick didn’t care. She was a bitch for what she had done. He refused to seat her, standing instead, impatiently waiting for her to take her seat or leave. She finally accepted defeat and sat. Nick signaled to Thomas, indicating he should pour Jane’s wine first. He knew she was gazing at him gratefully, adoringly, so he ignored her.
Supper was a silent affair.
And Jane was kicking herself for coming.
She had known the dress was wrong the instant she had looked in the mirror, hadn’t she? But Molly had encouraged her. Molly had watched, wide-eyed, awed by the expensiveness of the garment. Molly had told her she looked elegant. What did a maid know? She didn’t look elegant, she looked like a clown, or a little girl playing grown-up, which was worse.
His mistress had been laughing at her.
Jane had known, by the shock on the earl’s face, that she was a disaster. But for once he was kind. He hadn’t said a thing, he was treating her like an adult, he had even cut Amelia to the quick. But still, it was too late. Jane wanted to cry. She was a skinny, hopeless thing, and she could not compete with the lush beauty of his mistress. She wanted to run to her room and hide. But she would not.
She was not going to leave them alone together. Not if she could help it.
She could not eat. She didn’t even try. The wine alleviated some of her misery. It started to soothe the hurt. She found that she could not take her eyes off of the earl’s handsome profile. He was magnificent. Looking at him thrilled her. And he was kind. He had been kind tonight. He had been kind to her.
Then, after the main course, Amelia broke the silence and began flirting with the earl. It sickened Jane. It brought back the misery, and something more: jealousy. The earl did not respond. His answers were monosyllabic, more grunts than anything else. That did not stop Amelia, who laughed and chattered gaily, as if he had not practically called her a whore to her face. She stroked his hand, he removed it. She pushed her breast against his shoulder. This time he did not move away, but responded to whatever nonsense she was asking him. Jane wished lightning would strike her plumed headdress and sizzle every hair off of her red head. Leaving her bald.
“Amelia,” Nick finally said curtly, “I do not care about the goddamn Arlington’s ball.”
Amelia was silent.
He looked at Jane, to find her studying her full plate. He scowled. If Amelia was not there he would have cut her off from the red wine a long time ago, but he didn’t want to treat her like a child in front of the other woman. Not after what she’d done. He hoped she wasn’t drunk. She didn’t seem drunk. And, thank God, she was no longer making calf’s eyes at him.
“Shall we adjourn?” he asked, rising.
Amelia touched his hand with a laugh. “That’s my line, darling.”
He ignored her. He watched Jane stand and saw her sway slightly. She moved unsteadily away from the chair, bumped into the table. Amelia was watching too, wide-eyed and definitely gleeful. “Nick! She’s—”
The earl clapped his hand over Amelia’s mouth before she could utter another word. “Go to the drawing room, Amelia, and await me there,” he said softly.
She stared at him.
He wondered if he should throw her out now, or if he should use her to alleviate some of his own physical distress and then throw her out. He took Jane’s arm. “I’ll see you to your room.”
Jane gazed up at him with those big blue eyes, filled with infatuation. She smiled. It was beautiful and sweet and she was beautiful and sweet and Nick felt the terrible stabbing in his heart. “Awright,” she said, slurring softly.
They started to walk and her hip bumped his. He pretended not to notice. They moved past Amelia, who was red with anger. Jane was very unsteady on her feet. In the doorway she tripped on the Persian rug. The earl instantly did what his instincts had been clamoring for him to do: he swept her up into his arms. She weighed nothing.
She gazed at him.
He pounded up the steps. She was soft and warm and she smelled fresh and sweet. She clung to him. Her hair was spilling from its coif. He felt it tickling the back of his hands, softer than silk. Nick would not look at her. He didn’t dare. Another glimpse of her lovestruck eyes and he would be lost …
He was getting hot. His groin was aching, swelling. Just from the feel of her in his arms … he was in serious trouble.
Not that he would ever touch her.
He nudged open her door with his shoe and laid her atop the white, lacy covering of her bed. As he did, his gaze fell to her face. Her eyes were half closed, lidded with the sensuous look of a woman about to be bedded. She was as aroused from being in his arms as he was excited from carrying her. He was stunned. Slowly her head fell back to the pillows, her darkened gaze on him, lips parted, wet and full. His hands were still beneath her. It was reflexive—his glance roamed down, and he froze. Her bodice had fallen, revealing her breasts.
He couldn’t move. She was fuller than he’d imagined, actually voluptuous for a petite girl, each breast round and high and a perfect handful. Her nipples were the pink of a virgin. Pink and pointed, tiny and tight. She moaned, her head going back, offering him her lovely throat and lovelier breasts.
He wanted to touch her. He didn’t.
She turned her head to look at him, nostrils flared, eyes hot and bright. She lifted a hand, imploring. “Please,” she said throatily.
“Damn,” the earl croaked, leaping up from the bed. He had to get away from her. Because if he didn’t, he would touch her, kiss her, take her.
“Oh, God!” Jane cried, her hand flying to her forehead. “Don’t move like that!” And then she leapt up herself, her face green now, sliding to the floor and staggering to the chamber pot. She began retching.
Desire fled, sympathy and concern welled. Nick found himself beside her, kneeling, supporting her. When she had finished vomiting all the wine, she started to weep.
“Are you in pain?” he asked anxiously. “Let me take you to the bed.”
She shook her head, sobbing.
He thought she was finished, so very, very carefully, he lifted her and carried her to the bed. “Jane, don’t cry,” he ordered helplessly.
<
br /> “Oh, God, how could I make such a fool of myself …” She rolled onto her stomach.
She kept crying. He wanted to touch her but was afraid to. Not because of desire, for he was now under control. Still, she was just a child, little different from Chad. He ignored the image of her young, ripe breasts that immediately taunted his mind. Shakily he reached out and tangled his hand in her hair. He gasped from the sheer pleasure of it.
“How quaint,” Amelia said through gritted teeth from the doorway.
Nick withdrew his hand as if he’d been burned, standing.
“Are you blushing?” Amelia asked incredulously.
The earl knew he was. He spoke quietly to Jane’s back. “I’ll send up Molly with water and some toast. It will be here on your bed table. You will probably be thirsty and hungry in a few hours.”
There was no reply. She was asleep. The earl turned away, to his mistress, who was waiting.
11
Jane felt miserable.
Somehow she had dragged herself out of bed and had managed to get dressed. It was just past noon. She was suffering from acute nausea and a headache and, worse, complete recollection of the night before. In the act of brushing her hair, tears welled in her eyes and she could not fight them. They spilled down her cheeks.
She had shown him just what a child she was.
The humiliation was unbearable.
The purple gown that Sandra had worn with such aplomb lay draped on the chintz chaise. Jane hated it. She wasn’t her mother, didn’t even look like her mother, would never be her mother. Her mother had been stunningly beautiful and perfectly curved. Her mother had had hundreds of men dying for her love. Her mother had been an actress … Jane was nobody.
She crumpled onto the chaise. She would never forget the look of malicious delight on Amelia’s face when she had seen Jane in her mother’s finery; worse, she would never forget the earl’s shock. And she had thrown up while in his arms!
When she had been determined to gain his attention, she had never meant to do it like that!
She could not, would not, face him.
Jane made her way to the nursery where Chad and Governess Randall were having lunch. The odor of baked cod turned her insides upside down. The little boy leapt up to greet her with a squeal of delight. Jane patted his shoulder. She could not eat. She needed air.
Then she became aware of his presence.
Before Jane even turned to look at the doorway, she knew he was there, filling it with his considerable magnetism. Dread and something else, something nameless, swamped her. Her heart began thundering. Her face went red. Oh, no, why now? She moaned silently.
“Papa!” Chad shrieked, lunch forgotten. He raced to his father who swung him up and around.
“How are you feeling?” the Earl of Dragmore asked over his son’s shoulder.
Jane stared at her hands, twisting them nervously. She prayed he would be as kind as he had been last night—that he would just go away. She lifted her gaze. “Not quite the thing.”
“You’re an unusual shade of chartreuse,” the earl said.
Jane’s stomach roiled. She knew she looked ghastly, but did he have to comment on it? Tears threatened again. And she was not a crier. What was wrong with her!
“Papa, yesterday you said you’d take me riding. Are we going? Are we?”
“Yes,” the earl said, his tone gentle. He stroked Chad’s head, almost unconsciously. “Finish your lunch, all of it. Even the peas. Then meet me in the library. All right?” He smiled at his son.
Jane’s chest grew tight. The earl was incredibly handsome when he smiled like that, with such softness and warmth in his eyes. She felt her heart turning over, drumming. Lord—was she in love with him?
Was she in love with the man England had labeled the Lord of Darkness?
A man who had been tried for the murder of his wife?
“Come with me,” the earl said to Jane, stroking Chad one last time. It was a command, his gaze expressionless and impenetrable now. Jane recovered from her monstrous thoughts. She had never been in love, did not know what it was like or how to determine if she was, indeed, afflicted with the phenomenon. She decided that, if she was in love, she would know it. Wouldn’t she?
“Jane,” the earl said from the doorway.
Jane did not want to go with him. She was sure he was going to berate her for her behavior the night before, and she had already berated herself enough. But when he used that tone he was not a man to be denied. Bravely, shoulders squared, mouth pursed, prepared to face any executioner, Jane followed the earl downstairs and into the library.
By the time they were there, Jane was feeling distinctly unwell again. Her head pounded mercilessly. She watched the earl pour coffee from a silver pot on his desk, then add whiskey to it. She started when he handed the foul concoction to her. “For me?” she squeaked.
The faintest of smiles touched the corners of his mouth. “It will help. Trust me.”
She looked up at him and saw a soft light in his eyes. Immediately he turned away from her. Jane was sure she had imagined that look, but she hadn’t imagined his words. “Trust me.” The tone had been low, coaxing—enticing. She wanted to trust him, oh, she did. Her heart leapt at the thought.
She sipped the coffee and found, to her surprise, it was not bad. And when she had finished, she actually felt better.
“Trust me,” he had said.
Jane realized that, despite it all, she did.
It was only her fourth day at Dragmore. Jane, feeling almost up to par after the earl’s brew, was walking outdoors on the edge of the mansion’s extensive lawns. She was already quite far from the manor. Stone-walled, rolling fields were on the other side of the grounds, marking its farthest boundaries. Sheep and their lambs dotted the hillside. It was a clear, cool day, the sky unusually blue and spotted with puffy cotton clouds. The air was fresh and invigorating. If Jane hadn’t overindulged the night before and made such a fool of herself and if that redheaded floozy had not appeared, she would be in very high spirits, indeed.
But Amelia had appeared, and Jane had gotten drunk and made a fool of herself. If she fell in love with the earl, who was thirty-three, she had learned, and who did not even know she existed, she would suffer even more humiliation. She resolved not to join the earl and his mistress for supper, not tonight, not ever. Just like she would not fall in love with him. She had learned her lesson.
She was wearing the plaid dress she had arrived in, the one she particularly detested. The hem was already muddy, for she had crossed the gash in the lawn that the earl had made that morning during his reckless gallop. Jane smiled. The gardeners had been mending it industriously. Each and every one of them had smiled at her and said hello, all fifteen of them. Jane had counted their astonishing number.
She lifted her skirt and climbed onto the stone wall and settled herself down. A black-faced lamb skittered away from her feet, to the safety of his mother’s side. Jane sighed and raised her face to the sun. A red robin took wing from one of the ancient oaks on her right. Jane admired it. She then heard a harsh, heavy panting.
She tipped her head toward the sound, which seemed to be emanating from the two huge oak trees where the robin had been nesting, near the wall. A strangled gasp sounded. Jane jumped to her feet, concerned, and then she heard a woman’s cries of ecstasy.
She backed away—but saw a flash of vivid magenta. She had assumed it was some farm workers dallying. But the flash of magenta riveted her. The fabric gleamed. No milkmaid wore magenta silk. Curiosity might have killed the cat, but it had never killed Jane. She had the worst, or best, suspicion, depending on how one looked at it. She tiptoed toward the trees, trying to make as little noise as possible.
Not that they would have noticed her if she’d been a mad bull seeing red.
Lady Amelia Harrowby lay flat on her back, her magenta skirts tossed to her waist, her plump white thighs wrapped around the man’s neck. He was clearly a farmer, and he was pu
mping into her. Jane had been raised in London. She knew what the act entailed. But she had never seen it performed before. She stared, mesmerized and fascinated.
Amelia’s breasts were bared. She was thrashing and moaning, her hands on the man’s shoulders, leaving red welts there. He was shirtless. Sweat slicked his broad, muscled back. He wore his pants, but they’d slid halfway down his narrow hips. His penis was big and red and slick as it plunged in and out of Amelia.
Jane couldn’t move. A wet heat filled her, tightening her, swelling her. She imagined the earl— he would look something like the farmer, broad, muscular, big. Her breath stuck in her throat. Her heart raced. The farmer collapsed upon Amelia, who was screaming in pleasure. Jane realized with a start that they had finished, and she might be spied at any moment. But her feet were like lead. Taking a breath, trembling, she started to turn. She heard Amelia cry out in surprise.
Jane’s gaze flew to the older woman and she saw her white, shocked face. A dozen thoughts raced through Jane’s head, not least of which was: Did the earl know? What would he do if he knew? Somehow, Jane did not think he would be pleased to find out that his mistress was cuckolding him with one of his tenants. Jane did not smile. She was indignant, even outraged. Did the earl know what kind of tramp Amelia was? And how could she, Amelia, do this to the earl, when he was so lonely and in need of succor?
Amelia closed her eyes, gasping like a fish out of water.
Jane found that she was upset, even angry. The earl did not deserve this. And with her anger came newfound hope.
12
He hesitated before knocking twice upon her door.
“Molly? Come in,” Jane said.
“It’s not Molly,” the Earl of Dragmore said, entering. Their gazes skittered, then locked.
She was the first to look away. He could not look away. Jane was sitting in front of her dressing table, brush in hand, her long, thick blond hair loose and flowing to her buttocks. The earl stared. It was a sight he’d imagined too often, and seeing her this way, in reality, made his chest quite tight. For a moment he forgot why he’d come.
