by Brenda Joyce
Her gaze came back to his. “My lord?”
“Are you joining us, Jane?”
“No.”
He was taken aback. He’d expected her to shy away from another supper with him and Amelia after last night’s fiasco, but hadn’t expected her blunt refusal. “Why don’t you join us?” he said, his own tone flat. He didn’t know why it was so important for him that she dine with them, but he was damned if she should hide up here in her room.
“I’m not hungry,” she said, turning her gaze to the mirror. Still, their glances held in the looking glass. “I’m very tired.”
She was impossibly beautiful like this, her face small and perfect, her lips sensually full, her cheeks tinged a healthy pink, the pale gold tresses floating over her shoulders and down her back. She did not seem quite the schoolgirl. Yet neither did she seem a woman full grown.
He felt the stirring, the incipient burning, of desire, deep in his groin.
“Join us,” Nick said. It was a quiet command, yet it was a question too.
She looked at him directly, simply. “No, thank you.”
Their gazes held. Hers was determined, his suspended. He recognized the extent of her will in this instance, and chose to bow to it. He nodded curtly, his gaze sweeping her one last time, then turned and strode out.
Amelia was waiting for him in the library.
He thought her face a touch too pale despite her cosmetics, and a touch worried. She smiled brightly at him, too brightly, and handed him a snifter of whiskey. “Hello, darling,” she said. “I was just about to go looking for you.”
He didn’t respond, but moved to the open French doors and stared out at the twilight. He was aware of the slow, burning lust that was smoldering between his thighs. His reactions to Jane were getting worse. What the hell was he going to do?
Marry her off quickly, his inner voice said.
Or, take off to London, leaving her here.
Relief swept him. The second solution somehow pleased him. There was, he told himself, a lot to do to arrange a marriage for her, and it couldn’t be rushed. He would go to London and leave her here. A perfect idea.
“Darling?” Amelia came close. “What’s wrong? Is something the matter?”
He looked at her. She wore a stunning black velvet gown, low cut and glittering with diamantes. Her lips were touched with rouge, lightly, as were her cheeks. She was a beautiful woman, but he mentally compared her artifice with Jane’s natural, wholesome appeal. There was no comparison. “Nothing is wrong.”
Amelia laughed. The sound was strained. The earl looked at her sharply. She smiled quickly. “Where is your little ward?”
“She is tired, upstairs.”
“Yes, well, no wonder after—” The earl’s look stopped her in her tracks. “I happened across her today, while I was taking a walk,” Amelia said, her eyes on his face. “Did she mention it?”
“No.”
“Oh, well.” Amelia turned away. Nick sensed her relief. He wondered what she was hiding, then dismissed the thought, for he did not really care.
She came back to him, sliding her hand up his white silk sleeve. “Darling.” Her voice was throaty. “I know what’s ailing you.”
He was annoyed. “Nothing ails me, Amelia.”
Her hand tightened on his massive forearm. “Never before have you turned me away from your bed,” she stated, low.
She was referring to last night. “I told you,” Nick said, equally low. There was warning in his voice. “I was not in the mood.”
Amelia did not drop her hand. Their gazes met, clashed. “You are always in the mood. You are a stud stallion. I know you.”
“Do you?” His tone was ironic. “Do not fool yourself,” he said, a dangerous purring.
Amelia actually stamped her foot, flushed now. “You want her!”
The earl whirled. “What?”
“I see the way you look at her!” Amelia cried. “You want that skinny little blonde!”
His jaw clamped. His eyes blazed. “I do not.”
She didn’t just sense the danger, that she was pushing him too far, she felt it. Amelia’s body was tight now, full, pulsing. “You want her,” she hissed. “You wanted her last night. That’s why you rejected me!”
“No.”
“No?” She grabbed his arm and yanked his hand to her breast. “Prove it.” “Amelia,” he warned. “Prove it!”
He hauled her up against his body by her arms, hard. She did not whimper, but her breath escaped. “You want me to prove it?” he asked harshly, crushing her breast against the steel of his chest. He jammed his hard thigh between hers, and she gasped. “You accuse me of being depraved, Amelia, of lusting after a schoolgirl.”
She saw the fury in his eyes. “I know what I saw.”
“You saw nothing,” he ground out, grabbing her hair, carefully coiffed, by her nape and wrenching her head back. She cried out. Her hair spilled free. He ground his mouth on hers brutally. Amelia opened for him, and he thrust his tongue savagely inside her.
She clasped his powerful buttocks, pulling him closer, harder, against her. He was hard, but not like a rock, not like usual. She felt a searing frustration. He grabbed her breasts, lifting them from her bodice and taking one distended nipple between his teeth. It hurt—yet it also inflamed her.
She slid her hand from his buttocks to his thigh, then between them. She caressed the heavy sack hanging there. He did not make a sound, but she felt his response, the steel hardness thrusting against her hip. She ground her plump groin against him, then slid her hand around to the front of his breeches and began stroking the long, solid length of him. He bit her hard in response, and she gasped in both pleasure and pain.
She freed his thick, straining phallus expertly. She dropped to her knees, clasped his hips, and took the big, slick tip into her mouth. He still did not make a sound. Damn you, Nick Bragg, she thought. She had been with him enough to know she was losing the little power she had had over him.
Nick thrust past her lips. He despised Amelia and he felt it in every fiber of his being. He despised all women, he despised Patricia, who was dead. Maybe he would have killed her if she’d lived. The only woman he did not despise was Jane.
Jane. If this was Jane’s hair in his hands he would come. The image was wrong, so very wrong, but it was so graphic and powerful, Jane taking him eagerly into her mouth, that a surge of desire more intense than any he’d experienced before swept him. Nick was on his knees, pushing Amelia onto her back. He did not, would not, look at her. After flipping up her skirts, he slid into her. She was wet and hot. He saw Jane as she had been last night, languidly lying upon the bed, breasts bared, head back, arching, offering her pure, virginal breasts to him. He saw the lazy, dark, languid light in her eyes. The sensuous invitation … The earl finished quickly.
He rolled away from Amelia, who lay panting in satisfaction. He realized he did not just despise his mistress—he despised himself.
13
“Whatever is going on in here? This racket is unbearable!” Amelia cried.
Jane didn’t look at her. “Careful, John,” she warned as he stood precariously upon a ladder in the yellow parlor taking down the heavy brocade drapes. Too late; the drapes fell, a goodly portion upon him, making him lose his balance. Fortunately, Thomas steadied the ladder just in time, preventing an accident. “Are you all right?” Jane cried anxiously.
“Yes’m,” John said, grinning with embarrassment. He was just a year or two older than Jane.
“What is going on?” Amelia demanded from the doorway.
Jane sighed and turned to her. She gestured gracefully with one hand. “As you can see, we’re cleaning.”
Amelia’s eyes narrowed.
All the rugs had been rolled up to be taken outside, swept, beaten, and aired. Likewise with the heavy, moldering drapes. Two maids had moved all of the furniture into the center of the room, the better to attack the gritty corners and cobwebs.
“John,
” Jane instructed, “ask Howard to help you remove all the furniture, except the piano, of course, into the drawing room so we can wax these floors.”
“My, my,” Amelia said. “We are the perfect housekeeper, aren’t we?”
Jane turned. “I would not go around calling other people names, Amelia. They might call you something back.”
Amelia had the sensitivity to flush. “There are names you could be called too,” she shot. “I know all about you—Miss Barclay. You may be Weston’s granddaughter, but he never publicly acknowledged you!”
Jane reddened, but lifted her chin. “My father did. And I am proud of who I am.”
“Pride will not get you what you want,” Amelia said, laughing. “Excuse me—it will not get you whom you want!”
The truth of that statement hurt. “But at least I have pride,” Jane flashed back. “At least I don’t stay with a man who practically accuses me of being a whore to my face!”
Amelia went white with fury. “At least,” she hissed, “I make him happy when it counts! When the lights are out! You will never be woman enough for the earl!”
No matter how hard Amelia struck, nor how cruel she was, Jane could not threaten her with revealing what she’d seen. With innate dignity, she turned her back on the older woman. She realized then that the two maids, John, and Thomas were all frozen, having heard every word. She knew her cheeks were pink. Good Lord, did they all think that she coveted the earl? Nevertheless, she smiled at everyone and said cheerfully, “We will never get this room freshened if we all stand about gawking.”
Immediately everyone returned to his task.
Amelia snorted.
“Annie, take everything off the mantel, if you please. It’s as filthy as the rest of this room.” Jane was aware, as Annie complied, that Amelia had stomped with all the grace of a cow out of the parlor. She realized her small hands were clenched into fists at her sides, and she relaxed them. That woman was a viper. How could he be so blind? Jane was trembling. How did Amelia know she cared about the earl? Would she tell him? Oh, Jane thought in despair, Amelia had no decency, she would tell him, laughing, and he would most likely be amused. Amused. If he should learn her feelings, as confused as they were, and be amused, Jane would die! And then she heard the front door closing, and Amelia’s voice, no longer caustic, but sweeter than honey. “Hullo, darling. My, you look hot.”
There was no reply.
Jane found herself at the door, peering down the corridor and into the foyer. The earl was striding toward her, Amelia hurrying alongside him. “Shall I tell Thomas you’re ready for dinner, darling?” She cooed. “I’ve had him prepare a wonderful treat!”
Jane gritted her teeth, furious. She had supervised the day’s menu—with the earl’s foreign tastes specifically in mind.
He saw Jane; his stride slowed.
Jane found her chest unbearably tight. As on the day before, he wore tight, tight breeches—she saw thick, powerful thighs and his heavy groin. His shirt was half open and soaked through with mist and sweat. His chest was slick. His hair was damp and tousled. His eyes were bright before their light was carefully extinguished. “Hello, Jane,” he said.
She smiled. Her eyes shone. “Good day, my lord,” she replied softly.
He didn’t stop, but his gaze lingered, bringing warmth to every fiber of Jane’s being. Then he was past. Amelia threw her a look of searing hatred. Jane didn’t care, not in that moment. He had spoken to her. He had been civil to her. Yesterday he had been kind to her. He had been kind to her the night before. And even though he had only said hello, Jane had felt more, so much more. And it wasn’t a childish fantasy. Jane clasped her hands to her breasts with a deep, deep breath. She was taming the lion—she was gentling the Lord of Darkness.
And then she saw the streak of mud he had trailed through the house.
She sighed. Maybe he wasn’t aware of what he was doing. Maybe they didn’t have mud in Texas. Maybe he just didn’t care. Either way … Jane turned and started after the earl and Amelia. The door to the library was open. Amelia was gushing in delight over something. Jane froze. Amelia was holding up a glittering necklace of gold and lapis. Her expression was ecstatic.
“Thank you, darling, thank you!” she cried, flinging herself at the earl.
Jane backed away. The earl was giving her presents? Expensive jewelry? It shouldn’t hurt, but it did. It crushed her earlier joy. He was a stupid, rutting boor of a man who couldn’t see past a pair of big breasts! And to think, to think she had actually hoped to civilize him? To think she had fancied herself falling in love with him! To think she had thought he was coming around and starting to care about her! She was a fool—as big a fool as he! She could never compete with the likes of Amelia!
Jane hurried down the hall and out the front door. Bitter tears stung her eyes. The problem was, it was too late.
She was already in love with him.
14
“What?”
“I am sorry,” the earl of Dragmore said, without expression. “This is good-bye, Amelia. It’s over.”
Amelia stared, white-faced, the necklace dangling loosely from her hand.
“After dinner the coachman will take you to Lessing. There’s a five o’clock train to London.” He started to walk past her.
She grabbed his arm, her face ugly in its vicious fury. “You bastard!”
He stood very still. “I never said I wasn’t a bastard,” he said dryly. Little did she know she spoke the truth.
She slapped him across the face.
With the back of his hand, he rubbed his flesh, as if to remove her touch. “Now that you’re calmer, please see to your things.”
“You bastard!” she cried again, this time her voice breaking. “I love you!”
He raised a brow. “You don’t love me,” he said crudely. “You love this.” He touched his groin briefly.
“That’s not true! I do love you, I always have …”
“Spare me the theatrics.” His voice cut like a knife. “It’s over.”
“It wasn’t over last night!”
The earl looked at her. “Don’t press me to say things I shouldn’t have to say.”
She shrank, then. “It’s her. That little blonde. It’s-”
“She is my ward,” he said curtly. “I’m arranging a marriage for her. I am hungry. You may join me —but not to discuss this topic.”
“Bastard.” Amelia sobbed, and she ran out of the room.
The earl walked into the dining room and felt a twinge of pleasure at the sight of a third place set on the table—for Jane. “Thomas, I don’t think Amelia will be joining us.” He looked around, but Jane was not in sight. “Five minutes,” he told his butler.
He bounded up the stairs. He felt renewed. Invigorated. Why? Because he’d recognized the fact that he despised his own mistress and had decided to get rid of her? Yes, that was it. Too bad he hadn’t come to this conclusion a long time ago.
He remembered dinner with Jane the day before yesterday. He remembered her sweet smile when he’d poured her a glass of wine—after he’d been unspeakably rude to her. Her manners had been so perfect, so proper, while he had behaved, and looked like, a farmer. He recalled how her face had lit up like an angel’s when he’d said hello to her just now in the hall. Something within him had lit up too.
He stripped off his shirt, throwing it on the floor. He strode into the water closet and began washing his torso, under his arms, his face. After toweling himself dry, he slid on a fresh, clean white shirt. Then he glanced down at his breeches, stained and dirty from his day’s labors. With a sigh, he sat and yanked off his muddy boots. He donned another pair of pants, then he wiped off his boots, gave them a quick polish with his dirty shirt, and pulled them on. He hurried downstairs, his step lighter than it had been in a long time.
Jane had not appeared. Amelia’s place had been removed. The earl paced a few minutes, aware of Thomas’s curiosity, feeling ill at ease. He had never waited f
or anyone, not in four long years— he always dined alone. His face grew pink, high up on his cheekbones, giving him a sunburned look. “Thomas, where is Jane?”
“I saw her go outside, sir, and I don’t think she’s returned.”
He realized she wasn’t coming. And why should she? She probably expected Amelia to be present. She probably expected his own foul humor. The earl sat down, refusing to acknowledge his disappointment. He was used to dining alone. It made no difference to him.
Chad had his own Shetland pony, a fluffy black-and-white gelding that had been a gift on his fourth birthday. He was already a superb rider for his age. Like his father, he rode bareback with ease. It was a sight, the two of them. The earl on a lean, seventeen-hand hunter, his son on the fat, eight-hand pony. They were trotting through a cow pasture on their daily ride. Two wolfhounds ranged alongside them, sniffing at every tree and rock and gopher hole.
“Papa,” Chad cried, “look at the log. Can I?”
A big old oak had rotted and fallen and lay sprawled in front of them. The earl studied the log; Chad pleaded with him. “Please, Papa, please? I can do it!”
The log was bigger than anything Chad had already jumped, but his son was ready for it. The boy rode as if glued to his mount, better bareback than with a saddle, his balance impeccable. “Wait here,” the earl said, and he rode ahead.
The earl circled the log. When he had determined that the ground was safe, he came back, but not before breaking a branch off of the fallen tree. He handed it to his son. “Give him two swats, Chad.”
Ponies had bad, variable tempers. This one was better than most, but the earl had no intention of taking any chances that the pony might decide to balk at the last minute and throw his son. Chad understood. He smacked the Shetland smartly on the shoulder once, to wake him up. His head came up, ears went back. Chad grinned, nudged him with his heels and smacked his flank. They set off at a canter.
“Keep him collected,” the earl called, his chest tightening with pride. Chad rode beautifully, gathering up the pony beneath him, controlling the willful little beast, and then the two of them soared over the log as one.
