by Brenda Joyce
He felt the acute disappointment washing over him.
He found his ability to function, and he ruffled Chad’s hair. “Sorry, son, I have an appointment.”
Chad pouted briefly, then raced back to his spot on the floor at Jane’s feet. Color was suffusing her face, and she dropped her gaze to the book. “Have a nice evening,” she said, strained.
“Thank you,” he returned, equally strained. “You too.”
His limbs were wooden, but he managed to turn and leave. And as he went downstairs he listened intently to her voice until he could hear it no more.
Jane couldn’t shake the incident from her mind. Had the earl wanted to join them? Should she have invited him in? She felt guilty that she had not, guilty and cruel, yet he had told Chad he had an appointment. Appointment! Hah! With that damned tart Amelia, undoubtedly.
It hurt. It hurt too much to even think about, yet Jane could no more turn off her thoughts than she could stop a flood. She had never dreamed marriage to him would be so painful.
She was tired, exhausted in fact, from the stress of the past few days, both of living in high tension with the earl, even though they rarely saw each other, and of living with the scandal that London was still thriving on. There had been another packed house, although not quite full this time. The hecklers had been worse than ever tonight. Some drunken men in a front row had been taunting her with epithets throughout the final act. Jane had ignored them, but their cries for her to be their Fallen Angel had truly shaken her. She slumped on the sofa in her dressing room at the Criterion.
“I know just how to cheer you up,” Lindley said, entering the room.
Jane suddenly felt tears come to her eyes. Tears of self-pity that his presence had brought instantly.
“What’s this!” he cried, dropping down besides her and taking both of her hands. “Jane, are you crying?”
She sniffed and fought the tears and the urge to unburden herself and tell him all of her troubles. “No, no, I’m fine. Just tired.”
He touched her temple, smoothing away hair. “It’s the godawful scandal, isn’t it?”
Jane nodded glumly.
“It will pass.”
“So everyone says.”
He stared at her, and she knew he wanted to ask her questions, intimate ones, about her life with the earl. But Lindley was a gentleman, and still holding her hands, he sat straighter. “Let’s go to a party.”
“I can’t,” she said immediately. “I’m too tired.”
“Ah, but this is no elegant soirée. This is artists and bohemians and students and it will be full of wine and food and fun. Trust me,” he added, his brown eyes sincere.
Jane suddenly smiled. “How do you know artists and bohemians, Jon?”
He grinned. “I’ll never tell.”
She thought about going home—while he was out with Amelia—and was suddenly determined to have fun, to enjoy herself, to live. “All right! Just let me remove this makeup and change.”
* * *
The party was in the cellar of an old building near the Thames on the Strand. The cellar was some sort of avant-garde cafe, Parisian style. As they descended rickety wooden stairs, a raucous din could be heard. Lindley had Jane’s arm, for she was wearing high-heeled red shoes, to help her down. They pushed through a glass door on the bottom landing.
The interior was crowded and smoky and dimly lighted. Many small tables were packed within, all apparently full. All the aisles were crowded too. Jane saw that the crowd was half Society, elegantly dressed for an evening at the theater or opera or private soirées, and partly young students in casual tweeds. There were even a few women in bloomers, smoking cigarettes. A stunning African woman stood by a piano singing to a tune beat out ebulliently by a mustachioed player. A few of the bohemian couples were dancing enthusiastically and wildly near the piano, between the tables and the diners.
Jane’s fatigue fled. She looked at the grinning Lindley and laughed. “Let’s dance,” she cried impulsively.
Lindley was delighted. He pulled her into his arms and whirled her about in the aisle. It was no sedate waltz, this, but something spontaneous and rhythmic and quite original. Someone at the table crowding them began to clap, and others joined in.
The song ended and the woman began another one, this one soulful and melancholy, the beat slow. Lindley didn’t hesitate, but moved Jane into his swaying, barely moving embrace. Jane stiffened. “Jon, what are you doing?”
“You said you wanted to dance,” he replied gruffly.
Jane could feel every inch of his body, the way he was holding her. She wasn’t sure she liked it. She thought of the earl and felt guilty. Yet she was so alone, and she needed somebody. To be held intimately like this was wrenchingly wonderful. She started to relax.
“You’re so damn beautiful,” Lindley whispered, his breath warm on her cheek.
Jane didn’t know what to say, so she said nothing.
When the song ended, Lindley let her pull away. Jane was both embarrassed and agitated from the intimacy they had shared. “Shall we find a place to sit?” she asked uncertainly.
“We can try,” he said, taking her hand. He started to lead her forward, but a couple barred their way in the narrow aisle. The man was large and dark, and although at first indistinguishable amid the dim illumination, the flickering candles and foglike swirling smoke, so very familiar. His stance was rigid. It was the Earl of Dragmore.
Jane could not believe it.
His gaze was a furious silver, locked on Lindley. Lindley broke the strained silence. “Hullo, Shelton, Amelia.”
It was then that Jane saw the redhead. As usual, Amelia looked voluptuous and beautiful—and she was grinning. “Hi, Jon,” she purred.
The earl looked from Lindley to Jane. Jane met his gaze, her apprehension immense. She knew he was enraged to find her there with Lindley, yet he was there with Amelia. What a pretty coil, she thought, suddenly sick and miserable. Her instincts were to preempt any eruption from occurring. “Hello, Nicholas,” she said quietly. He flinched as if shot at the sound of his name. “Amelia.”
The earl’s regard burned her. “Are you enjoying yourself, Jane?” His tone was biting.
She looked at him, eyes wide. “No. I have quite the headache.”
Amelia snickered, glued to the Earl’s side and pressing closer. “Maybe you should go home, to bed,” she said snidely, implying that Lindley would be in it as well.
“You’re quite right.” Jane turned to Lindley. “Would you take me home? I don’t feel well from all this smoke and noise.”
“Of course,” he said promptly. Then he looked at the earl. “Unless, of course, Nick wants to escort you back.”
Jane suddenly froze, her heart clamoring with sudden hope.
The earl’s lips curled up, baring his white teeth. “She came with you, she can leave with you. I have other plans.”
Jane closed her eyes briefly. His cruel words hurt. If only she could hate him. She took Lindley’s arm and they made their way out through the crowd.
So she didn’t see the earl start after them, only to stop as abruptly, wrestling with some inner demon.
“Let them go.” Amelia pouted.
“Shut up,” he said, his eyes never leaving their departing forms. He took another strained step forward, then cursed viciously, raking a hand through his hair. He stared after his wife, until she disappeared through the door.
And the demons howled deep within him.
42
Jane said nothing during the drive back to the house on Tavistock Square
, and Lindley, after a few attempts at conversation, let her be. He handed her down from the carriage and walked her to the front door. Thomas let them in.
Lindley hesitated in the foyer, clearly reluctant to leave. “Don’t let him get you down, Jane. You deserve only happiness,” he said, low. Thomas was hovering in the alcove as he put away Jane’s velvet wrap.
Jane managed a shrug. “I’m fine, really I am.”<
br />
“How about a brandy?” Lindley suggested. “It’s still early.”
“Jon …”
“For God’s sake, Jane, am I your friend or not? You know you can trust me! And he’s out with Amelia.”
Jane nodded and ordered Thomas to fetch them some pâté and cold roast chicken. He grunted, moving off with obvious displeasure. Lindley followed Jane into the parlor. “He used to like me,” he said dryly.
“At least he is loyal to the earl,” Jane said.
“You care for him, don’t you?” Lindley said, amazed. “Even after all he’s done to you.”
Jane colored, sitting at one end of the oversized sofa. “He is my husband. As such, I am loyal too.”
“Damn your loyalty,” Lindley cried, sitting near her. Jane tried to skitter away but couldn’t, as she was already at one end of the couch. He grasped her hands. “He does not deserve your loyalty,” Lindley snarled with passion.
“Please, don’t.”
“I thought I knew Nick, but I don’t!” Lindley stated savagely. “To flaunt that whore publicly while newly wed!”
Jane cast her eyes down. This sore, sore spot brought her close to fresh, yet old, tears.
“Ahh, Jane, I’m sorry.” He pulled her hands against his stomach. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“It’s all right,” she said softly, not looking up. “We have an—an agreement.”
“What kind of agreement?”
She looked at him. “I’ve allowed him his paramours,” she said, not steadily. She inhaled. “Don’t trouble yourself over me, Jon.”
He touched her face. “Trouble myself over you?” He laughed. “Jane, darling, I love you, and knowing how unhappy you are is making me miserable!”
Jane was stunned.
“It’s true,” he said, low, kissing her hands, one after the other. “I love you. You deserve better. You deserve love, not cruelty. God—” He kissed her hand again, this time keeping it pressed to his cheek. He looked at her. “I want you, Jane. I want you.”
She tried to pull away, and sensing her agitation, he let her go. Immediately she jumped to her feet and moved away. “I already told you,” she said. “I cannot be your mistress.”
“Why not? He has Amelia. And others. Why not? I can make you happy.” Lindley stood urgently. “At least I would die trying. Let me try. Give me a chance.”
She shook her head numbly. “Don’t you see? When I make love with a man, it’s just that— love.” Her tone dropped. “I’m sorry, Jon, but I don’t love you.”
He was very still. “I know,” he finally said. “But I think you would come to love me, if you let yourself.”
“I’m married.”
“Damn!” He paced away, then turned. “But you don’t love him, Jane.”
She bit her lip, staring at him with wide eyes.
“Oh, God! You do!”
She moved away, feeling unspeakably sad. “I’m sorry, Jon. Please, just be my friend.”
“I had better go,” he said harshly, the hurt clear in his tone.
Jane pursed her mouth so as not to cry. She watched him leave abruptly. He wouldn’t look at her. She felt so bad for him. Why was life so unfair?
Thomas arrived with a trolley table set for two, pushing it into the middle of the room. “I shall be dining alone, Thomas,” Jane told him, taking her seat. She helped herself to a glass of white wine and sipped it as Thomas uncovered the platters, then left. She wasn’t even hungry—just unbearably tired and thoroughly miserable.
Jonathon Lindley, in love with her, and she had hurt him. The earl with Amelia. The scandal. And here she was, so alone and so lonely. She suddenly wished Jon hadn’t left.
And as it turned out, she wasn’t as alone as she’d thought.
“No appetite?”
She gasped to find her husband leaning in the doorway, his expression mocking. “I—I didn’t hear you come in.”
He smiled without warmth. “It’s in my red blood” he said, moving into the room. He stripped off his tie and let it fall onto a chair.
“What?”
Another sarcastic grin. “Maybe someday I’ll tell you a tale.” He tossed his jacket on the same chair; it slipped to the floor. “A true tale,” he said, prowling closer.
Jane didn’t move, watching him carefully. She could not take her eyes from him. There was a coiled energy in him, and it was menacing. In that moment he reminded her of a panther, stalking his prey. Stalking her. And a hot, hot memory of him pressing her to the floor and plunging into her assailed her.
He paused by the table, inspecting it. “Dining alone? Why is that? The table’s clearly set for two.”
Jane looked at him. His eyes glittered.
“Don’t tell me.” He laughed, the sound mirthless and harsh. “You were expecting me.”
“Would you care to join me?” she managed. Her heart was beating wildly. She could feel her blood pulsing in every fiber of her being. Suddenly she was aware of her body as never before—of her legs in their sexy high heels, the fullness of her hips in the fitted gown, her breasts straining against the low bodice. She was flamingly, agonizingly alive.
“How kind of you, dear wife,” he said, abruptly hauling out a chair and sitting. “As it turns out, I’ve yet to eat. Shall I serve you as well?”
“Please,” she whispered helplessly.
He served her chicken and cold carrot and raisin salad, pâté and warm toast. Then he served himself. She watched his strong brown hands, his long, lean fingers. She stared at his downturned face, at the strong jaw, the hawkish nose, the sensuously chiseled lips and high, harsh cheekbones. He looked up, bared his teeth. “Don’t wait for me.”
She toyed with her food.
He attacked his.
Jane could not eat. She was aware of him cleaning his plate fiercely, with the same kind of thick, raw energy she sensed he harbored in his body. He finished, shoved the plate away, and raised his glass. “To you, wife.”
She didn’t move. He drained it. When he set it down, his glittering eyes went to her bosom.
Jane could not breathe. She would be fooling herself if she denied what she was waiting for now—his touch. She wanted him. Despite all the hurt and humiliation, despite Amelia, now, right now, she wanted him to take her in his steely arms and make hard, hot love to her.
Their gazes locked. Jane leaned slightly forward. She willed him to come to her. Instead, he lunged to his feet with a savage curse and strode from the room.
Disappointment left her trembling.
She sat still and unmoving for a long time, trying not to think. He did not want her, he’d probably just bedded Amelia. It hurt. It hurt so much. Slowly she rose, taking her glass of wine with her. She moved to the French doors and stared unseeingly into the night, blind to the moon and the stars. Then she went upstairs.
At her door she paused, her hand on the knob, not opening it. She knew he was two doors down the hall. Her body was flaming from the thought. She would just go to say good night. She would not, she told herself, make any forward moves, but she would give him an ample opportunity to come to her.
She decided not to knock. She pushed open the door to his bedroom. He was standing in the middle of the room, shirtless, trousers unbuttoned and belt open, an unlighted cigar in hand. His gaze whipped to hers.
He was all gleaming bronze skin and thickly packed sinew. He was a beautiful male animal. She drank him in.
“What do you want?” he said harshly, taking one rigid step toward her and going no farther.
She tried to breathe evenly, and failed. “I—I just wanted to say—say good night.” Jane swallowed, her palm pressing against her own abdomen, her breasts rising and falling visibly.
“Damn,” he growled. “Damn! Didn’t Lindley satisfy you?”
The question barely registered, and then she dismissed it. She only knew that if he didn’t touch her she would die. And if he did touch her …
“Didn’t he?” the earl r
oared, fists clenched, taking another step forward. His body shook. His skin glowed in the lamplight.
“No,” Jane whispered. Her gaze fell from his hot eyes to his flat belly and into the vee of his open trousers. His sex bulged against his underpants. She met his gaze. “Lindley is only a friend.”
He stared, his muscular chest rising and falling now too. “Jane,” he said thickly. “You’re asking for it. If you don’t leave—now—you’re going to get it.”
Jane didn’t break their eye contact. And she didn’t move.
He struggled visibly with himself.
“Nicholas,” she said softly, and boldly stepped forward to touch his hard belly.
For one instant he gasped, and they both stared at her small white hand low on his dark abdomen. Then he covered her palm with his, groaning, pushing it down into his trousers. He filled her hand through the underwear.
He caught her up, kissing her wildly, carrying her to the bed. She didn’t release him, but began to stroke his thick length, hard and fast. He threw her down, pressing on top of her, anchoring her head with her hair, tearing at her mouth. Jane slipped her hand into his briefs and gripped him. He was sticky, sliding easily in her grasp.
He gasped, arching on all fours, thrusting into her palm. “Jane,” he cried, their gazes meeting.
“Please.” She moaned. “Please!”
He pressed onto her, tossing up her skirts, tearing off her delicate French lace panties. At the feel of his fingers against her heat and wetness, Jane sobbed. And she guided him against her.
He thrust home. They cried out together, strained together, rose together, fell together. He plunged savagely and she met him savagely. Jane suddenly gripped the headboard, keening, and a moment later the earl collapsed with his own cries on top of her.
43
Jane didn’t move as the earl rolled from her to lay on his back beside her. His arm touched hers.
She listened to his slowing breathing as her own uproar subsided. With returning calm came such a forceful floodtide of emotion Jane was immobilized by it. Again she felt the urge to weep. And this time she knew with utter clarity that it was because she loved the earl.
