by Brenda Joyce
Two years ago she had loved him with a schoolgirl’s naïveté and infatuation. Now her love was something more, something deep. She recognized that his absence in her life prevented her from attaining fulfillment and completion. There was still the stunning physical attracton that had been there from the start, but there was more, so much more. Jane knew she needed him. She needed his strength, his protection, even though she was a wholly capable and independent woman. And Jane knew he needed her. She knew, with utter clarity, that she could chase away his demons, heal his heart, that she could bring light and ease into his life. Oh, how she wanted to do so!
How she wished he would touch her, hold her.
How she wanted to touch him, hold him.
She didn’t know what to do, and she wanted to do something. She didn’t know what to say, but something must be said. She was absolutely determined that they would not go back to separate beds and that the earl would get rid of his mistresses. Gently she must ease him down this path.
And make him love her. Just a little.
I’m a fool, she thought. She knew how hard the earl was. Knew he would never love any woman, and certainly not her. But maybe, one day, he would come to care for her as his friend, supporter, and wife.
Recklessly Jane rolled onto her side to snuggle against him, her face to his shoulder, breast to his arm, knee to knee. He went stiff.
Jane was rigid too. But she did not back down. Her lips were against his damp skin and she pressed them there. She felt him relaxing then, and abruptly he shifted toward her and pulled her into his embrace.
He kissed her. It was slow and leisurely, yet it brought a new sensual onslaught. His hand slid down her back in a soft, tender caress. Jane touched his ribs, explored them, while their tongues mated. The earl broke the kiss, pulling her partly beneath him, rose up so he could look down into her face fully. Jane gazed back steadily. She wanted to smile, but just couldn’t.
Finally he spoke, low and husky. “You’re so beautiful.”
And she did smile. “So are you.”
This turned up the chiseled curve of his mouth. “I’m not sure that is a compliment.”
“Oh, it is.”
His gaze darkened. There was something profound and sincere in his eyes, something deep and desperate, yet Jane could not decipher what she saw, and sensed. He kissed her hungrily, then rained kisses upon her face and throat and chest.
It was as if he could not get enough of her, or as if he were afraid that this moment was just that, only a moment and there would be no more. Jane felt his fear, his need. It fueled her response to his lovemaking.
After, they lay entwined together in each other’s arms. Jane’s heart was bursting with joy and breaking with sorrow. She loved this man, and the pain of loving him was nearly unbearable. Yet bear it she knew she would.
He would leave her now, she thought miserably, as he shifted onto his side. Yet he groped for her, hauled her again into his embrace, and kissed her once on the shoulder. Jane realized that the earl had fallen asleep.
Tears came to her eyes. She snuggled close unabashedly, watching him sleep, the lines of ravage upon his face softer now. Her heart tripped heavily. She prayed he would not wake up, prayed he would spend the night with her in its entirety.
For Jane was determined. From this day forward they would be man and wife in all senses of the word.
When Jane awoke to bright, midmorning sunlight, the bed was empty and the earl was gone.
She cuddled deep into his pillow, smiling. She had barely slept all night, unable to do more than doze beside him. In the middle of the evening he had awakened to go to the W.C. Jane had thought he was leaving her, adjourning to his study. She had feigned sleep, vastly disappointed. Yet he had only gone to the toilet and then he returned, climbing into bed beside her and hauling her into his arms. His kisses began on her neck, his hands gentle on her buttocks. Soon they were making love again.
Jane laughed, stretching like a cat. The earl was a magnificent man. Handsome and virile and smart—and she was in love.
Would he come to her tonight?
If he went out with Amelia she would be devastated.
She had an urge, but it was too brash and bold for this stage of their relationship. It was too soon to invite him to sup with her after her performance. She would have to come home and hope he was here, waiting for her.
Downstairs, Thomas informed her that the earl was already gone for a business appointment, and Jane was disappointed. She felt as if she were merely living for the next time she saw him, and told herself to stop being such a besotted fool. Yet she could no more deny her heart than she could take wing and fly. Indeed, it was as if she flew through the day, floating on clouds, her thoughts filled with him.
As was becoming customary, Jane gathered Chad and Nicole after their early supper to read to them. She chose another fairy tale, and had just begun when she sensed his presence and looked up. Purposefully she had left the door wide open.
The earl stood in breeches and tweed jacket, his tie dangling from his hand. His gaze dwelled solely upon her, steady, unflinching, unfathomable.
“Papa!” Chad shouted, running to hug him.
“Papa!” Nicole echoed, imitating her brother. She waved a hair ribbon in her chubby fist.
Still with eyes only for Jane, the earl’s hand found Chad’s back. Finally he tore his gaze free. “Hello, son.”
“Want to hear a story?” Chad asked enthusiastically.
His hand in the boy’s hair, the earl looked up, again at Jane, this time with a question in his eyes.
Jane, sitting on the settee, legs tucked beneath her, Nicole on her lap, smiled softly. “Please, join us.”
His gaze leapt. The earl shrugged off his jacket, tossing it onto a chaise where, of course, it fell to the floor. Chad was dancing gleefully around his father, then dropped to his place at Jane’s feet. The earl eased onto the settee by her bent knees. Their gazes met, locked.
Jane’s heart lodged somewhere in the vicinity of her throat. She wanted to touch him, lean forward and kiss his cheek. But she did not dare.
“Hello, sweetheart,” he said gently to a happy Nicole. He lifted her onto his own lap, the baby shouting with excitement.
“She loves her papa,” Jane noted, heart pounding. He was so big he dwarfed the sofa, crowding her. His thigh touched her knee.
The earl smiled a rare smile, with real pleasure. Two dimples appeared to accompany it. “Yes, she does,” he said, and then his silver gaze lanced hers again. Jane knew he was thinking about last night—just as she was.
“Jane,” Chad shouted, tugging on her skirt. “Come on, don’t forget the story!”
Jane tousled his hair, smiling, and opened the book on her lap. She began to read.
44
Jane handed Thomas her cloak. Quietly she asked, “Is the earl at home?”
Thomas smiled. “He’s in the library, my lady.”
Jane’s heart danced. Trying to hide her own obvious pleasure, she touched the heavy knot of hair at the nape of her neck, then smoothed the silk of her bodice. She was wearing an emerald-green gown that she knew did especially wonderful things for her face and figure, and she hurried to the study. He sat on the couch with a journal, whiskey, and cigar. With more elation, Jane saw that he was wearing trousers with a paisley smoking jacket—and a gentleman never wore his smoking jacket out of the house.
He looked up, a light flaring in his smoky gray eyes.
“Good evening,” Jane said, suddenly nervous.
“Good evening,” he replied. His tone was polite, but his eyes were not. They devoured her, every inch, finally lingering upon her bosom, shockingly revealed by the low-cut dress. He set the journal down. “And how was it tonight?”
“Fine,” she said. “You’re not going out?”
He gave her a slight smile. “I found all the proferred engagements uninteresting.” His look was sharp.
Jane bit back a smile. “May I �
�?” She trailed off shyly.
“Please,” he said quickly, leaping to his feet. “A sherry?”
“That would be wonderful,” Jane said, coming toward the sofa. He went to pour her a glass. Jane sat down gracefully, choosing deliberately not the middle of the couch, but not the end either. He returned, handed her the glass, and sat, somewhere in the middle of the sofa—almost touching her skirts.
“Shall I ask Thomas to serve us a late supper?”
“You haven’t eaten?” Jane was surprised, and wondered, daringly, if he had waited for her.
He colored slightly on his high cheekbones. “I was very involved in reading,” he said lamely. “It escaped my mind.”
“I am famished,” Jane lied. She had no appetite, but would certainly find one, anything to linger with him!
The earl rose and rang a bell, then, when Thomas appeared, ordered him to serve what he would on the trolley table. Thomas departed, positively beaming. Jane sipped the sherry, eyes lowered, her body tense.
The earl sipped his whiskey. They seemed at a loss for conversation.
“Did you—” Jane began.
“Was it—” the earl said simultaneously.
They both smiled, each waiting for the other to continue. “Please,” the earl said.
“Did you have a satisfactory business meeting?” Jane asked.
“Yes. I’m investing in an East India import-export company.”
“Oh. And what do they import-export?”
“Spices, oils, silks, rugs, the usual exotica,” the earl told her.
A new silence, no less awkward, descended. The earl broke it carefully. “And how was the performance tonight?”
Jane sighed. “No more full houses. We had about two-thirds attendance tonight.” She set her sherry down. “The novelty is wearing off, and I’m afraid that soon we shall be closing this run.”
“I’m sorry,” he said.
Jane shrugged. “It’s part of the business. Every show has a life of its own—legs, we call it. I guess we shall be adjourning to Dragmore, then?”
“Yes, I guess so. Unless there is a reason you wish to remain in London?”
Jane thought of being at Dragmore, away from all of Society and the horrible gossip, away from Amelia and her likes, and she was suddenly eager to go. They would be a family—just the two of them and the children. She wished they could depart tomorrow. “No,” she said, deliberately hiding her enthusiasm. “I promised, and Dragmore is fine. Besides, it will be good for the children.”
“Yes,” he said, “I think so too.”
Their gazes cautiously met. Then they boldly held. His glittered like hot silver, stealing Jane’s breath and making her chest tight. Softly he said, “You are ravishing in that dress.”
Jane was about to say thank you when Thomas wheeled in the trolley table, replete with covered dishes, set with silver and crystal. The earl followed her to the table, then pulled out her chair before she could do so herself. He smiled at her surprise, seating her before sitting himself. He gestured for Thomas to pour the wine and begin serving them.
He could not take his eyes off Jane.
She was stunningly beautiful, and tonight, more than ever, she glowed with that innocent carnal sensuality that was such an intriguing contradiction. The earl had no desire to eat. All he wanted to do was watch Jane, listen to her voice, be with her.
She’d haunted him throughout the day.
As had the memories of their passionate night together.
The earl had had no intention of going out that evening. Not with Jane on his mind, in his very soul. He’d hoped she’d come home directly from the Criterion, and had been ill-pressed to hide his profound elation when she had. Maybe, just maybe, like himself, she wanted to be with him.
Would she invite him to her bed tonight?
He ached for her, even now, sitting at the table, the napkin barely disguising his arousal. He would gladly die a dozen deaths just to be in her arms again tonight. All day he’d been tormented with wondering if she’d changed her mind about their “agreement.” About the separate bedrooms. Yet he was so afraid of her answer that he could not, would not, ask.
He knew he was being selfish, but he wanted the play to fold, and soon. He wanted to take his family, his children, his wife, to the peace and solitude of Dragmore, where he could be alone with them, with her. The thought was exhilarating.
Yet he tried to chase it away, because he wanted Jane to be happy, and he knew the stage was her joy.
He tried to eat. He barely managed, and noticed that she too had little appetite. He kept thinking about what would happen after the meal. Different scenarios played themselves out: They would walk upstairs, pause at her door, she would say good night, and then disappear into her rooms, alone.
Or she would pause, blushing, not quite able to meet his gaze, and her voice, low, timid, indistinct, she would ask him if he cared to come in.
Or, better, her look would be direct, bold and sexy and suggestive of all the carnal pleasure they would share, and there would be no words. He would follow her in, her invitation silent, and she would turn, and then he would fall wildly upon her …
The earl shifted, thoroughly uncomfortable now. The meal could not be finished soon enough. Yet he dreaded its end too, dreaded the possibility of rejection.
Jane sighed, laying her knife and fork carefully side by side, indicating she was through. The earl promptly pushed his plate away, calling for Thomas. As the butler removed their dishes, the earl gazed at Jane’s bent head, at her small hands resting on the linen tablecloth. She wore only one ring, a ruby that had been her mother’s, and no bracelets. He was determined then to buy her jewelry. She looked up, her gaze wide and uncertain although unwavering, and gave him a small smile. The earl wanted to grab her and crush her in his arms.
“Coffee, my lady? Would you care for some fresh raspberry tarts?” Thomas asked.
“No, thank you,” Jane said, “nothing more.” Her glance drifted to and settled upon the earl.
His chest was tight—everything was tight. He waved Thomas away. “That will be all for tonight, thank you.” He rose, went to Jane, and drew back her chair. His hands brushed her shoulders. Tremors traveled along his spine from the slight contact.
“Well,” Jane said, with a small smile.
“Would you like another drink?”
She bit her lip, her blue eyes upon him. “No, I— I think I—I’ll go upstairs.”
He stared at her in the following silence, then nodded. With his hand, he touched her back as she moved forward, ahead of him.
It took an eternity to ascend the stairs to the second floor. The earl’s heart was beating thickly, out of control, even uncomfortably. Would she invite him in? Would she? The question echoed, tormented, consumed him.
At her door she paused, her back to him. He stood behind her, waiting. She turned slightly and looked at him with a tremulous, uncertain gaze. It was not an invitation. Yet it was not a rejection. They stared at each other for endless moments.
The earl heard himself say, thickly, “Do you want me to come in?” And in the ensuing seconds time came to a standstill.
“Yes,” she whispered finally, blushing pink.
Joy suffused him. His gaze went bright like lightning, and he smiled. She smiled too. The earl reached past her and pushed open the door, and together they went in.
45
As sleep faded, Nick reached for Jane.
His hand found only the warm space on her side of the bed, and it lingered there, while his consciousness returned. With it came recollection of the night before and that morning, when, a few hours earlier, he’d awakened her with his hands and mouth, to make love to her again. The first time had been frantic, the last soft and easy. He was stirring now. Amazingly, he could not get enough of her and he wanted her again.
He opened his eyes to look up at the peach silk tenting of the canopy above his head, listening for her, for the sounds of her return.
A smile lazily appeared, softening his features, easing the harsh lines around his mouth. He didn’t think he’d ever felt so wonderful, so calm and relaxed, so replete. Hurry back to me, Jane, he thought. I want you, darling.
He closed his eyes. Was he brave enough to tell her how much she meant to him? That without her there was only darkness and despair? That she was the sunshine and laughter in his life? That he loved her?
He was a coward. He was afraid to let her know the enormity of his feelings for her.
And then he heard the distinct sound of retching.
The earl was already out of the bed as the harsh sound came again from the water closet. Grim and concerned, he rushed forward, to find Jane on her knees, hugging the bowl, her face pale and tinged green.
“What is it?” he cried, acute panic knifing him. He knelt beside her, taking her into his arms, and she leaned against him wearily. “Jane, you’re ill!”
“It will pass, I think,” she mumbled into his chest.
He stroked her hair, then froze, as the significance of her morning illness struck him. Morning illness. He separated himself from her to stare at her, tense and hard now, sick and furious. Didn’t women become ill like this a month or so after conceiving? Not within a few days. She suddenly dove for the bowl again, retching.
He steadied her and, after she had finished, helped her rise. He watched her as she rinsed her mouth and washed her face and hands. For once he was, impossibly, immune to her naked body, so slim and slender, yet so perfectly curved. She turned to him, with an embarrassed smile, then saw his expression and froze. “Nicholas? What is it?”
He smiled, but it was only a bitter twisting of one side of his mouth. “Maybe you had better tell me”.
“What’s wrong?” she asked, anxiety in her tone. She touched his arm, he jerked away. “What is it!” she cried.
“You’re pregnant,” he said flatly, eyes cold and emotionless. “And it certainly isn’t with my child.”
Jane stared.
“Whose is it?”
