Dark Fires (21 page)

39

Jane became aware of the floor, hard and hurtful beneath her.

And the earl, who was hard and warm on top of her. His face was still buried in her neck, his breath hot and wispy on her skin. She could feel his lips against her throat, damp, and the thudding of his racing heart on her breast. He had her arms gripped firmly in his powerful hands, and she could still feel him inside her.

Oh, God!

She felt it then, the rushing tidal wave of tears behind her lids, hot, threatening—imminent. The urge to weep was overwhelming. Jane struggled as she’d never struggled before—she could not cry in front of him. Not now.

The earl abruptly rolled off her, onto his back, and was momentarily still. Jane had not known that so much pain remained in her heart. If she didn’t control herself, she would soon be sobbing hysterically in a flood of grief. And why? Because she loved this beautiful, angry man? Because he had married her for their daughter’s sake, not out of love for herself? Because he had hurt her once, two years ago, so devastatingly? Because now he had taken her in anger and jealousy and lust? She did not know. She was confused and distressed, in an emotional quagmire.

And she sniffed, daring to wipe away more tears before he should see them.

The earl suddenly lunged to his feet. Jane heard him cross the room and close the door. She was too upset to care that it had been open. She turned her head away, and more tears crawled down her cheeks. She felt his gaze upon her.

“God,” he said, the sound choked. “Jane? Did— did I hurt you?”

She was afraid to even try and speak; she shook her head no. She did not dare turn to look at him, not with her wet face.

“I’m sorry,” he said harshly.

It was the agonized tone of his voice that brought her to her elbows to stare. He had now turned his gaze aside. His profile was etched in rigid lines of tension, haggard, pain-filled. He was rubbing his chest as if his heart hurt him. “I’m sorry,” he said again, and in his voice she heard it all—the cruel self-flagellation.

She started to protest, unable to bear the sight and sound of him like his.

He looked at her and his gaze widened. “Why are you crying? Shit!”

He gave her his back, leaning on a chair, the muscles in his back and arms straining rigidly. “How can I ask such a stupid question!” Still, he would not turn to face her. “I’m sorry. It won’t happen again—I promise.”

“It’s not your fault,” Jane told him, getting to her feet. He would not face her. She hesitated, wanting to comfort him. “Both of us are responsible adults. I did not deny you.”

He didn’t move. She heard him curse. She could see the tendons straining in the back of his neck. Hesitantly Jane approached and laid a palm on his waist. He flinched as if struck. “Don’t touch me!”

Jane withdrew, hurt.

“I promise you,” the earl said harshly, turning to look at her. His eyes were silver with pain and some form of deep, internal punishment. “I’ll send Molly to you.”

And then he was gone.

Jane did not see the earl the rest of that day. It was as if he were avoiding her. With the incident in the morning room past, she began to think more clearly. There was no question that he had broken their agreement, even if she had been a willing party once he’d started kissing her. Yet she could not be angry. She had only to remember her own ecstasy in his arms, and his own agony after, to keep any wrath at bay.

And Jane worried about him.

What dark obsessions tormented him? What dark fires burned in his darker soul? And why, why did she have the terrible urge to heal him and make him laugh and smile?

Even when she arrived at the Criterion for the evening’s show she could not shake him from her thoughts. Robert informed her that they had another full house. This momentarily distracted her.

She knew her performance was off that night, and knew it was because of him. She did her best but could not lose herself in her role. In the back of her mind there loomed a hot memory she could not shed. And after, after the polite, scattered applause, the press attacked her outside her dressing room once again.

“Is the child yours?”

“Why keep it a secret?”

“He took her to Regents Park today and admitted she is his. Any comment?”

“Is it true you were Dragmore’s ward in the summer of seventy-four?”

“Wouldn’t that mean you are still his ward?”

“Did he abuse his position? The child
is
yours?”

“So you were what—seventeen that summer?”

“Why didn’t he marry you then?”

Jane escaped into her room, with Gordon slamming the door behind her.

She was frozen, stunned, unable to move. Unable to breathe.

“Good Lord!” Gordon cried. “My God! The impertinence! Jane, are you all right?”

Her hand fluttered to her breast. Her eyes were wide. She was still unable to move. And she was whiter than death. “Oh, God, what next?”

The earl could not find solace in brandy.

“Darling, what ails you tonight?”

He did not hear his mistress. Amelia huffed with frustration. They were in her parlor, Amelia dressed for an evening out, the earl in his breeches, boots, and shirt, the latter open halfway, untucked and wrinkled. There was a shadow on his face, but it was nothing compared to the shadow in his eyes. He had drunk half a bottle of whiskey, but he wasn’t drunk. To the contrary, he was stone-cold sober.

“Fuck,” he said viciously, and he sent the bottle sailing onto the Turkish carpet on the floor.

“Nick!” Amelia cried, furious. She bent to pick up the bottle.

“Leave it,” he ground out.

She stood, hands on her plump hips. “You are a bastard tonight. Are we or are we not going to the Sinclair soirée?”

He looked at her for the first time in an hour. He despised her, always had. Yet he was here— because he must stay away from his wife.

At all costs.

“You go,” he said with contempt. “Why do I put up with you!” Amelia stormed out.

Nick clenched the arms of the chair until he heard the frame crack. He had taken Jane in anger today, in violence. He had raped her.

Like Chavez.

He was just like Chavez.

His heart was hammering painfully. But more painful was the searing memory of her delicate, oval face, flushed from his mouth and skin, and the tears spilling down her cheeks.

How could he make it up to her? How?

By staying away from her. Maybe he should leave her in London, while he went to Dragmore. But could he run from his wife forever?

Could he run from himself?

“Jane, I’m sorry.” He groaned. “Never, ever did I want to hurt you.”

It was just past midnight. The earl heard Amelia giving instructions to her maid as she left for the evening. He felt relief at her departure. Just past twelve; Jane’s performance had ended. Would she be going home directly, or go out with Gordon? Or Lindley?

Tonight there was no jealousy, just more pain.

It didn’t matter. Whether she went home or not, for he had to stay away from her. The earl got up and sprawled on the sofa, an arm flung across his forehead, staring at the painted fan on the ceiling. He could only think of Jane, Jane. On the stage, dynamic, angelic, beautiful. Jane shy and trembling, as when they’d first met. Jane in his arms, hot, carnal, crying his name.

He closed his eyes. He was so tired. He knew he never could sleep. But when he opened them again, it was almost four, and Amelia was bending over him, cooing in a way he particularly detested.

“Darling, you are so tired! Come with me, up to bed.” She stroked his hair.

He sat up, instantly awake, ignoring her pawing. Then he stood, looking around for his jacket. He found it on a chair and shrugged it on.

“You’re going?”

“I’m very tired,” he told her, heading for the door.

Amelia followed on his heels. “I am going to take another lover!”

He almost smiled, but to himself, for he did not even turn to her. “You already have other lovers, Amelia,” he said, stepping out into the night. He didn’t look back as he strode to his carriage.

Jane filled his thoughts again, and he was afraid. He didn’t like her being on his mind like this, did not trust himself anymore to be able to stay away from her. He had hurt her once, would he hurt her again? Would she ever forgive him for what he had done? And did it even matter if she did?

Once home, as he climbed the stairs, he became very aware of drawing nearer to her. He paused on the second-floor landing. Just down the hall she was there, in her room, asleep. He was tense with the knowledge, the certainty. Tonight she was not out with a paramour.

Nick paused outside her door, then opened it. Silently he crossed her sitting room and entered the bedroom.

Moonlight spilled in through the open windows. A breeze lifted sheer curtains and the lace hangings on the canopy of her bed. Her room smelled of lilies. She was asleep, on her side, curled up like a child.

Unable to stop himself, he approached.

She was a sleeping angel—his sleeping angel, his wife.

His wife, whom he had hurt, violated, in the grossest way. The pain filled him again, choking him. He felt hot tears behind his eyes, and knew the strongest urge to cry since being a boy.

“I’m so sorry, Jane,” he whispered.

She did not move. His hand, of its own accord, touched a tress of her hair, and then it slipped deeply into the mass to touch her head. She sighed.

“Forgive me,” he whispered, kneeling beside her. His face was close to hers. “I’m sorry. Jane? Will you ever forgive me?”

There was no response. Had he expected one?

“I love you,” he heard himself say, and he wasn’t shocked by his admission at all.

“Jane, I love you,” he choked.

And then he got up and left.

40

Jane awoke unhappy.

It was early, not even eight, but she couldn’t stay abed, even though she hadn’t been able to sleep until after three. And he hadn’t been home yet. As she dressed she found herself equally depressed and upset. He had made love to her only yesterday afternoon, yet last night he had been with one or another of his mistresses. The thought of him with Amelia was unbearable.

And then there was still the foul aftertaste of what had happened at the Criterion last night after her performance.

Jane expected to find him in the dining room breakfasting, and she was not disappointed. This morning he looked up, his gaze hooded. Chad, who was about finished, called out an enthusiastic greeting. “Good morning,” she said to the boy, tousling his hair and kissing his cheek as she passed. He beamed.

She found the earl regarding her. Jane was shocked at the circles beneath his eyes. He looked as tired as she was, and she felt herself start to soften. With a distinct effort, she reminded herself that he had not come home last night until very, very late. She hugged her daughter and sat.

“Good morning,” the earl said.

“Good morning.” Jane was just as polite. Their gazes cautiously met, and both flew immediately apart.

Nicole was making a mess of bread and jam, up to her elbows in strawberry preserves, so Jane busied herself with rescuing her daughter from further disaster. She was aware of the earl watching as she scolded the baby gently. Nicole gurgled happily, then began banging the tray table. “Red, red,” she shouted.

“What does she want?” Chad asked, nose wrinkled in disgust.

“You must eat it, not play,” Jane admonished, handing her a new slice of toast and removing the sticky crumbled mess. “More bread.”

“Papa, may I be excused?” Chad was already standing.

The earl’s smile was gentle, and it reached his eyes. “Yes.”

Chad started to run, but the earl called him back. Sheepish, Chad gave his father a hug, then started to dart away again. “Chad! What about Jane?”

Chad grinned, raced to Jane, gave her a kiss and fled at a run.

“Study hard,” Jane called after him.

Nicole was jamming the bread into her mouth with gusto.

“She has a good appetite,” the earl remarked.

Jane’s gaze flew to his, skittered away. “Like her father.” There was silence, and she began blushing , thinking about the eari’s many appetites—his manly ones.

The earl toyed with the
Times
, darting more looks at her. Jane studiously began filling her plate with food she did not want. Out of the corner of her eye she glimpsed his strong, big hands, and she clearly recalled how they felt on her flesh. She tried to recall his infidelities as well, but was too unnerved to become angry.

“May I?” she asked, pointing at the newspaper.

“Of course,” he said, handing it to her. He busied himself with pouring a fresh cup of coffee, then, on an afterthought, filled her cup for her. “Sorry.” He was blushing faintly, high on his cheekbones.

“It’s all right,” she said shyly, thrilled at the gesture.

Their gazes met, held. The earl was the first to glance away.

Jane nibbled toast and sipped coffee, thumbing through the
Times.
She was very aware of her husband and paid scant attention to the news-breaking headlines. Until a bold typeface in the midsection caught her eyes, and then she gasped.

FALLEN ANGEL!

It was a screaming headline. The story was accompanied by two separate illustrations of her and the earl. Jane scanned the page and saw that it boasted all the sordid details of their stormy relationship. That she had been, and was, his ward, that she was the mother of his year-old illegitimate daughter, that they were just married, that he consorted with his mistress and she with her manager and “very good friend.”

“What is it?” the earl asked sharply.

“Look!” Jane cried, pale, choked. “Look at this!”

The earl took the paper she shoved at him and began to read. He grew dark and grim.

“Last night they badgered me with disgusting questions about you and me, about Nicole, about the past!” Jane said vehemently. “And the night before as well! The show was ready to close, but since our marriage we’ve had two full houses. But they don’t come to see the play! They come to see the Fallen Angel! I’m no longer an actress—I’m a freak show!”

“I’m sorry,” the earl said harshly. “God, I’m sorry!”

She turned on him, letting loose all her frustration and anger. “How could you!” she cried, standing. “How could you take Nicole to the park yesterday? How could you!”

“Jane, she’s my daughter.”

“You could have warned me! We could have figured out what to do! Did you do it on purpose?”

“Nicole is my daughter. Not some damned secret to be kept hidden from the world! If I want to take her out I will!”

“I’ll never overcome the scandal! My career! I’m ruined!”

The earl was on his feet too. “What would you have us do? Hide? The way you were hiding?”

“Yes!” Jane shouted irrationally. “Yes! If you don’t care about humiliating me”—she thought of Amelia—“then at least spare a concern for your daughter!”

“Nicole is my concern!” the earl shouted. “I’ll be damned if I’ll deny her her place in this goddamn Society! It was her I was thinking of—this I can assure you!”

“Yes.” Jane was bitter. “You would think only of Nicole—and not of me!”

“Nicole is my daughter. I had every right to publicly claim her.”

“And ruin me! But you don’t care, do you? You’ve never cared!”

He froze then. “It will die down. There’s nothing else for them to dig up.”

“Die down,” she echoed grimly, flushed now. “That’s easy for you to say. You’re not the one who’s ruined!”

He flinched. “Think again.”

Jane’s senses returned. He was as much a victim of the scandal as she was, maybe even more. After all, he’d been her guardian. They would blame him at least as much, if not more, for her downfall, for seducing her, his underage ward.

“I should have never married you. Damn it, I was selfish. I wanted Nicole, I didn’t think!”

That hurt—the confession that he’d wanted his daughter. She saw him pace away, rigid with self-condemnation. She suddenly regretted all her words and accusations, even if it hurt to know he cared only about Nicole and not about her. She thought of how he had lived with scandal for the past six years—with scandal and darkness. She hurried to him. “I’m the one being selfish. Forgive me. I can handle this. You’re right. It will die down.”

He turned to her, eyes mocking. “What? A change of heart?”

She regarded him steadily, with compassion. She wanted to touch him, hold him.

Anger flared in his eyes.
“Don’t pity me!”

“I don’t!”

But it was too late. He was already striding furiously from the room, and the doors slammed behind him like thunder.