Dark Fires (4 page)

6

Jane passed a sleepless night. She tossed and turned, both miserable and angry. She would never give up her dreams, yet she sensed that the earl would be as immovable as a stone wall. Again and again their conversation replayed itself in her mind. The words became lost among the images. Mostly his image, dark and threatening. He had not a jot of compassion in his entire large, hard body. His eyes were silver ice. If she wasn’t careful, she would probably be married within the fortnight.

Knowing him now, as little as she did, sensing the dark, hot anger pulsing within him, she thought that perhaps what they said was true, perhaps he had killed his wife. After all, where there’s smoke there’s fire, and he had been on trial for the murder—the trial of the Earl of Drag-more had been sensationalized by the press, making headlines every day for a week. It had only been three and a half years ago. Jane had seen some of the papers. That particular week Matilda and the parson had argued vehemently once over whether he was guilty or innocent, Matilda certain he had done the grisly deed. She had won that battle. But he had been acquitted. Some time during this period he had gained the popular title the Lord of Darkness.

And then she remembered his hands.

She saw them clearly, big and powerful, hands that could kill. Yet how could a murderer’s hands stroke a little boy’s hair with such tenderness? Jane was assailed with the memory of how, earlier, in the nursery, Nick had not been able to take his palm out of Chad’s thick hair. The power had been cowed by gentleness, such gentleness …

Jane hoped he hadn’t killed his wife. Suddenly she wished she could remember the details of the case. She had only been fourteen, and she hadn’t read the papers, just glanced at the headlines and listened to Matilda and the parson fighting.

When she finally fell asleep she dreamed. But not of the murder. She dreamed of his hands, big, gentle, stroking Chad’s hair. Except the hair changed from brown to blond. And he was stroking her hair. His warm hand, throbbing with life, slid to her neck, cupping it. And across her shoulder, down her arm … The pleasure was unbearable. She awoke stretching like a cat, sensually, languidly, a smile on her lips. Her breasts felt full and aching, and her nipples were small and hard, rubbing against the thin lawn of her nightgown. Jane did not want to wake up. She touched her breast, a small caress, held it, then her hand drifted to her belly and paused. Her gown was twisted up around her thighs, which were spread open, sprawling lasciviously. She recalled then, in a flash of clarity, that she had been dreaming of his touch, and she went pink. Yet it had been so real.

She would never dream that dream again!

Thank God he would never be able to read her mind!

Jane leapt from the bed and washed and dressed in a plain blue-striped dress. She wished now that she had brought her crinoline, but because she hated it and never wore it at the parsonage she hadn’t. She wondered if he expected her to take her breakfast in the nursery as well. She was seventeen, not six. She would not—even if he thought her a child. Still, as she went downstairs she was soundless, purposefully, and outside the doors to the breakfast room she hesitated, momentarily unsure, even afraid to enter. The room was empty.

Relief was vast, but there was a tingling of disappointment too.

The sideboard was still graced with hot, covered serving dishes and platters. His place was empty, the plate gone but the setting still there, left in disarray. Jane could still feel his presence, or so she imagined. There was no setting for her. With determination, she went out and into the kitchen. A dozen servants stood about, gabbing. Food being prepared for the earl’s next meal lay about on what appeared to be a dirty countertop, the mutton unwrapped, not even on a plate. Jane was aghast. Dirty pots were piled in the sink. The floors were filthy, both dirty and stained. The walls, usually white and now gray, needed a washing as well.

“Mum, can I help you?”

It was Molly. Jane smiled. “Yes. Please set me a place at the table in the breakfast room. I will be taking” —she hesitated—“breakfast there from now on.” She wanted to take all her meals with him, but decided she had better go inch by inch. “Molly, why is that counter like that?”

“Excuse me, mum?”

“Who is in charge here?” Jane asked.

“I am,” said a chubby man in a chef’s white uniform. He smiled back at her, thinking he had never seen such a sweet angel-like doll in his life. “I’m Frankel, ma’am.”

“Frankel—” She searched for the words. “Would you please remove that mutton to the dogs and find his lordship something else for his dinner?” She smiled encouragingly. “Would you please have the counters cleaned before you do another thing?” She paused, to see if she had offended him. Her smile was quick, warm. “This kitchen needs a woman’s touch!”

“That it does, miss!” Frankel agreed wholeheartedly. They beamed at each other.

“After you have fixed the earl’s dinner, can you see that all the counters are washed down, the floor swept and mopped? And the pots and pans should be done immediately.” There was more, so much more, but Jane knew she would have to stand there and supervise personally to see it done. “Do you need more staff?” she asked innocently, knowing that he did not.

“No, miss.” Frankel began barking out orders, puffed with pleasure, the general with his army performing for the lady. It had never occurred to Jane that she would not be obeyed. She was used to winning people with her smile, beauty, and good nature.

But Molly hadn’t moved. She was watching her nervously. Jane turned to her inquiringly. “Mum, did his lordship say it’s all right?”

Jane fought the blush. “His lordship will not mind.”

Molly gave her a glance filled with doubt.

In the breakfast room Jane waited for Molly to set her a place. That was when she saw him.

Through the tall, arched windows she watched him come galloping around the corner of the house. Galloping. Across the beautiful, perfectly tended lawns. Clumps of grass and dirt actually flew up and hit the windowpanes. His stallion was as black as the devil. He sat bareback. They appeared unnatural, like some ungodly creature, or something out of mythology, a Centaur, perhaps. The earl went galloping away, riding like a madman. In his wake he left an endless gash of mud and dirt.

“He is mad.” Jane didn’t realize she’d spoken aloud until she heard herself. “He’ll kill himself!”

“Oh, no, mum, there’s no one who can ride like he can.”

Jane glanced sharply at Molly. There was no mistaking the pride in her tone and, now, the shining of her eyes. Why, Jane thought, startled, she’s half in love with him! “But look what he’s done to the lawn!”

Molly shrugged. “He don’t care.”

Jane thought of the mud she’d seen in the foyer yesterday and the dust in the parlor, the state of the kitchen. No, he didn’t care. “Molly, how long have you worked for his lordship?”

“Just a few months, mum.”

Jane was disappointed. “Are the stories true?”

Molly’s face lit up. “About his wife?” she whispered.

Jane bit her lip. She shouldn’t be gossiping with the servants, but … “Yes.” She was whispering too.

“He could have killed her,” Molly said. “He’s so angry. And so strong.”

“Yes, I think …” Jane stopped, looking at Molly. “How do you know he’s strong?”

Molly actually blushed.

Jane was no fool. Molly was pretty and plump, the earl a handsome man. She felt the hot hurt balloon in her heart and told herself she was being a ninny. Many lords dallied with servants. It was not unusual. Why had she felt such a rush of tears? She turned away, to look back out the window. To her shock, she saw an army of gardeners, a dozen of them in their baggy knickers with shovels and spades—and they were patching the vast runnel he had made with pieces of sod right before her very eyes. Jane gasped.

“He never comes back this way,” Molly explained. “He’ll be gone until dinner. When he returns, it’ll be as good as new.”

It was unbelievable. “Where do they get the sod?”

“They buy it every week, keep tons of it out back. He does this every day.”

The amusement faded. The man was insane, she decided, and it was incredibly arrogant of him to treat his home with such disdain.

“Thomas was here when it happened,” Molly confided, low.

Jane whirled. “The butler?”

“Yes’m. You know, she died in the fire.”

“No, I didn’t know.”

Molly nodded toward the south wing, just visible through the window, the walls black and crumbling, the windows gaping, jagged holes, like toothless open mouths. “They think he set the fire —to kill her?”

Molly nodded. “He almost killed her lover. You know about that? Crippled him, he did. The Earl—”

“Molly! That’s enough. You have duties upstairs.”

Both girls whirled, Molly curtsying, Jane flushing. Thomas stood, arms folded, watching as Molly ran off. Jane managed a good morning, her ears pink. Thomas replied politely, but his eyes were all-seeing, his expression reproving.

7

By two in the afternoon Jane knew what she was doing. She was hanging about the downstairs foyer, waiting for him to appear, as if she were some smitten schoolgirl. She wasn’t smitten, oh, no, not in the least. She was just … fascinated.

She had gleaned all sorts of information from Molly as the plump maid had done her chores upstairs. The earl took coffee, not tea, and eggs, steak, and potatoes, all fried, at six in the morning. He did not eat kippers or smoked salmon and he hated kidney pie. He read the papers while he ate, then rode his stallion out to oversee his vast acreage. Almost invariably destroying the lawns. He returned between two and two-thirty for dinner, then spent the afternoon in his library taking care of the business of the estate and his own private affairs. Supper was at eight. He often took whiskey, not brandy, before. Some evenings he retired and some he went out.

Molly had been a gold mine of gossip. Jane learned that the earl was American, not English. His mother had been the old earl’s daughter, and she had married a rancher in Texas. The earl had been raised there. He had come to England upon his majority to take over Dragmore and had dutifully married Patricia Weston. Patricia had been the duke’s eldest son’s only issue; her father had been killed in a hunting accident before the duke himself died of natural causes and old age. She was Jane’s cousin although they had never met. Patricia was the last of the Westons; Chad would inherit the duke’s title and estates. Patricia had been a blond, green-eyed beauty who could have had any peer in the land. Yet, Jane thought, she had chosen the Earl of Dragmore. Apparently it had been a love match.

Yet a year after Chad’s birth Patricia had left her husband, running away with a lover. Molly told her that Patricia had been afraid of the earl, afraid he would kill her for her infidelity. He had chased them down and challenged her lover, the Earl of Boltham, to a duel. Boltham had been crippled—to this day he walked with a limp.

“After that he hated his wife,” Molly told her eagerly.
“Hated her.
Locked her up. Wouldn’t let her leave Dragmore. Hit her, he did.
Raped her.”

“Molly!” Jane protested. “This is all gossip—and it’s terrible of you to be saying such unkind things about his lordship!”

“It’s true,” Molly cried. “Believe me, mum, I
know
him. He’s the kind who’ll take what he wants, when he wants it—if you get my meanin’.” Molly winked.

Jane did, indeed, understand. She refused to think of the earl with Molly, taking what he wanted when he wanted it, and she was not going to even consider that he had raped his poor, persecuted wife.

Molly shrugged. “Anyway, he just got tired of her one day an’ set the fire an’ she died.”

“The courts found him innocent,” Jane said.

“Wasn’t enough evidence that it was murder,” Molly replied. “But he wanted to kill her, he’d said so plenty of times, plenty of folks heard him say it. An’ the judge said the fire was set. If he didn’t set it, who did?”

“Are you sure the courts found the fire to be arson?”

Molly nodded. “Ask Thomas. He knows. If he’ll
tell
you.”

“Then why did they acquit him?” Jane found herself getting exasperated.

“He had an alibi.” Molly grinned, dimpling. “He was with a whore all night. She testified. A famous London madam. But everyone knows how easy it is to pay those birds off, mum.”

That he had, or might have, consorted with a prostitute seemed to bother Jane as much as anything. She turned away, telling herself that she had gotten what she deserved for gossiping with the smitten maid. It was all just rumor, not even secondhand.

Could he have killed his wife?

She did not believe it. She would not believe it.

It was two-fifteen and there was no sign of the earl. Jane caught her reflection in a Venetian mirror in the hall. Her face was pink with a healthy flush. Her blue eyes were bright, shining. But, with dismay, she thought she still looked like a schoolgirl in the high-necked, plain blue dress. Maybe she should be wearing crinolines. The braid definitely had to go. And then she saw his reflection behind her in the glass. She whirled. She hadn’t heard him approach.

He eyed her.

Jane bit her lip, her heart pounding furiously. She felt like a thief caught red-handed, which was ridiculous, for she hadn’t been doing anything wrong. Their gazes locked.

He was damp with perspiration. It trickled on his brow. His black hair was wet. A drop ran from one very high cheekbone and down to his strong, hard jaw. The cords were visible on his neck, as strong as the rest of him, and slick, too, with sweat. She could smell him—man mingled with horse and leather and cut hay. Her fingers nervously smoothed her unwrinkled skirt.

His gaze followed her hands.

Jane took the opportunity to look at his chest. His shirt was, unbelievably, open almost to his navel. His chest was broad, the chest muscles thick, sprinkled with black hair. She could see a taut, copper nipple. His torso below was flat and crisscrossed with sinew. It moved as he breathed. His breeches, skin tight, clung to his hips and groin. His sex was heavy and prominent. Jane instantly yanked her gaze to the floor, burning. She remembered her dream, vividly, how she had imagined him touching her, how she had felt upon awakening. The burn, the yearning. She felt that way now. She couldn’t breathe.

They had been standing staring at each other for only a few seconds, but it seemed like an eternity. Jane dared a glance at his face. His was rigid, as if he were controlling anger. Briefly, grimly his gaze scorched her. He nodded abruptly and strode past her, without a word.

Shock at his rudeness was replaced with hurt anger. He did not even notice her, could not even be civil, did not care to even say good day! She stared after him, blinking furiously at the tears that welled. Molly appeared at the end of the hallway, curtsying and giggling. He didn’t stop. He disappeared into the dining room.

Shock rose again. Wasn’t he going to wash and change before his meal?

Had Jane a proper wardrobe, she would change for every meal, including tea, into the appropriate costume. She would also change for riding or an outing in the carriage. This was the norm for all ladies and gentlemen. It was unbelievable that the earl would come in from the fields, dressed like a field hand, and dine that way.

He had also tracked dirt down the entire hallway.

It
was
unbelievable.

Then she recalled that he had been raised far from civilization, among savages, most likely, in the wilds of Texas. She couldn’t stay angry. He just needed to learn the social graces. She imagined teaching him. And just as quickly shoved that disturbing thought away.

Her mind raced. What if she just appeared at the table and joined him? What could he do? Yell? Quell her with a freezing look? Order her away? He would do the last, she thought with dismay. Order her to the nursery, and the humiliation would be unbearable. But … if she didn’t try she would never know.

Impulsive, Jane
, an inner voice chastised. Do not be impulsive—look at the trouble it always gets you in.

She ignored her logical self. Lifting her skirt, she tiptoed down the hall. She paused near the open doors, listening, but he made no sound. Then Thomas asked him if he would like more wine and he grunted some reply. Jane winced at his manners. He needed a wife, she thought. A wife would never let him be so uncouth.

And she imagined herself dining with him as his wife.

In her fantasy, she was as gorgeous as her mother, not petite and slender but lush and voluptuous and dressed in satin and jewels. And the earl—he was dressed in a black evening suit with tails, looking magnificently handsome, and he was adoring her with his eyes, hanging onto every word she spoke, every trill of laughter.

She peeped inside.

He sat alone at the head of the vast table, which was long enough to seat thirty or forty guests. His solitary presence in the large room was suddenly significant and wrenching. Never had a man seemed so alone. Jane had never been lonely in her entire life until she had been forced to leave London and go to the parsonage. The contrast then had been gruesome, making her understand loneliness better than anyone who had never experienced the warmth of love and family. Now she watched the earl and felt tears rise—tears of compassion for him. In that instant, she knew, with some timeless, ageless instinct, that the earl was more than alone, he was unbearably lonely. She felt anguished.

He lifted his head, stopped his chewing, and stared at her.

Jane felt a surging of hope, and she waited for him to ask her to join him. She even smiled, tentatively.

He stared and said nothing.

Her courage failed. Jane turned and fled.