His Wicked Kiss (57 page)

The Spanish ambassador had merely prodded him with insulting questions, but in the space of time it had taken Jack to get rid of the man and find Eden, a horrifying realization had dawned on him regarding this stupid rumor.

If Society thought that Jack wasn’t bedding his luscious young wife, and his wife, in turn, was pregnant—and Jack, meanwhile, was gone away for months to South America—then the next question the ton would start asking was obvious: Who had fathered the baby?

The mere thought of this question ever being asked about his legitimate child—this baby he already loved without ever having yet laid eyes on it—made Jack utterly sick to his stomach.

The burden of bastardy had always been a sore spot for him, but to think that it would befall his innocent unborn child, too, had him shaken up, raw with emotion. He knew firsthand the suffering, loneliness, and humiliation already in store for his son or daughter if he did not find a way to repair this situation immediately.

Though the babe had barely just been conceived, it already seemed fated, through no fault of its own, to come into the world under the same dark cloud of suspicion and doubt that Jack had been cursed with himself.

Labeled a bastard. Made an outcast.

Just like him.

The injustice of it fired his sense of outrage.

It would not stand.

Better if he had locked Eden away in the highest tower of his Irish castle than allow her actions to harm their child before it was even born.

Aye, in one sense this could be viewed as her fault.

If Eden had not held a grudge for so long and denied him her bed, then Lisette would not have made a move on him; Jack wouldn’t have had to dismiss the maid, and the rumor would never have started.

Bloody women and their selfish ways, he thought, too angry to care if he was being irrational.

His mother. Maura.

Now this.

It hurt to think that Eden might possess a trace of their same frailty.

His face had drained of color as he had stalked through the ballroom in search of his wife. The music had become a raucous dissonance and Jack had felt as though everyone he passed was staring at him, whispering about him.

Unwanted.

It did not help matters that his last glimpse of his wife before the ambassador had stopped him had been of Eden surrounded by smooth-talking rogues and scheming bachelors.

Did she not know she was nothing to them but fresh meat?

Where the hell had she gone?

Jack could feel himself ready to go on a rampage.

Then he had stepped into the conservatory and saw her talking alone with another man—and something inside of him snapped.

“Wonderful” Jack who had been so tame these past weeks, keeping his hands off, escorting her to all her stupid parties, was suddenly swept aside as though by a massive wave at sea.

Swept overboard.

In his place stood Black-Jack Knight in all his cutthroat pride and angry glory, and it was this side of him that the luckless Lord Pembrooke turned around to meet.

On eye level with Jack’s chin, the rakehell earl gulped and looked up slowly.

Jack narrowed his eyes.

“Er, pardon,” Pembrooke said in a slightly strangled tone. “I m-meant no offense, sir. Perhaps I should be going—”

The little weasel darted past him, trying to flee. Jack’s hand shot out, grabbing him by the scruff of the neck.

Seizing hold of the back of the fop’s coat collar and of his trouser waistband, Jack lifted him off the ground and sent him sailing into the fountain with a huge splash.

Then he dusted his hands off lightly. “None taken.” Jack looked at his wife, who had leaped to her feet and stood staring at him in openmouthed shock. He grabbed her wrist and pulled her toward the doorway.

“Jack!”

Behind them, Lord Pembrooke was climbing out of the fountain, sputtering and cursing, soaked.

“What are you doing?” Eden cried. “Have you lost your mind?”

He didn’t look back at her, striding ahead with single-minded purpose. “Forget him. We’re leaving. You and I are going to have a little talk.”

“What on earth—? Wait, my other glove—”

“Leave it. We’re going home.”

“Jack, y-you threw him in the fountain!”

“Yes,” he said. It had felt good. At least it had made him a little less livid.

She planted her feet, refusing to budge. “What is going on?”

He turned and glared at her. “I’ll tell you what’s going on, love. Your dancing days are over.”

“What, are you jealous?”

“Oh, I don’t know. The last I saw you, you were in the ballroom surrounded by leering admirers, then you disappeared, now I find you in here having a nice, cozy tête-à-tête with another man. I think I have a right to be a little peeved, dear.”

“It wasn’t a tête-à-tête! I was waiting for you. It wasn’t as though I invited him here—he followed me. You told me that if I ever saw you with the Spaniard, I should stay away! I was following your orders!”

“He had no right to speak to you without asking my permission.”

She heaved a sigh, rolled her eyes, and seemed to strive for patience. “Do you even know who that was? He had a reason to speak to me. Remember my father’s patron—”

“I don’t care,” he cut her off. “I’m going to tell you something. And I want you to listen well.”

Her green eyes scanned his face, her expression turning slightly intimidated as he fixed her with a brooding stare. “What?”

“If any man touches you while I’m away, he’s dead when I get back. Do you understand me?”

She gazed at him with a look of hurt at the mere suggestion that she would ever be unfaithful.

Aye, she might feel that way now, but six months was plenty of time for a beautiful young woman to begin to feel neglected and look elsewhere for company.

“Furthermore, I don’t want you dancing,” he ordered. “I will not have another man’s hands all over my wife.”

Her jaw clenched, her hurt expression hardened to one of angry defiance. “Fine, master. I’ll never dance again.”

“Good,” he said through gritted teeth. “Now, let’s go home.”

He turned away and continued pulling her along behind him by her hand like a wayward child. Some might argue that’s all women really were. They reached the ballroom and forged on through the crowd.

“Are you going to tell me what’s wrong?” she demanded.

“We’ll talk in the carriage.”

“My first ball, and I can’t believe the night’s already ruined.”

“You’ll live. Besides,” he added, ignoring her indignant huff, “it’s our last night together before I go. I’ve no desire to spend it with these fools. Do you?”

Eden didn’t answer, too cross at him for ruining the night.

Perhaps when they were alone and he’d had a few puffs on one of his favorite cigars to help him calm down, as he sometimes did when he was in a mood, the man would listen to reason.

Never had she suspected that her husband would prove to be such a jealous man. He was as bad as Connor! After last night, how could he think she could ever have the slightest interest in anyone but him? But whatever the reason, Jack had worked himself into such a state that she knew it was pointless to argue.

As he dragged her by her gloveless hand back through the ballroom toward the exit, she noticed him watching everyone, giving the evil eye to ladies who seemed to be engaged in gossip, and shooting downright dirty looks at the men.

If she didn’t know better, she would have pronounced him thoroughly paranoid. What on earth had gotten into him?

She had to lift up the hem of her skirts to keep from tripping as he pulled her along briskly toward the exit. The milling crowd parted ahead of them; Jack’s fierce stare chased the other guests out of his path. Eden pasted on a hapless smile, trying to pretend everything was fine, but her husband’s black scowl no doubt told the world that something was seriously amiss.

If only she knew what it was!

She got the feeling there was more to this than his ire about silly Lord Pembrooke.

They were almost to the exit when a mismatched couple stepped into their path—Eden instantly thought that the pair were father and daughter.

The little white-haired man was frail and elderly, with a cane; shepherding him along with ill-concealed impatience was a glamorous dark-eyed brunette who glittered in diamonds.

Jack stopped in his tracks so abruptly that Eden bumped her nose on his arm. “Ow.”

She shot him an irritated glance at the lack of warning, only to notice the shock of recognition that flashed across his face.

Before them, the glittering lady’s reaction was the same. Her rouged lips had parted in surprise; now the diamonds on her tiara twinkled as she angled her head down, looking Jack over in a slow perusal from his head to his feet, and then back up again.

“Why, mercy me!” she exclaimed in a breathy tone. “If it isn’t Jack Knight!”

Well! I never
, Eden thought in offense. Perhaps it was
her
turn to be jealous. She frowned at the woman’s flare of interest in her stallion of a husband.

Jack was clearly put off, too. He bristled and kept his distance. “Indeed. It’s been a long time. Lord Avonworth.” He gave the ancient fellow a slight bow. “I hope you are in good health.”

Avonworth? Eden tried to place the title.

The woman patted her doddering father’s arm. “I do my best to take care of him.”

“What?” the old fellow yelled, cupping his ear. “Who are you, young man?”

Jack just looked at him, as though biting his tongue to stop the reply he would have liked to have given.

Eden waited, her brow furrowed, as the woman once again trailed a decidedly lusting gaze over her husband.

“I heard you were back,” she purred. “You look good,
John
. Life must be treating you well. I hear that you’re very successful.”

John
? Eden looked at him, raising an eyebrow.

He glanced drily at her, as though guessing her thoughts.