Jane opened her mouth.
The earl’s hand rudely covered her glass. Jane noted that it was clean—unlike the rest of his work-dampened body. “She is not my lady,” he said distinctly.
Thomas was unperturbed, turning to the earl. “My lord?”
The earl gazed at Jane, hard. “Am I to understand,” he said sarcastically, “that you seek the pleasure of my company?”
Jane blushed. For some awful reason, the cat had her tongue.
He laughed. He removed his hand and nodded at Thomas, who filled his glass with a rich French Bordeaux.
Jane peeped at him. He was being served a lamb stew and vegetables, and he was ignoring her—or he was actually oblivious to her presence. She could not believe she had succeeded in attaining her goal so easily. And then, as he started to eat, not waiting for her to be served, she felt indignation rise. She couldn’t help it. She said, “My lord?”
He paused, fork raised, barely looking at her.
“Usually one waits for everyone to be served before starting one’s meal.”
A small, ugly smile started, and then he resumed eating. “This is your choice,” he said. “Not mine.”
She gasped.
With his fork, he pointed at her, still smiling. “But don’t you dare to criticize me.”
He ate savagely, not sparing her another glance. Jane wanted to cry. She understood, then, that he hated her. How had she not realized this before? And now, to sit at his table and be ignored after being so put-down…. This was worse than being ordered away. She numbly thanked the two servants who had served her and stuck her fork into a piece of lamb. She would not cry. He was the one at fault, not she. He was rude and insufferable. He was the boor. He even smelled. It was the height of boorishness.
“Shit,” the earl said with a growl, throwing down his silverware. “If you start crying …” He stared at her grimly.
Jane blinked at him fiercely. She would not shed a single tear in front of this man, not ever. He scowled and reached for the decanter of wine. He filled her glass, without looking at her.
Jane knew then, astonished, that she had just won some small kind of victory—that he was, in some brutish way, trying to atone for his earlier rudeness. It didn’t matter that she did not want any wine, what mattered was what he had done. Her appetite returned. She began eating slowly. He wolfed his meal. The silence was complete, not companionable, the tension thick and awkward, but Jane was no longer completely dismayed. Yet she had learned her lesson, and she did not dare to attempt to converse with him. Other than peeping at him cautiously a few times, she concentrated on her food with determination.
The earl threw down his linen napkin and, hands braced on the table, started to lunge to his feet. Jane froze, her fork in midair. The earl froze too. The tension increased, as taut as a high wire between them. Then he sat back down, hard. He toyed with his wineglass, watching her.
Jane would have been devastated if he had been rude enough to leave her alone at the table to finish eating. She realized, keenly, that he was not trying to be rude; rather he had never learned etiquette or else had lived alone for so long he was sorely out of practice. So this seemed another small victory, and she smiled sweetly. “If you wish, you may leave.”
“That’s right.” He leaned back lazily. “I can do any damn thing I wish.”
She decided she had eaten enough, and she carefully placed her knife and fork side by side. He had left his utensils sprawled out, as if he were in the midst of dining. His gaze narrowed. “Your manners are so proper.”
Jane looked at him. “My mother was a lady.”
He had the grace not to respond, but she sensed he was skeptical of that statement. “Finished?”
She nodded. He bolted. With long, hard strides he left the room.
Jane collapsed in her chair, exhausted and trembling, not sure whether to be exultant or insulted. The earl was not just difficult, he was frightening. But … he wasn’t hopeless.
The manor’s foyer was vast. It was as large as half the parsonage. Jane surveyed it with satisfaction. The black-and-white marble floors gleamed. There was not a speck of dust on the tawny stone prayer table, and the ornate mirror above shone. The scrolled Tudor chairs and the rest of the furniture, mostly Regency, ringing the perimeter of the entryway glistened with polish and wax. She watched two servants cleaning the windows that were on the second-story level. They stood atop ladders, rubbing the panes industriously with soapy water.
The hounds were baying. Jane moved to the open drapes and saw a hired curricle come up the drive. The earl had a visitor. She smiled, for the timing was almost perfect. At least the foyer was clean the way it should be. She turned to alert Thomas, but he must have surmised the situation from the howling hounds, for he appeared to open the front door. “Madame.” He bowed slightly.
A woman with vivid auburn hair, resplendent in emerald-green silk and black cording, swept in, parasol dangling from her hand. “Hullo, Thomas. Is the earl in the library?”
She was smiling. Jane had a bad feeling. The woman was gorgeous, big breasted, full hipped, with a tiny waist. She was near the earl’s age. She did not wait for an answer, but started across the foyer. Then she stopped, seeing Jane.
Jane was instantly aware of the contrast between them. She felt like an ugly orphan next to this elegant, sophisticated woman. She regretted the braid she wore, the dirt on her nose, the dust on her hands, and her plain blue dress. Mostly she wished desperately that she was not seventeen and skinny. She had a terrible feeling.
“Hello,” the woman said slowly, no longer smiling. Her glance swept Jane from head to toe. It was a calculating, critical perusal. “Are you a new maid?”
