He thought of Patricia and laughed aloud.
Patricia had been fickle and faithless too, but that was where the resemblance between the two ended. Patricia had been a lady, with ice in her veins. Jane was no lady. The duke’s granddaughter—maybe—the actress’s daughter, for sure. It explained her untutored, wild passion, her deep, deep sensuality.
“Jane.” He tested her name, tasted it on his tongue. He dropped his head back on the couch as if the weight of it were too much to bear. With his hand, he began rubbing his chest. But the pain would not go away. It wasn’t physical.
19
London
Jane stared out of the window and down Tottenham Court Road. The thoroughfare was well lit by gas lamps and busy with hired hansoms, other coaches, and even omnibuses pulled by teams of matched bays. Plastered residential homes with wrought-iron fences and slate roofs lined the streets. There were a few strollers about, but no gentry. Jane really did not care.
She glanced at the earl.
He was formidable and impassive, sitting beside her but well away from her, careful not to make contact with her with his knee or hand. He stared out of his own window. She could see the hard, set line of his jaw. He had barely spoken to her all day, and it had been Thomas who informed her that they were leaving for London just that morning.
“Today?” Jane had gasped, unsure she had understood. She was very tired, having been unable to sleep all night, haunted both by the earl’s devastating kiss and her body’s unrestrained response to it and by the falling out with Lindley. “I cannot possibly be packed and ready by this afternoon!”
“The earl said don’t bother bringing more than a few essentials. He will be providing you with a complete wardrobe in London.”
“Is he out on the estate?”
“Not this morning. He is in the library,” Thomas replied.
Bravely or, at least, with an outward show of bravery, for inside she was quaking, Jane went downstairs and knocked. He looked up, saw her, and returned to his paperwork. “I’m occupied,” he said brusquely.
“I want to apologize.”
He did not look up. “Your apology changes nothing.”
“I did not mean for things to go so far.”
He ignored her. But she saw that his fingers were white upon his pen. “Please,” she added in a whisper.
The pen snapped in his fingers. “We leave at four.”
Jane huddled deeper in her corner of the coach. He acted as if he hated her. Possibly he did. Her heart was breaking.
“We’re here,” the earl said sometime later. The carriage had turned into Tavistock Square. Jane knew the square housed some of the most expensive homes in London, and she gazed upon the earl as he opened the door. For him to live here meant he was quite wealthy indeed. He turned to her and stiffly extended a hand.
She accepted it, eyeing him desperately. He looked away, giving orders to the coachman regarding their baggage.
His town house was a huge, four-storied brick affair surrounded by high wrought-iron gates and sweeping lawns. It occupied the entire block. A massive line of oaks effectively screened the grounds from the curiosity of outsiders. Jane clutched her reticule and followed him down the brick walk. She was feeling lonely and wished she had had the foresight to ask to bring Molly. In a grand, marble-floored foyer with high, vaulted ceilings, an elderly woman told Jane she would show her upstairs to her room. Jane looked around and saw that the earl had disappeared. Very well, then, she would follow his example. She wanted nothing more than to crawl under the covers and be miserable.
The next day Jane overslept, due to another restless night. She was surprised therefore to find the earl still in the breakfast room with theTimes.He looked up. Jane’s heart was fluttering. “Good morning.” She tried a smile, and knew it was fragile.
He nodded abruptly and buried his nose in his paper. He said, “As soon as you eat we have an appointment with a couturier.”
Jane sat down, trembling. “We.” He had said “we.” He was taking her to a seamstress? She knew it was silly, but to have his company thrilled her—even if he was still punishing her for what had happened with Lindley.
And the day was filled with sunshine.
“May we drive through Hyde Park?” Jane asked, smiling eagerly once they were in his carriage with the bold black-and-gold Dragmore crest.
He tapped on the ceiling. “James, through the park and then on to Bond Street.”
Jane smiled at him. He glanced at her and did not look immediately away. She was sunshine and laughter, he thought, shifting uneasily, uncomfortably. How could he hate her?
You depraved bastard, he told himself. You have never hated her and that is the problem.
