Abruptly he ran his hands over her ankles, calves, and thighs, on top of her skirts. Jane went very still. A fire flamed in the wake of his hands. He slid his palms over her ribs and she stopped breathing. The underside of one breast brushed the top of his hand, and she said, “Oh!”
He froze, looked up, and stared at her.
His face was very close to hers. So close, if she leaned forward, they could kiss. Unconsciously, mouth parted, eyes wide, she swayed toward him.
He stood up quickly, brushing off his breeches. “You’re all right,” he said, his voice hoarse. He extended a hand, and it trembled.
Jane took it and was unceremoniously hauled to her feet. “Thank you,” she managed.
“Why the hell,” he said with a growl, “didn’t you tell me you couldn’t ride?”
She bit her lip. Her backside was throbbing. Tears stung her eyes from the sudden smarting— and from the tone of his voice. And because he hadn’t kissed her and she had desperately wanted him to.
“We’ll walk back,” he decided abruptly, retrieving the reins of her horse, which was cropping grass near by.
“Is she all right, sport?” a fellow called from his horse, riding up to them from where he and his lady companion had been waiting and watching. “I saw it all, not a nasty spill, just—” He stopped in midsentence, staring at the earl. His eyes bulged.
The rider wheeled his mount away, returning to his lady friend. “It is he! It’s Shelton!” They trotted away, with many backward glances and much whispering.
The earl’s face was a mask. “So much for Samaritans,” he muttered. “The best thing,” he said, “is to get back on. If you don’t, you’ll always be afraid to ride.”
“I know,” Jane said meekly. Then she blurted, “They are hateful—every single one of them!”
“Welcome to London,” the earl said.
20
He couldn’t chase it away.
Inside, deep within, he felt dread.
Of course, the Earl of Dragmore refused to acknowledge such feelings. Just as he refused to dwell on the rudeness he’d encountered in Regents Park with Jane. Instead, he focused on the pertinent issue—how to get back into Society? For until he achieved this, he could not find Jane a husband.
But the dread was there, deep inside.
The Duchess of Lancaster was, he calculated quickly, now in her late forties. Ten years ago when Nick had first arrived in London with his grandfather, she had been a stunning, elegant woman. It mattered little that she was married, he soon found out, when she pressed her attentions upon him in an arbor at the Baron Ridington’s country estate one weekend. Nick was only too eager to oblige her. He had kept obliging her through that entire fall.
He’d run into the duchess from time to time during his marriage, but not since the trial. Indeed, since the trial he had rarely come to London, residing exclusively at Dragmore. Now he found himself not just back in London, but faced with the formidable task of gaining an entre into its social circles, and to do so, he stood awaiting the duchess in her parlor.
“You still ignore decorum,” she said, entering.
He was startled, but hid it. Time had ravaged her. Where she had been an auburn-haired beauty at thirty-eight, now she was wrinkled, too thin, and graying. But Nick took her hand and bowed over it. He did not kiss it. “Forgive me.”
She lifted his chin to look into his eyes. “A woman could never deny you when you speak like that.”
Uncomfortable, the earl eased back.
“You should have left your card with the butler,” the duchess told him. “And after you would receive an invitation from me to visit—if I decided to see you.”
“I know. Claire, I could not wait.”
They both stared at each other with this intimacy, a blatant reminder of the past.
“I heard you were back. Have you had enough of that isolated estate?”
“No. I need your help.”
She raised an auburn brow. Its color was exaggerated. “I am about to swoon. The grand earl needs me? Whatever for?”
