“I’m afraid we now have no choice.” He bowed toward the duchess. He was smiling sarcastically. “Good night, madame. It was a pleasure.”
22
The earl was drunk.
He sat sprawled on the sofa. He did not care.
God, what had Jane done? They would never be welcome in Society now, not after tonight. And he would never find her a husband.
Good, he thought savagely.
He decided he was drunker than he’d realized.
Jane, a blue-eyed angel in silver chiffon. “I know you,” she had cried. “You are kind and good!”
Kind and good?
He almost laughed, but the sound choked on itself.
The evening was a vivid tapestry in his mind. All the gilded, perfumed elegance and glamour. Their taunts echoed now, tormenting him.He could not take his eyes off her … depraved … depraved … the Lord of Darkness … He killed his wife … holding hands … depraved …
God! He was sick of it, sick of the persecution, sick of being everyone’s scapegoat, sick and tired —damn them all! When would it end?When?
“God!” he cried aloud. “It will not end, it will never end—for it’s the truth!”
He lunged to his feet, thinking of Jane, her innocent beauty and his decrepit lust. And even knowing it was wrong, he was tormented with wanting her still as he saw her as she was— young, fresh, innocent—trying to defend him, for God’s sake! He took the decanter and emptied it.
And when he found the sofa again, he buried his face in his hands. His shoulders trembled, but he did not weep.
Jane could not sleep.
He was down there somewhere beyond her door, alone.
She leaned against the windowsill, staring out into the starlit night, her hair loose, a thin cotton and lace nightgown drifting over her body. People were hateful. She had never realized there was so much cruelty in the world before. And even though the earl’s face had been a mask of indifference, beneath that faccedil;ade, he had to have felt something.
Was he hurting? Right now, was he in despair? She knew him for what he was, a lonely man in need of warmth and love. How she wanted to give him what he needed.
She wanted to weep, for him.
She turned to look at the door. It was late, but she doubted he was asleep. When they had returned from the party, he had gone directly to the library without even a good night. Perhaps he was still there. Maybe she could get him to talk. Talking with someone who eared would do him a world of good.
Jane could not stop herself from checking on the earl—she had to.
She slipped on a matching cotton robe, hugging it closed, and padded down the hall. The house was eerily quiet and very dark, making her nervous. She did not know this mansion as well as she knew Dragmore, but she found his study. The door was ajar, light spilled out from within. He was here, then. Feeling a rush of anticipation, Jane pushed open the door.
He had been here. The library was silent, but it smelled of cigars. An empty decanter and glass sat on the table in front of the sofa. His black evening jacket was on the floor, his tie upon a chair next to it. The doors leading to the patio were open, and Jane crossed the room to close them. She turned off the lights and left.
She was disappointed. He had gone to bed.
And then she decided she did not care. She wanted to see him—shehadto see him.
The master suite was on the first floor, on the other side of the house. Jane made her way cautiously in the dark. She prayed she would not run into any servants, making up stories to explain her presence if she did. She did not. She had never entered this wing before, so she did not know exactly where his rooms were. But the light gave them away.
The door to his living room was wide open. Jane entered cautiously, blinking. He was not within, but again she smelled cigars, and this time whiskey as well. She found half a glass on the side table by the chaise.
No respectable woman would do what she was going to do.
Jane knocked on the door to his bedroom. There was no response. It was firmly closed, but she thought she saw a light beneath. Boldly she knocked again. Nothing.
