He could never find her a husband now. He would not even consider it. His own fate had been sealed, as had hers. He would, of course, do his duty and marry her.
You are kind and good.
He furiously shoved the echo of her words away.
He paced his sitting room. Anger was in every taut stride. He did not want to marry. He did not want a wife. Especially he did not want Jane as a wife.
Again, he thought of her uninhibited passion. When his body started to respond, he pushed the thoughts away. This was no reason for marriage. He could fuck anytime, anywhere. Damn her!
He sank onto the settee. And he felt it then—the fear.
For some unfathomable reason, Jane imagined herself in love with him. She had a schoolgirl’s crush. He knew well enough that soon this would disappear. Reality would replace fantasy. She would see him as he was, the way Patricia had seen him. Patricia had not even known of Chavez, yet she had thought him uncouth and perverted in his appetites. Soon Jane would too. She would hate him …
The Earl of Dragmore was afraid.
Abruptly he stood. What did it matter what she thought? He was older, wiser. She would be his wife, bear his children, obey him. If she hated him, it did not matter. If he repulsed her, it did not matter. He was not the same man he had been five years ago. He had since grown a thick, impenetrable skin. He could handle seeing her eyes, now filled with adoration, glazed with disgust. Besides, there was no choice. They were getting married.
Yet the fear was there, cloying.
He knew that if he loved her, she would hurt him.
The earl was uneasy, standing near the door, now closed, just within Jane’s bedroom. Jane was nervous too. She stood anxiously by the bed, hands clasped, her eyes luminous upon him. “I’m sorry!” she blurted before he could speak.
He ignored her. “We are getting married.”
Jane gasped.
“Hopefully,” he continued, his tone impassive, “you are not pregnant. We will marry as soon as decorum allows, so as not to seem hasty.”
Jane was trembling, and a smile transformed her face. Her eyes shone. She loved him—and now she was going to become his wife! None of her other dreams mattered anymore, only this, her marriage to the earl and the life they would share. Her smile broadened. Did this mean he loved her?
His face grew dark. His tone was distinctly dangerous. “You look pleased.”
“Oh, I am,” Jane cried.
He reached her in a stride and grabbed her. Jane cried out. “Was this a seduction, then? Are you nothing more than some scheming little fortune hunter? Did you plan all of this, right down to the final act where I took your damn virginity? You were a virgin—were you not?”
He was shaking her, hurting her. Jane’s eyes teared, but from the hurt in her heart, not his hands upon her flesh. “No, no.”
He stared at her, trying to assess the truth.
“I love you,” she told him. “That’s why I want to be your wife.”
He laughed, tossed her away. “Love?” He snarled. “You do not know the meaning of the word. Love does not exist, except for fools. What you feel is a child’s adolescent infatuation and, to be crude, pure lust.”
She felt as if her world were crumbling, brick by brick, beneath her very feet. “It’s not true.”
“No?” he taunted. “You would tell me about love, about lust, about men and women?”
She hugged herself. “Why are you doing this?” she whispered. “Why do you want to hurt me?”
“Why do you think?” he shouted. “Goddamn you, did I ask for a ward? I already have a son, I do not need another child to look after! Did I appear to be in need of a wife? Did I?” He roared.
Tears crept down her cheeks. “You don’t want to get married, do you?”
He laughed caustically. “Top of the class, Jane.”
She turned away, her heart breaking. “You don’t love me.”
