He didn’t answer, and it was answer enough.
She looked at him through thick tears, her vision blurred. He was dark and hard and angry. “Why are you marrying me?”
“Duty. One thing I have always done is my duty.”
“You hate me.” She gasped, stunned.
He stared, then abruptly turned and slammed out of the room. The walls shook.
Jane sank to the floor, tears pouring from her eyes. He was marrying her because of duty and honor and other such nonsense. He did not love her, not even close. He hated her. She had seen it in his eyes.
That night she left him.
The earl found the note the next day when Jane did not appear for dinner and the maid said her bed had not been slept in. It was brief and to the point and emotionless:
Dear Nicholas,
I do not want to marry either. I told you I am going to be an actress. I will be eighteen in October, and I hope you realize that I am quite old enough to take care of myself. I know you can find me if you choose, so I will not hide my whereabouts from you. I will be with my dear old friend Robert Gordon, the manager of the Lyceum. Please realize that this is the best solution for the both of us.
Jane
His vision was swimming.
Nick was shocked to realize he had dampness on his cheeks.
He crumbled the letter, crushing it.
And the pain was unbearable.
She had left him.
Jane had run away rather than marry him. He had known all along that it would come to this. When given the choice, she had chosen what all women would choose—not to spend a lifetime with him.
He remembered everything then, and the memories were torture. The first time he had seen Jane, with her aunt Matilda. Her trepidation had been vast, while she was sweet and innocent, like an angel, her eyes big and blue as she stared at him. He saw her as she played with Chad, he saw her white-faced in stunned surprise as she fell from the old nag in Regents Park. He saw her in glorious fury as she told the Duchess of Lancaster that she was wicked and depraved. He recalled how she had laughed and flirted with Lindley. He recalled how she smiled at him. And he recalled the night before last, now, more clearly than ever before. Her frantic response to him, her body arching and twisting beneath his, her hands claws upon his back. He still wore her marks. Her heat, her sweetness.
Mostly he recalled last night, his cruelty and her stricken, hurt expression, the tears welling and slowly falling.
He knew then that it was too late. What he had fought from the beginning had happened. He loved her. He loved her as he had never loved anyone before, not even Patricia. But it did not matter.
She had run away from him. She did not want him.
Hadn’t he known all along that this would happen?
Jane had left him. It was over.
He closed his eyes. The pain was unbearable.
II
FallenAngel
LONDON 1876
24
The applause continued.
Jane’s heart surged. As she curtsied again, alone on the vast stage, a vision in shimmering blue chiffon, the crescendo increased, and Jane thought that this once the ovation would become thunder, that this once it would become endless. But already, and she had only just taken her bow, she heard the pitch dropping. Still smiling, Jane inclined her head and left the stage.
