He found her wrists, making her release her clawlike grasp, and he pushed her against the wall. She was panting, bosom heaving, her face red with fury. When he released her she attacked him. With her nails poised like talons, she went for his face, and succeeded in scratching him from temple to jaw.
He exploded. He wrestled her arms behind her back, pinning her to the wall. To his dismay, and fury, he was huge and erect against her belly. She writhed wildly, once, inflaming him further. Then, abruptly, she went still.
Tears filled her eyes. She was panting. His own breathing was harsh. He felt a tremor assail his body. He still wanted her, more than he had ever wanted any other woman. His face was close to hers, and he leaned closer to kiss her.
“I hate you.”
He froze, then smiled, baring even white teeth. “Well said.” His smile was gone. He yanked on her, pulling her harder against him, wanting her to feel his aching, agonized tumescence. She began to tremble. He decided he’d enjoy her fear. Let her think he’d rape her, the bitch! The lying deceitful two-faced philandering bitch! “What are you hiding, Jane?”
She stared and said nothing.
He held her for a second more, waiting for her fear to grow, but it didn’t. Instead, he felt her stiffness fading, and as she relaxed, she looked at his open shirt, at the dark, wet skin of his chest, inches from her mouth.
She was a temptress, a woman of wiles, attempting now to distract him. He heaved away from her. He heard her choke. He entered the room, flicked on a lamp, and stared.
A nursery.
He took it all in, the clowns on the wallpaper, the rocking horse, the dolls, the pretty painted headboard. The bed was empty.
She had a child.
He turned, slowly, heart clamoring. “Who is the father?”
She stood in the doorway, a pale wraith. “Robert.”
He had thought it might be his, hoped it was his, and the pain of her having another man’s child struck him with such force he staggered backward. “You’re lying.” But even as he spoke, he knew that the odds of his being the father from one time in Jane’s bed were minute. The pain increased.
“It’s Robert’s,” she said, and tears spilled from her lashes. She began to cry.
“Where is he?”
“Robert lives—”
“Where is the child?”
For one moment she looked at him, her eyes filled with despair, and then she crumbled against the door jamb, weeping. “God forgive me,” she cried. “I can’t do this, I can’t! Robert isn’t the father, you are.”
31
Stunned, he did not move.
She wept, hugging herself.
A child. He had a child, Jane’s child. The shock faded. Understanding flared. The enormity of her deception—her lies. He wanted to kill her.
She sensed it, because she stopped crying and took a step back.
“Were you ever going to tell me?”
Jane did not answer. It was answer enough. The earl came toward her, reaching for her, his temper raging. She didn’t move. If she had, he probably would have gone after her and hurt her. But her frozen fear made him sane, or was it her desire for punishment? He stopped, letting his hands fall to his sides. “God!” he cried, the sound agonized.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
He whirled. “Where is he?”
“She is in Brighton with Molly.”
It was a daughter—his child was a daughter. Jubilation soared, mixing with the pain of her betrayal. “A daughter,” he said softly. “What is her name?”
