“You are a bastard,” she hissed, meaning it.
He shrugged. “Next?”
“We shall have separate bedrooms.”
His expression did not change. He appeared unperturbed. “It’s the fashion.”
“No, you do not understand. You are not welcome in my bed. You will not touch me.”
He stared.
She smiled and it wasn’t pretty. “This is your idea. Therefore it will be only a marriage of convenience for Nicole’s sake. You may do what you will elsewhere, but do not bother me.”
He folded his arms. The smile was back, ugly and hard. There was no smile in his eyes. “Do you think I lust after you? You may have a child, Jane, but you’re still nineteen, and as far as I am concerned, barely out of pinafores.”
God, it hurt. She lifted her head high. “And you shall not interfere in my private life either.”
His arms fell, fists clenched, and he took a step forward. “Just what is your private life, Jane? Rather, who? Lindley?”
“It is none of your business,” she told him fiercely.
He eyed her with such revulsion she knew then that he did hate her. Fists still tight, he smiled meanly. “Fine. Enjoy your paramours. But I demand discretion. I will not have Nicole humiliated by a slut for a mother.”
“Nicole?” Jane scoffed, trying to ignore the pain his slander brought. “Or yourself?”
“Why would I be humiliated? To be humiliated I must care.” He stalked to the door, paused. “Any other considerations?”
Tears threatened to rise, and Jane willed them away. She would not cry now, not in front of him. “No.”
“Good.” With hard strides he left, thumping down the hall and out the front door, shouting for his coach.
Jane began to tremble. She moved to the window, saw him waiting rigidly for the carriage, and tears filled her eyes. Bastard! He was selfish and ruthless and completely insensitive, and he certainly despised her. But it was for the best. If he didn’t hate her so much, she would soften toward him and maybe come to love him again as they spent a lifetime together as man and wife. God forbid! To love such a man could only bring heartbreak. The dark burning fires that flamed so deeply within him came from a tortured soul, and she doubted they could ever be extinguished.
Jane turned away, pulling herself together. She was a survivor. If she had survived his rejection almost two years ago, she could survive this as well.
33
It was only natural that he would tell his best friend that he was getting married. Nick entered an exclusive men’s club on St. James’s Street. His membership at White’s had survived the trial because of Lindley’s firm patronage, support, and, Nick suspected, generous bribery. Inside it was all dark wood and even darker carpets. He found Lindley sitting with two men, a baron and a viscount. Lindley spotted him. “Shelton! Come join us.”
“Thank you.” The earl dropped down into a big padded leather chair. A white-coated waiter materialized, and Nick ordered his usual Scotch whiskey.
He was bitter and angry and he knew it. His emotions roiled like hot lava in a volcano. The dialogue he’d just had with Jane—his wife-to-be— was fresh in his mind. “A toast,” he said, smiling, lifting his glass. The three men joined him. “To the actress, London’s Little Angel—soon to be my wife.”
A shocked silence greeted this. The baron looked at the viscount. Nick laughed, imagining their gossip already. The Lord of Darkness (who had killed his wife) was marrying the Little Angel —the actress! Weston’s bastard granddaughter!
And soon Nicole and his relationship to her would be no secret. More scandal was inevitable. He did not care. Not for himself, at any rate, and certainly not for that witch, Jane. (Separate bedrooms—hah! As if he’d touch her with a ten-foot pole!) He cared only about Nicole, and by the time she was old enough to understand it would have long since faded into oblivion.
Lindley was white. “Is this a joke?”
The earl drained his glass, thumped it down. “What’s the matter, Jon? You thinking of marrying belowstairs?”
Lindley just sat and stared.
“I say, old boy,” the baron said, attempting a smile, “this is quite the trick!”
“I’m sure,” Nick said dryly. He suffered their falsely meant congratulations, except for Lindley, who said nothing. The baron and viscount finally left—no doubt to impart what they had just learned. Nick looked at his friend. “What? No handshake, no smile, no joy to equal my own?” The words came out terribly twisted.
“It’s because of Nicole,” Lindley said heavily. “Isn’t it?”
