Nick looked at him. “How in hell—”
“I found out recently. She made me promise not to tell you. I’m sorry, Nick, but she twisted me around her finger, and once I gave her my word I couldn’t go back on it.”
“You son of a bitch,” the earl managed, shocked. “You weren’t going to tell me I had a daughter? You? My only goddamn friend?”
Lindley rubbed his face. “I was going to try to persuade Jane to tell you herself,” he said.
That eased some of the pain, but a bitter residue was left nonetheless.
“You don’t have to marry her,” Lindley said. “You don’t have to go that far. She … wants to marry you?” His tone was fearful.
The earl felt a soaring jealousy and suddenly disliked his friend intensely. “I am marrying her. I am adopting Nicole and raising her in my household. And no, Jane does not want to marry me, so you can relax. She hates the very idea.”
Relief was visible on Lindley’s features. “But if she isn’t willing—”
“She is my ward. I gave her no choice.”
Lindley was horrified. “Surely you won’t marry her against her will!”
“No?” Nick laughed. “Try me, damn it, just try me.” He lunged to his feet. “Tell me something, Lindley. Am I marrying your mistress?” His lips were twisted in a parody of a smile.
Lindley just stared up at him, then finally shook his head. “No. No.”
The earl turned away abruptly. For the first time in his life, he did not trust Lindley. He doubted him and was sure that he was lying. He wanted to smash something. Preferably her.
She didn’t want him.
As he waited for his coach to be brought round, he was assailed with the inescapable fact. She didn’t want him. Like Patricia, she despised him. Like Patricia, she had left him. Like Patricia, she had hurt him. And once again, he was entering the shackles of marriage to a hate-filled spouse.
But this time he did not love his wife. This time he despised her too.
34
They went directly from the wedding ceremony, attended only by Molly and Lindley, Nicole and Chad and Governess Randall, to the house on Tavistock Square. All of Jane and Nicole’s belongings had been packed that week and sent over earlier that day. In deference to Jane, who was Anglican, a minister had presided at the ceremony. Jane was too numb and weary from the past week, too filled with anxiety and frustration, too bitter, to even consider this small display of sensitivity on her groom’s part.
Now Jane held Nicole tightly and stood in the hallway upstairs in the master wing of the town house. Her husband, who had not smiled even once, who even now appeared angry and glowering, was beside her, hands shoved deep in his pockets. One of the servants was moving a final trunk into her rooms. Jane ignored the earl, although she felt his gaze upon her, and stepped within her sitting room.
It was large and luxuriously appointed, not that she had doubted it would be anything less. There were two doors leading from it, one on either side of the room. Her apprehension was great. Jane moved across the thick Persian carpet to open one, which led to her bedroom, dominated by a damask-canopied bed. With a quick glance around, she stepped back into the sitting room, where her husband now stood, frozen like a statue. She ignored him, although her heart was beating mercilessly, and found that the other door opened onto a marble-floored water closet complete with pedestal tub and running water. Where was his bedroom? Surely he remembered their arrangement?
“Satisfied?” he queried sarcastically.
She faced him squarely. “Where are your rooms?”
He smiled mockingly. “Changing your mind already, Jane?”
She lifted her nose in the air. “To the contrary. I want to make sure the door between us is locked.”
His gray eyes flashed. Without a word, he turned and strode out, slamming the door behind him. Nicole started to cry.
“Hush,” Jane said, caressing her hair. “It’s all right. He isn’t mad at you.” She was stricken with remorse for her cruelty and wished she had a heart of iron to fortify herself with.
That afternoon she took dinner alone, her husband having disappeared. Jane was too proud even to ask Thomas where he had gone to, and told herself she did not care. She ran into him in the hallway that evening after her bath. She was in a dressing gown, getting ready to go to the theater for the night’s performance. She needed a glass of milk to settle her stomach. She was always nervous before a performance, but never had her nerves been so taut. She told herself it was because of this past week—attendance was dropping at the Criterion every night. The play had only been running six weeks, and this was not a good sign. Only once last week had the house been nearly full. Robert had told her he was afraid the show had peaked and was on its last legs.
Jane was not ready to finish the run. Never had she been so good in her role. Although the critics had not seemed to notice her improvement—in fact, they had barely mentioned her all week, and only to compare her beauty to her mother’s. Worse, she had an agreement with her husband— if the performance closed down, she would have to go to Dragmore for the next three months. This she absolutely dreaded.
They met on the stairs, she going up, a glass of milk in hand, he coming down. At first they were both startled to see each other. Then he nodded; she nodded. They passed without touching, making an obvious effort not to, and without a word. He was dressed elegantly for an evening out. It was tense and awkward between them. Jane did not feel like a wife, not like the mistress of the house. She felt like an unwanted guest, an intruder. She wondered where he was going— worse, with whom?
That night she had never been better—but she played to only half a house.
