“You’ll feel better once you get home,” Gordon told her. “After a good night’s rest.”
Jane laughed. “The last place I want to go is home! The last person I want to see …” She clenched her fists. She was so mad, so upset, and she was still shaking.
“How about some supper then?” he suggested gently.
Jane wasn’t hungry, but she was too upset to go home and face him and his house. She turned to Gordon with relief. “Thank you, Robert. That is a wonderful idea.”
Gordon took her to one of their favorite restaurants on Hay Market. It was dimly lit and cozy, the chef and owner Parisian, the food uncommonly good, and popular with theater-goers and late-night revelers. The maitre d’ knew them and took them promptly to a table in a back corner. Jane was used to receiving looks in public places, and had never been quite sure if it was because she was beautiful (as everyone claimed) or because she was recognized to be the stage actress. Yet here, at Chez Oz, where she dined at least once a week after performing, she had become an accepted patron, and most of the clientele paid her little attention. Yet tonight was different.
Heads craned her way. Voices hushed. Silence formed a wake behind her, only to spume gossipy whispers. Jane heardhisname, damn him, and hers, and felt heat suffuse her face. She kept her head high, avoiding all eye contact. Gordon seated her, flustered.
“I’m sorry,” he apologized.
She only looked at him, although her seat faced out upon the restaurant. “As you said”—she shrugged with feigned indifference—“it will die down.”
“You are a trooper, Jane,” Gordon said, smiling. “Like your mother.”
Tonight Jane was not in the mood to be compared, once again, and by her best friend, to her mother. She turned her head away, glancing casually around. With her fingers she toyed with her water glass. And then she saw him, and she froze.
She had not thought the evening could get worse.
Sitting a few tables away, in the very midst of the dining room, was her husband.With Amelia.
Jane stared at them, stunned. He was magnificent in black tails and tie, and Amelia was ravishing in emerald taffeta and diamonds. They made a gorgeous couple. She realized her heart was beating painfully; worse, he was staring back at her. Jane felt the heat return to her face, and, damn him, the need to cry came hotly behind her lids.
“I don’t believe it,” Gordon cried, outraged.
Jane turned away, seemingly calm and poised, and placed a hand on his arm. Her smile was sick. “Please, Robert, do not interfere. It makes no difference to me whom he sees, as long as he stays away from me.” Her voice was suspiciously shaky.
“He is a son of a bitch,” Gordon said, low and furious.
“Absolutely.” Jane would not look at him, at them. She knew she was still beet red, and now she understood the lurid interest her entrance had aroused. She wondered who she hated more, the earl or Amelia.
“We’ll go,” Gordon said, starting to rise.
Jane restrained him. “We will not.” Somehow she smiled. “I am in the mood for a Montrachet and some Dover sole.” She leaned close, and her eyes flashed. “He shall not chase me away!”
Gordon signaled to the maitre d’, then grimaced. “They’re leaving,” he told Jane, who would not look in their direction again. “Prepare yourself, they’re coming this way.”
Jane hated him. Her heart pounded painfully, yet her will was iron. Casually, gracefully, she turned to watch their approach, with elegance and seeming disinterest.
The earl paused beside her, Amelia behind him. His face was expressionless. “Hello, Jane,” he said, gazing at her. There was such power in his smoldering regard that Jane could not look away. He took her hand and kissed it, making lingering contact with her flesh, as if savoring the touch. “How was the show?”
So he would play polite games even as he made a fool of her publicly! “Don’t pretend you care!” she spat, blue eyes blazing. He hadn’t released her hand, and a brief tug failed to dislodge it. She knew they were making a scene, and she did not want to appear aroused, so she refrained from further attempts at freeing herself.
He stiffened, released her palm, and pulled Amelia forward. He nodded at Gordon. “We were just taking our leave,” he said, his face a mask.
Amelia was smiling with unfettered glee. “Why, hullo, Jane! This is a surprise! Imagine, you and your friend running into me and mine! What a small world! Nick insists we should leave, but we haven’t even eaten yet, perhaps we should all dine together?”
Jane knew she would never survive a supper with the earl and his flaming floozy. Color was rising high upon her cheekbones again. Then the earl gripped Amelia’s elbow and rudely yanked it, causing her to screech like a crow. He never took his gaze from Jane, and the burning intensity there confused her. “Good night,” he said. “I will see you shortly at home.”
“Will you?” Jane said snidely. “I doubt it.” She sniffed.
He gave her a look and then turned away, dragging a gleeful Amelia with him.
“So much for discretion,” Jane said, a sob catching in her voice.
“Jane, let’s go. Staying here is masochistic.”
