But never would he prostrate himself to her.
Never would he beg for her favors.
Never.
He lunged out of the coach when they arrived at the house on Tavistock Square. Thomas had dutifully waited up for him. “Is my wife here?” the earl asked abruptly.
“No, sir,” Thomas said.
Nick cursed and paced into his study. It was only half-past one. She was still at the restaurant, undoubtedly. He should either go to sleep or go out again. But he did neither.
He threw his jacket and tie on the sofa, where they slipped to the floor, and unbuttoned his shirt. He paced restlessly, like a caged lion who scents the kill but is not freed to hunt it. Tonight half a glass of whiskey sufficed, he could not contemplate more. He put out three cigars, barely touched. It was hot and humid this night, and his skin was damp and sticky. He removed his shirt with a growl, a lion pricked by a thorn, and balled it, threw it aside. And his flesh, his flesh was pulsing with anger and jealousy and unfulfilled need.
It was three-thirty before she returned.
Three-thirty.
The earl heard the long-awaited sounds of the coach, the horses, the hounds, and finally her sweet voice thanking a servant who let her in. Fists clenched, he loomed in the doorway of the library, backlit by the swelling lights from within. She jumped upon seeing him.
He stared at her rudely. Her hair, he saw, was still caught up in the chignon, not a hair out of place. Her face was pale, eyes wide and bright, lips unswollen. Her low-cut dress was immaculately in place, perfectly buttoned, perfectly adorned. He found his gaze lingering upon her breasts and he imagined them filling his hands. When he jerked his eyes back to hers, he saw that color had crept along her cheekbones.
“Where the hell have you been?” he demanded harshly.
She started, then her blue eyes flashed. “That, my lord, is none of your affair!” She sneered his title.
“Oh, it’s my affair all right,” he said softly, dangerously, stepping closer to her. She backed off a step. “Where in hell have you been!”
“Where have you been?” She lifted a pale eyebrow regally.
He grabbed her before she could dodge him, catching her small wrist, so she could not flee. “Answer me, Jane.” His tone was ominous.
“I was with Robert Gordon, as you well know!”
“Where?” he said with a snarl.
“It’s none of your concern!” She tried to free her hand and failed.
“As your husband, every goddamn breath you take is my concern.”
“We have an agreement,” she cried. “Or have you forgotten?”
“Forgotten?” he purred, pulling her closer. She gasped when he drew her so close their breaths mingled, her skirts touching his knees. “How could I ever forget?”
Just for an instant, Jane couldn’t reply. His face was so close. Dark, deadly, his eyes silver with fury and hot, glittering passion, his mouth so sensually curved, parted, and so near hers. She could even feel the heat of his slickly damp, bared torso. He wanted her, she knew it. He was going to kiss her. Her heart was thumping its way right out of her breast.
“I could never forget.”
His words scorched their way right to her heart. She tried to twist free, failing. “Obviously you haven’t forgotten,” she cried. “Obviously you are making good use of our ‘agreement.’” Images of Amelia rose to torment her further.
“Very good use,” the earl agreed.
“Let me go!”
“Is he good?” the earl asked cruelly. “Does he please you, Jane? Can an old man like that even give you orgasms?”
Jane gasped, recoiling.
He yanked her hard to him, wrapped one steel arm around her waist, crushed her breasts to his naked, wet chest, and kissed her brutally. Jane felt panic on the heels of her shock. He was all steel strength, and he was so dark and angry, that her struggle was futile unless he chose to release her. Yet even as her mind grappled with panic, the feel of his damp skin on her partly bared breasts caused her nipples to harden with agony, caused shafts of need deep within her. Then he pulled his mouth away from hers. “You would kiss him but not me, your husband?”
