He nodded and turned his back on her and paced to his desk. He sat behind it. Jane slowly crossed the room, so nervous that she didn’t pay attention to its size, the plush carpets, the thick, gleaming mahogany walls. The desk was overly large—it suited him. She couldn’t help but notice the endless piles of paperwork, ledgers, and books. She felt like a supplicant at the royal throne.
She wasn’t sure whether to stand or sit, so she stood.
“Well?”
“My lord.” She took a breath, looked him in the eye. “I cannot marry.” Not an emotion crossed his face. “No?” “No.”
“Why not?”
“I am an actress, sir.”
It was said with such seriousness, such conviction, that Nick felt the corners of his mouth trying to lift. He fought the urge to smile. “Indeed?”
“Yes.” Calmer now, Jane smiled. It was so sweet the earl felt the stabbing all the way to his gut— and he didn’t like that. His jaw clamped, but she went on serenely. “You know, don’t you, that my mother was a famous actress, Sandra Barclay. And I, well, I had my first role at ten at the Lyceum Theatre.” Her eyes shone. “I was on the stage until I was fourteen,” she said, as if that explained everything.
The earl was stunned and disbelieving. “Your mother was an actress? I find it impossible to believe that the blue-blooded Westons would allow such a woman into their noble midst.”
Jane grew slightly pink.
“You are a Weston?”
She didn’t respond, pinker still.
“You are somehow related to the family? I was led to believe you were the dear, dead duke’s grandaughter.”
“I am,” she squeaked.
“I see,” he said, leaning back, his face ferocious-looking now. “A bas—illegitimate?”
She was red. “My father, the duke’s third son, Viscount Stanton, loved my mother to distraction. And she loved him.”
“But they weren’t married.”
Jane was both upset and angry at his prying. “He could not marry her, sir,” she said clearly.
He raised a brow.
“He already had a wife,” she managed.
“Ah,” Nick said. “I see.”
Jane swallowed, hard. Some time before he had died, her father and mother had carefully explained that they weren’t married, although they loved each other completely, and that her father already had a wife from the time before he’d known and fallen in love with Sandra. Jane knew they loved each other and was so secure in this fact that the truth had not upset her. It was only much later, after her mother died, that her father’s marriage and her own illegitimacy suddenly became an issue—with her newly found fame as London’s darling of the stage.
The earl felt sorry for her. He fought the unfamiliar sympathy. He concentrated on his smoldering anger—he had been tricked, deceived. Marrying the chit off would be no simple task. It would be nearly impossible, no matter how pretty she was. She was the bastard of an actress—her mother might as well have been a prostitute for all the difference it would make to Society. He would have to give her an incredible dowry—and then some.
And it wasn’t exactly as if his reputation was spotless, either. He almost laughed, then, thinking of the irony of it—the man who had stood trial for the murder of his wife, in one of the century’s most shocking courtroom dramas, trying to arrange a “respectable” marriage for an actress’s bastard. How appropriate.
“He loved her very much,” Jane said. She was staring at the floor. “It’s the truth.”
He eyed her.
“Those were the best, most wonderful times.” She looked up, eyes wet. “Daddy and I would watch Mother on the stage. He’d hold me in his arms, up high, so I could see. He would always tell me how wonderful she was, how beautiful. Then he’d tease me, telling me that one day I’d surpass even her. And she was wonderful, she was beautiful. She always performed to standing ovations—the audiences couldn’t get enough of her. And the men. They all fell in love with her. But she wanted no one except my father.”
Even if it were true, it made no difference to Nick. He supposed they, were lucky, to have shared something special, even if for a short while. He thought of Patricia. He thought of the day he had learned the truth—the day she had left him and Chad and run away with her lover. He looked at the fragile child standing in front of him. “Your mother died when you were fourteen? And you were sent to your aunt’s?”
“Mother died when I was ten. Robert—the manager—let me stay on with the company until I was fourteen.” Suddenly she blushed and gazed at the floral carpet. “Something happened,” she mumbled. Recovering, she met his gaze with a faked shrug. “He decided I had best go to relatives.”
It was unbelievable—a child raised by a troupe of actors. “What happened?”
