He looked at her for the first time in an hour. He despised her, always had. Yet he was here— because he must stay away from his wife.
At all costs.
“You go,” he said with contempt. “Why do I put up with you!” Amelia stormed out.
Nick clenched the arms of the chair until he heard the frame crack. He had taken Jane in anger today, in violence. He had raped her.
Like Chavez.
He was just like Chavez.
His heart was hammering painfully. But more painful was the searing memory of her delicate, oval face, flushed from his mouth and skin, and the tears spilling down her cheeks.
How could he make it up to her? How?
By staying away from her. Maybe he should leave her in London, while he went to Dragmore. But could he run from his wife forever?
Could he run from himself?
“Jane, I’m sorry.” He groaned. “Never, ever did I want to hurt you.”
It was just past midnight. The earl heard Amelia giving instructions to her maid as she left for the evening. He felt relief at her departure. Just past twelve; Jane’s performance had ended. Would she be going home directly, or go out with Gordon? Or Lindley?
Tonight there was no jealousy, just more pain.
It didn’t matter. Whether she went home or not, for he had to stay away from her. The earl got up and sprawled on the sofa, an arm flung across his forehead, staring at the painted fan on the ceiling. He could only think of Jane, Jane. On the stage, dynamic, angelic, beautiful. Jane shy and trembling, as when they’d first met. Jane in his arms, hot, carnal, crying his name.
He closed his eyes. He was so tired. He knew he never could sleep. But when he opened them again, it was almost four, and Amelia was bending over him, cooing in a way he particularly detested.
“Darling, you are so tired! Come with me, up to bed.” She stroked his hair.
He sat up, instantly awake, ignoring her pawing. Then he stood, looking around for his jacket. He found it on a chair and shrugged it on.
“You’re going?”
“I’m very tired,” he told her, heading for the door.
Amelia followed on his heels. “I am going to take another lover!”
He almost smiled, but to himself, for he did not even turn to her. “You already have other lovers, Amelia,” he said, stepping out into the night. He didn’t look back as he strode to his carriage.
Jane filled his thoughts again, and he was afraid. He didn’t like her being on his mind like this, did not trust himself anymore to be able to stay away from her. He had hurt her once, would he hurt her again? Would she ever forgive him for what he had done? And did it even matter if she did?
Once home, as he climbed the stairs, he became very aware of drawing nearer to her. He paused on the second-floor landing. Just down the hall she was there, in her room, asleep. He was tense with the knowledge, the certainty. Tonight she was not out with a paramour.
Nick paused outside her door, then opened it. Silently he crossed her sitting room and entered the bedroom.
Moonlight spilled in through the open windows. A breeze lifted sheer curtains and the lace hangings on the canopy of her bed. Her room smelled of lilies. She was asleep, on her side, curled up like a child.
Unable to stop himself, he approached.
She was a sleeping angel—his sleeping angel, his wife.
His wife, whom he had hurt, violated, in the grossest way. The pain filled him again, choking him. He felt hot tears behind his eyes, and knew the strongest urge to cry since being a boy.
“I’m so sorry, Jane,” he whispered.
She did not move. His hand, of its own accord, touched a tress of her hair, and then it slipped deeply into the mass to touch her head. She sighed.
