“I know just how to cheer you up,” Lindley said, entering the room.
Jane suddenly felt tears come to her eyes. Tears of self-pity that his presence had brought instantly.
“What’s this!” he cried, dropping down besides her and taking both of her hands. “Jane, are you crying?”
She sniffed and fought the tears and the urge to unburden herself and tell him all of her troubles. “No, no, I’m fine. Just tired.”
He touched her temple, smoothing away hair. “It’s the godawful scandal, isn’t it?”
Jane nodded glumly.
“It will pass.”
“So everyone says.”
He stared at her, and she knew he wanted to ask her questions, intimate ones, about her life with the earl. But Lindley was a gentleman, and still holding her hands, he sat straighter. “Let’s go to a party.”
“I can’t,” she said immediately. “I’m too tired.”
“Ah, but this is no elegant soirée. This is artists and bohemians and students and it will be full of wine and food and fun. Trust me,” he added, his brown eyes sincere.
Jane suddenly smiled. “How do you know artists and bohemians, Jon?”
He grinned. “I’ll never tell.”
She thought about going home—while he was out with Amelia—and was suddenly determined to have fun, to enjoy herself, to live. “All right! Just let me remove this makeup and change.”
***
The party was in the cellar of an old building near the Thames on the Strand. The cellar was some sort of avant-garde cafe, Parisian style. As they descended rickety wooden stairs, a raucous din could be heard. Lindley had Jane’s arm, for she was wearing high-heeled red shoes, to help her down. They pushed through a glass door on the bottom landing.
The interior was crowded and smoky and dimly lighted. Many small tables were packed within, all apparently full. All the aisles were crowded too. Jane saw that the crowd was half Society, elegantly dressed for an evening at the theater or opera or private soirées, and partly young students in casual tweeds. There were even a few women in bloomers, smoking cigarettes. A stunning African woman stood by a piano singing to a tune beat out ebulliently by a mustachioed player. A few of the bohemian couples were dancing enthusiastically and wildly near the piano, between the tables and the diners.
Jane’s fatigue fled. She looked at the grinning Lindley and laughed. “Let’s dance,” she cried impulsively.
Lindley was delighted. He pulled her into his arms and whirled her about in the aisle. It was no sedate waltz, this, but something spontaneous and rhythmic and quite original. Someone at the table crowding them began to clap, and others joined in.
The song ended and the woman began another one, this one soulful and melancholy, the beat slow. Lindley didn’t hesitate, but moved Jane into his swaying, barely moving embrace. Jane stiffened. “Jon, what are you doing?”
“You said you wanted to dance,” he replied gruffly.
Jane could feel every inch of his body, the way he was holding her. She wasn’t sure she liked it. She thought of the earl and felt guilty. Yet she was so alone, and she needed somebody. To be held intimately like this was wrenchingly wonderful. She started to relax.
“You’re so damn beautiful,” Lindley whispered, his breath warm on her cheek.
Jane didn’t know what to say, so she said nothing.
When the song ended, Lindley let her pull away. Jane was both embarrassed and agitated from the intimacy they had shared. “Shall we find a place to sit?” she asked uncertainly.
“We can try,” he said, taking her hand. He started to lead her forward, but a couple barred their way in the narrow aisle. The man was large and dark, and although at first indistinguishable amid the dim illumination, the flickering candles and foglike swirling smoke, so very familiar. His stance was rigid. It was the Earl of Dragmore.
Jane could not believe it.
His gaze was a furious silver, locked on Lindley. Lindley broke the strained silence. “Hullo, Shelton, Amelia.”
It was then that Jane saw the redhead. As usual, Amelia looked voluptuous and beautiful—and she was grinning. “Hi, Jon,” she purred.
The earl looked from Lindley to Jane. Jane met his gaze, her apprehension immense. She knew he was enraged to find her there with Lindley, yet he was there with Amelia. What a pretty coil, she thought, suddenly sick and miserable. Her instincts were to preempt any eruption from occurring. “Hello, Nicholas,” she said quietly. He flinched as if shot at the sound of his name. “Amelia.”
