She blushed again. “One of the actors, someone new …”
He studied her, at seventeen still so young, and imagined her at fourteen—nearly sexless, a mere child, a wraith most likely. He felt hard, hot anger. “Did he hurt you?”
Jane shook her head. “Scared me, is all. He wouldn’t have … I’m sure he wouldn’t have … He only kissed me, touched me. He wouldn’t have hurt me. He was my friend.”
She believed it. Whoever had molested her had been depraved, but she, to this day, thought him her friend. She was utterly innocent. He imagined, with some horror, what would happen if she was allowed to go to London to the stage. A lamb among wolves. She would be slaughtered. The earl stood abruptly. “It’s late.”
She smiled tremulously. “Then you understand? I won’t have to get married?”
The one thing the earl understood was his duty, his responsibility. And she was now his ward. “You will be married as soon as I find a suitable prospect,” he said firmly, moving to the door and opening it.
Her eyes were wide, distressed.
“Good night, Jane.” He watched her. She wanted to argue. He waited, and it came.
“I won’t get married.” Her full lower lip pouted, trembling.
He smiled slightly. “We shall see.” It was a dismissal. He watched her leave, trying to ignore the tumult rising within him. There was no choice, hemustmarry her off. The problem loomed, like a five-foot stone wall before his Irish-bred hunter. Just how in hell was he going to find her a suitable husband when he had not been among Society since the murder trial?
And he felt it then, anguish, dread.
But with iron control, he shoved both feelings deep, deep inside.
6
Jane passed a sleepless night. She tossed and turned, both miserable and angry. She would never give up her dreams, yet she sensed that the earl would be as immovable as a stone wall. Again and again their conversation replayed itself in her mind. The words became lost among the images. Mostly his image, dark and threatening. He had not a jot of compassion in his entire large, hard body. His eyes were silver ice. If she wasn’t careful, she would probably be married within the fortnight.
Knowing him now, as little as she did, sensing the dark, hot anger pulsing within him, she thought that perhaps what they said was true, perhaps he had killed his wife. After all, where there’s smoke there’s fire, and he had been on trial for the murder—the trial of the Earl of Drag-more had been sensationalized by the press, making headlines every day for a week. It had only been three and a half years ago. Jane had seen some of the papers. That particular week Matilda and the parson had argued vehemently once over whether he was guilty or innocent, Matilda certain he had done the grisly deed. She had won that battle. But he had been acquitted. Some time during this period he had gained the popular title the Lord of Darkness.
And then she remembered his hands.
She saw them clearly, big and powerful, hands that could kill. Yet how could a murderer’s hands stroke a little boy’s hair with such tenderness? Jane was assailed with the memory of how, earlier, in the nursery, Nick had not been able to take his palm out of Chad’s thick hair. The power had been cowed by gentleness, such gentleness …
Jane hoped he hadn’t killed his wife. Suddenly she wished she could remember the details of the case. She had only been fourteen, and she hadn’t read the papers, just glanced at the headlines and listened to Matilda and the parson fighting.
When she finally fell asleep she dreamed. But not of the murder. She dreamed of his hands, big, gentle, stroking Chad’s hair. Except the hair changed from brown to blond. And he was stroking her hair. His warm hand, throbbing with life, slid to her neck, cupping it. And across her shoulder, down her arm … The pleasure was unbearable. She awoke stretching like a cat, sensually, languidly, a smile on her lips. Her breasts felt full and aching, and her nipples were small and hard, rubbing against the thin lawn of her nightgown. Jane did not want to wake up. She touched her breast, a small caress, held it, then her hand drifted to her belly and paused. Her gown was twisted up around her thighs, which were spread open, sprawling lasciviously. She recalled then, in a flash of clarity, that she had been dreaming of his touch, and she went pink. Yet it had been so real.
She would never dream that dream again!
Thank God he would never be able to read her mind!
Jane leapt from the bed and washed and dressed in a plain blue-striped dress. She wished now that she had brought her crinoline, but because she hated it and never wore it at the parsonage she hadn’t. She wondered if he expected her to take her breakfast in the nursery as well. She was seventeen, not six. She would not—even if he thought her a child. Still, as she went downstairs she was soundless, purposefully, and outside the doors to the breakfast room she hesitated, momentarily unsure, even afraid to enter. The room was empty.
Relief was vast, but there was a tingling of disappointment too.
The sideboard was still graced with hot, covered serving dishes and platters. His place was empty, the plate gone but the setting still there, left in disarray. Jane could still feel his presence, or so she imagined. There was no setting for her. With determination, she went out and into the kitchen. A dozen servants stood about, gabbing. Food being prepared for the earl’s next meal lay about on what appeared to be a dirty countertop, the mutton unwrapped, not even on a plate. Jane was aghast. Dirty pots were piled in the sink. The floors were filthy, both dirty and stained. The walls, usually white and now gray, needed a washing as well.
“Mum, can I help you?”
It was Molly. Jane smiled. “Yes. Please set me a place at the table in the breakfast room. I will be taking” —she hesitated—“breakfast there from now on.” She wanted to take all her meals with him, but decided she had better go inch by inch. “Molly, why is that counter like that?”
“Excuse me, mum?”
“Who is in charge here?” Jane asked.
“I am,” said a chubby man in a chef’s white uniform. He smiled back at her, thinking he had never seen such a sweet angel-like doll in his life. “I’m Frankel, ma’am.”
“Frankel—” She searched for the words. “Would you please remove that mutton to the dogs and find his lordship something else for his dinner?” She smiled encouragingly. “Would you please have the counters cleaned before you do another thing?” She paused, to see if she had offended him. Her smile was quick, warm. “This kitchen needs a woman’s touch!”
