“Papa!” Nicole echoed, imitating her brother. She waved a hair ribbon in her chubby fist.
Still with eyes only for Jane, the earl’s hand found Chad’s back. Finally he tore his gaze free. “Hello, son.”
“Want to hear a story?” Chad asked enthusiastically.
His hand in the boy’s hair, the earl looked up, again at Jane, this time with a question in his eyes.
Jane, sitting on the settee, legs tucked beneath her, Nicole on her lap, smiled softly. “Please, join us.”
His gaze leapt. The earl shrugged off his jacket, tossing it onto a chaise where, of course, it fell to the floor. Chad was dancing gleefully around his father, then dropped to his place at Jane’s feet. The earl eased onto the settee by her bent knees. Their gazes met, locked.
Jane’s heart lodged somewhere in the vicinity of her throat. She wanted to touch him, lean forward and kiss his cheek. But she did not dare.
“Hello, sweetheart,” he said gently to a happy Nicole. He lifted her onto his own lap, the baby shouting with excitement.
“She loves her papa,” Jane noted, heart pounding. He was so big he dwarfed the sofa, crowding her. His thigh touched her knee.
The earl smiled a rare smile, with real pleasure. Two dimples appeared to accompany it. “Yes, she does,” he said, and then his silver gaze lanced hers again. Jane knew he was thinking about last night—just as she was.
“Jane,” Chad shouted, tugging on her skirt. “Come on, don’t forget the story!”
Jane tousled his hair, smiling, and opened the book on her lap. She began to read.
44
Jane handed Thomas her cloak. Quietly she asked, “Is the earl at home?”
Thomas smiled. “He’s in the library, my lady.”
Jane’s heart danced. Trying to hide her own obvious pleasure, she touched the heavy knot of hair at the nape of her neck, then smoothed the silk of her bodice. She was wearing an emerald-green gown that she knew did especially wonderful things for her face and figure, and she hurried to the study. He sat on the couch with a journal, whiskey, and cigar. With more elation, Jane saw that he was wearing trousers with a paisley smoking jacket—and a gentleman never wore his smoking jacket out of the house.
He looked up, a light flaring in his smoky gray eyes.
“Good evening,” Jane said, suddenly nervous.
“Good evening,” he replied. His tone was polite, but his eyes were not. They devoured her, every inch, finally lingering upon her bosom, shockingly revealed by the low-cut dress. He set the journal down. “And how was it tonight?”
“Fine,” she said. “You’re not going out?”
He gave her a slight smile. “I found all the proferred engagements uninteresting.” His look was sharp.
Jane bit back a smile. “May I …?” She trailed off shyly.
“Please,” he said quickly, leaping to his feet. “A sherry?”
“That would be wonderful,” Jane said, coming toward the sofa. He went to pour her a glass. Jane sat down gracefully, choosing deliberately not the middle of the couch, but not the end either. He returned, handed her the glass, and sat, somewhere in the middle of the sofa—almost touching her skirts.
“Shall I ask Thomas to serve us a late supper?”
“You haven’t eaten?” Jane was surprised, and wondered, daringly, if he had waited for her.
He colored slightly on his high cheekbones. “I was very involved in reading,” he said lamely. “It escaped my mind.”
“I am famished,” Jane lied. She had no appetite, but would certainly find one, anything to linger with him!
The earl rose and rang a bell, then, when Thomas appeared, ordered him to serve what he would on the trolley table. Thomas departed, positively beaming. Jane sipped the sherry, eyes lowered, her body tense.
The earl sipped his whiskey. They seemed at a loss for conversation.
