Sensing his presence, she looked up and smiled, laying aside her novel.
He did not smile back. He could not. Nor did he come forward. He stared at her. And inside, his nerves were so taut he thought he must vomit immediately.
“Nicholas?” Worry edged her voice. “What is it?”
He had to know. He had to know if she would reject him as Patricia had. He dared to hope that she would not when she learned he was partly Indian. Yet he would never forget Patricia’s horror and hysteria. He had loved Patricia then, yet it was nothing compared to what he felt for Jane. If Jane was repulsed, as a part of him was sure she would be, he did not know what he would do. He could not find any armor against the scorn and revulsion he was afraid would surely come when she learned this part of the truth. He would not reveal more than this, he could not. And even now he wished he could turn and walk away, without testing her. But he had to know.
“Nicholas!” Jane was sitting up straight, her face pale. “What’s wrong! You’re frightening me!”
He came forward slowly, like a somnambulist, pausing by the post at the foot of her bed. He stared at her. Would she reject him?
“What is it?” Jane begged.
“There’s something I want to tell you,” he said flatly, no emotion or turmoil in his tone.
“What?”
“My father is a half-breed,” he said, waiting for her reaction.
She blinked at him. “Excuse me?”
“My father,” he said, raising his voice. “Derek Bragg. He is a half-breed, half Indian, half white man.”
Jane’s eyes grew wide.
“That makes me,” he said roughly, “one-quarter breed. Do you understand?” Wide-eyed, she stared.
He waited, unable to breathe, the urge to vomit intense, for the rejection, the scorn, the revulsion.
Suddenly she smiled, then bit it back. “Oh, I had a funny thought, but now is not the time to be amusing. Nicholas, come here.”
“What was your thought?” he said stiffly, ignoring her summons. She would make fun of him now. This he hadn’t counted on.
Her lips curved up. “So that is why you’re so dark!”
He blinked. “Excuse me?”
She got up and came to him, placing her hands inside his robe and sliding them over the bronze skin of his chest. “Why you’re so dark.” She lifted her gaze and grinned wickedly. “I think I like dark men.”
His heart began to hammer loudly. “You’re not disgusted?”
“Of course not,” she said softly, touching his face. “Why should I be?”
He could barely believe it, and was stunned.
With a smile, she slid her hand down his torso, around to his hip, and then clasped his hard buttock. “I definitely like dark men!”
He growled, lifting her up into his arms. “You had better like only this dark man,” he said fiercely, and then he kissed her, hard, voraciously, raping her with his mouth. She clung.
He carried her to the bed, pushing her down, coming down on top of her. He was shaking with need—and relief.
Jane managed to tear her mouth free of his rampaging one, stroking his thick arms. “Nicholas, it’s all right,” she said. “It’s all right.”
He pressed her into the mattress, burying his face in her neck, and he groaned, the sound long and low and a release of deep inner torment. She stroked his hair as he trembled on top of her, his body hard and rigid and searing. Then he lifted up. “Let me love you,” he whispered harshly. “Let me love you, Jane,” he begged.
She caught his face and kissed him fiercely back, wondering at the dampness there.
The earl lay on his back, looking up at the canopy tenting them. Jane was on her side, snuggled against him. They had been talking about leaving for Dragmore early the next week.
