“Jane,” the earl said, entering without knocking.
“No,” she managed, clutching the pillow even tighter. She lay curled in a ball on the bed. “Not now.”
“We have to talk,” the earl said.
“Go away, go to her! Go to your real wife!” Jane cried hysterically.
He sat beside her, the mattress dipping, and pulled her against him. She fought him. “I don’t want to go to her,” he said thickly. “Jane, we must be calm. We must talk.”
She did not release the pillow. Her ears were ringing, her temple throbbing, and everything was sounreal.She was so afraid. “I don’t want to talk. Not now,” Did he still love her? Why was he so calm?
“Jane, don’t let her tear you up like this. Itwillbe all right,” he vowed. “You will see. We shall work it out.”
It was impossible and she knew it. There was nothing to work out. Patricia was his wife and she was not. Patricia had come back because she was his wife. Hadn’t she?
“What does she want?” she heard herself say, her voice sounding strange and far away. Although she knew the answer, she prayed, she hoped, to hear something else.
For a long moment he did not speak, and she caught a glimpse of something like desperation in his eyes. But then there was only firm, steel resolve, and she knew she had imagined seeing any other emotion. “Please, Jane,” he said. “Don’t torture yourself. Trust me. You know I will always take care of you and Nicole. Always. We will find a solution. I promise.”
Jane almost laughed, hysterically. She had known it, sensed it, the moment she first saw Patricia. There was only one solution. Obviously Patricia had come back from the dead to resume her role as his wife. That left one role for Jane—as mistress. Nicholas would “take care” of her. Jane knew she could not relinquish Nicholas to another woman, especially not to his first love. She could not, would not, be his mistress, after being his wife. She balled up her fists. And just when he was starting to love her a little!
“Don’t cry,” the earl said shakily. “She’s gone, for now, anyway, to Clarendon. She won’t be staying here, regardless.”
Jane lifted her face, gripping his shirt. “Make love to me, Nicholas,” she said desperately. “Make love to me now.”
“Jane,” he protested.
Her fingers clenching his hair, she pulled his head down and kissed him with all the desperation and love she felt. He did not resist, then began to respond, her hunger feeding his. Jane pulled him down on top of her, tearing at his shirt, the buttons flying off. He kissed her fiercely, crushing her breasts.
It was going to be the last time, and she knew it.
“Come to me,” she screamed, biting his mouth. “Come to me, Nicholas, now!”
“Jane!”
She wrenched open his trousers, yanking at them, baring his thick manhood. The earl gasped as she bit his jaw, her nails raking down his back. “Nicholas!” she screamed, weeping.
He tossed up her skirts and impaled her.
Together they strained in desperation, the one to the other, their hot tears mingling on their cheeks. And after, Jane could not cry anew, for she had nothing left to give.
The earl stroked her face and hair, holding her. “We will work it out,” he said again.
She tried to smile, and failed.
50
The earl had summoned his lawyer. Now he stood miserably, tautly, in his study, unable to calm down. He began pacing with agitation. Damn the woman! He couldn’t help wishing that Patricia were really dead. Thinking about her infuriated him.
He heard Jane’s voice in the hallway as she asked Thomas for a carriage. The earl was already at the door, and there he froze.
She slowly lifted her gaze to his.
He stared, not at her, but at her trunk and valise, the blood draining from his face—and from his very soul.
“I cannot stay here, Nicholas,” Jane said calmly.
His gaze was wild. “You are leaving me?” “It’s better if I go back to Gloucester Street,” she said, her mouth trembling. “You cannot go!”
