Dark Fires (12 page)

21

The performance was long since over. The Earl of Raversford stood closeted with his sister, the Countess of Braddock, in her drawing room. They were fighting.

“You are out of your mind!” the blond countess cried.

“I am not out of my mind,” Lindley replied calmly. “What is the problem?”

“It’s the last minute! The party is tomorrow night!”

“You are a snob,” he said cruelly.

She groaned with frustration.

“Invite him,” Lindley said. “Invite Shelton. You can say that you only just learned of his arrival in London. Besides, it’s the truth.”

“Why must I be the one?” she cried. “You saw how it was tonight. Everyone cut him. John—”

“Have you no heart at all?” Lindley demanded. “He has not a single friend here!”

“And you have too much heart! After what he did to you! And you his only friend! How can you still harbor a kind thought toward him!”

“You must be the first to invite him.”

“It will be a disaster!”

“He is strong. He can handle it. Eventually the gossip will die and attitudes will change.”

His tone changed, softened, cajoled. “Please, Mary. Please invite Dragmore. Only do not mention that I am behind it, for then he would not come.”

She accepted defeat. “I will do it, but you are a fool. I cannot gain him acceptance in London. I am not powerful enough.”

“I will gain him acceptance,” Lindley said quietly. “I am powerful enough.” Then his face darkened, and as an afterthought, he added, “But damn you, Shelton, you almost broke my nose.”

The earl was no fool. He knew Lindley was behind his sister’s invitation to her house party that night. Was Lindley trying to apologize for the liberties he’d taken with Jane? Nick still felt that his friend had betrayed him by kissing his ward, but he judged him less harshly than he judged himself. Thinking of what Lindley had done only reminded him of what he had done—and there was certainly no comparison. Lindley had been a gentleman—he had been a brute.

He was pleased that Lindley was offering some sort of olive branch, but he was not quite ready to accept it.

They were going to the party, however. “I do not wish to go,” Jane informed him that afternoon.

“We are going,” the earl said, and that was that.

They were announced in the salon: “The Earl of Dragmore and Miss Jane Barclay.”

A hush greeted this, with every head turned toward them. The earl held Jane’s elbow and felt her trembling. His hand tightened in a reassuring squeeze, and he felt her relax slightly. They entered.

The countess came forth to greet them, dazzling in a black velvet gown and glittering diamonds. “Lord Shelton, how wonderful to see you again!” She smiled, but anxiety was written all over her face.

Nick bowed over her hand. “Countess. It’s nice to see you as well. This is my wife’s cousin, Jane Barclay.”

The women exchanged polite greetings, and the countess took them over to a small group. “I do believe you all know Lord Shelton, and this is his ward, his wife’s cousin. Lords Smythe-Paxton and Hubberly, Lady Edding and Lady Townsend.”

“Good evening,” the earl said, and the men nodded stiffly back. Their gazes were drawn to Jane like moths to a flame. She curtsied and managed her fragile smile. She looked like an angel in her gown of silver chiffon.

“Patricia Weston’s cousin, eh?” Hubberly asked. He was a big, plump gray-haired baron. “I do believe I see a resemblance. Although Patricia, quite the stunner, could not compare to you, my dear.”

Jane blushed, murmuring a thank you.

Lady Edding, dark and beautiful, stared rudely, first at Nick, then at Jane. “Barclay. Are you the actress’s daughter?”

“Yes,” Jane said proudly, lifting her chin. “My mother was Sandra Barclay, renowned throughout England.”

The earl winced. He was still holding Jane’s arm, and his grip tightened in warning. This was not the place in which to boast of such antecedents.

Lady Edding and Lady Townsend exchanged glances. “So you’re the one!” the brunette said. Noses turned up, both women turned their backs on her and proceeded to have their own private, well-heard conversation.

“She was Edward Weston’s mistress,” Lady Ed-ding said. “Imagine—bringing an actress’s illegitimate child here! It’s hard to say who is the more uncouth!”

“They were at the theater last night,” Lady Townsend said eagerly. “I was not there, but the Duchess of Lancaster told me at tea today. He was holding her hand!”

Lady Edding gasped. Both women turned to look at Jane and the earl. Lords Hubberly and Smythe-Paxton walked away. Jane looked at the earl. There were tears in her eyes, but her voice was loud, clear, and rang out. “What unbelievable bitches.”

The earl dragged her away.

“I do not want to stay!” Jane whispered furiously.

“Do not sink to their level,” the earl hissed, equally furious.

“I cannot let them get away with their malicious slandering!”

“Yes, you can,” he said through gritted teeth. “You will smile and be polite and beautiful and show them true gentility!”

“The way you do?”

“It’s only words,” he said.

“You must hate them too,” Jane cried. “Isn’t that why you never come to London?”

“I don’t care enough to hate them.”

“I don’t believe you.”

They stared, fierce gazes locked. The earl finally broke the standoff. “Believe what you want. It doesn’t matter to me.”

“Why not?” Jane asked desperately. She touched his sleeve. “I know you. You are kind, you are good. It is these people who are rotten!”

The earl started visibly, and then a mask quickly settled upon his features, chasing away and hiding any emotions he might have had. “Come.” He inclined his head toward the crowded room.

“Please, let’s go home—to Dragmore.”

Their gazes held. “No,” he said finally. He was thrown off balance again, this time by her reference to Dragmore as home. “We are staying. I am going to find you a husband, Jane.”

Her gaze darkened. “I don’t want a husband!”

“Every woman wants a husband.”

Jane opened her mouth to protest, when she heard a woman behind them. “Scandalous,” she said. “Utterly scandalous.”

The earl started to steer her away.

Jane dug her heels in furiously.

She turned around to stare at the speaker—the Duchess of Lancaster. The woman ignored her, and continued to regale her circle of half a dozen men and women. “I saw it myself. He did not take his eyes off her the entire performance.”

“Unbelievable.”

There were murmurs of assent.

“She is his ward, his wife’s cousin,” the duchess said viciously, turning to stare at them. “He is depraved,”

The earl met her gaze. He did not so much as flinch. His face was a mask—but his cheeks had a sunburned cast. He was aware of Jane stepping in front of him, as if to shield him with her little body.

“You are depraved,” Jane hissed. “Wicked and depraved! All of you!” She grabbed the earl’s hand. “Let’s go!”

“I’m afraid we now have no choice.” He bowed toward the duchess. He was smiling sarcastically. “Good night, madame. It was a pleasure.”

22

The earl was drunk.

He sat sprawled on the sofa. He did not care.

God, what had Jane done? They would never be welcome in Society now, not after tonight. And he would never find her a husband.

Good, he thought savagely.

He decided he was drunker than he’d realized.

Jane, a blue-eyed angel in silver chiffon. “I know you,” she had cried. “You are kind and good!”

Kind and good?

He almost laughed, but the sound choked on itself.

The evening was a vivid tapestry in his mind. All the gilded, perfumed elegance and glamour. Their taunts echoed now, tormenting him.
He could not take his eyes off her … depraved … depraved … the Lord of Darkness … He killed his wife … holding hands … depraved …

God! He was sick of it, sick of the persecution, sick of being everyone’s scapegoat, sick and tired —damn them all! When would it end?
When?

“God!” he cried aloud. “It will not end, it will never end—for it’s the truth!”

He lunged to his feet, thinking of Jane, her innocent beauty and his decrepit lust. And even knowing it was wrong, he was tormented with wanting her still as he saw her as she was— young, fresh, innocent—trying to defend him, for God’s sake! He took the decanter and emptied it.

And when he found the sofa again, he buried his face in his hands. His shoulders trembled, but he did not weep.

Jane could not sleep.

He was down there somewhere beyond her door, alone.

She leaned against the windowsill, staring out into the starlit night, her hair loose, a thin cotton and lace nightgown drifting over her body. People were hateful. She had never realized there was so much cruelty in the world before. And even though the earl’s face had been a mask of indifference, beneath that faccedil;ade, he had to have felt something.

Was he hurting? Right now, was he in despair? She knew him for what he was, a lonely man in need of warmth and love. How she wanted to give him what he needed.

She wanted to weep, for him.

She turned to look at the door. It was late, but she doubted he was asleep. When they had returned from the party, he had gone directly to the library without even a good night. Perhaps he was still there. Maybe she could get him to talk. Talking with someone who eared would do him a world of good.

Jane could not stop herself from checking on the earl—she had to.

She slipped on a matching cotton robe, hugging it closed, and padded down the hall. The house was eerily quiet and very dark, making her nervous. She did not know this mansion as well as she knew Dragmore, but she found his study. The door was ajar, light spilled out from within. He was here, then. Feeling a rush of anticipation, Jane pushed open the door.

He had been here. The library was silent, but it smelled of cigars. An empty decanter and glass sat on the table in front of the sofa. His black evening jacket was on the floor, his tie upon a chair next to it. The doors leading to the patio were open, and Jane crossed the room to close them. She turned off the lights and left.

She was disappointed. He had gone to bed.

And then she decided she did not care. She wanted to see him—she
had
to see him.

The master suite was on the first floor, on the other side of the house. Jane made her way cautiously in the dark. She prayed she would not run into any servants, making up stories to explain her presence if she did. She did not. She had never entered this wing before, so she did not know exactly where his rooms were. But the light gave them away.

The door to his living room was wide open. Jane entered cautiously, blinking. He was not within, but again she smelled cigars, and this time whiskey as well. She found half a glass on the side table by the chaise.

No respectable woman would do what she was going to do.

Jane knocked on the door to his bedroom. There was no response. It was firmly closed, but she thought she saw a light beneath. Boldly she knocked again. Nothing.

She opened the door.

He lay sprawled on the bed on his back, a sheet pulled to his waist, one arm flung across his eyes, as if warding off the dim glow from the lamp by his bedside. He was sleeping.

Like a moth drawn to a flame, Jane approached.

He was beautiful.

Jane paused beside him, unable to take her gaze from him, studying him raptly as he slept. His face, with its strong nose, sensual mouth, and high, high cheekbones, was not relaxed in sleep. It was drawn with worry, and even now he stirred, groaning. Pain flickered across his features.

“Oh, Nicholas, darling,” she whispered, and her hand slid into his hair. “Sleep, darling, sleep, everything will be all right,”

He went very still. Jane froze, afraid she’d wakened him, but then he sighed, visibly relaxing. Her hand moved through his thick, black hair, stroking, caressing.

She stared unabashed at his bare upper body. He was a big, powerful man. He had the shoulders, chest, and arms of a carpenter or a woodcutter—but-without any fat. He was sculpted with flat planes of muscle and rigid bands of sinew. There was a sprinkling of hair on his chest between his nipples, and it trailed down his belly to disappear beneath the sheet. Startled, Jane realized he was stark naked under the thin covering, and she stared, fascinated.

He moaned, tossing restlessly. Jane touched his forehead, murmuring unintelligibly, as if to a babe. The sheet had slipped, revealing his taut lower abdomen and lean hips. Fire raced along the nerves of her body. She slid her hand to his neck, his shoulder, and down his sculpted arm. “I love you,” she told him. “Nicholas, I love you.”

His face was creased with worry, and he turned onto his stomach with another distorted sound. Impulsively, ignoring the warning bells that were going off in her brain, Jane went round the bed and climbed in, tossing off her robe. She snuggled close and took him in her arms. It was heaven, to hold him thus. He snuggled his face into her neck with a very childlike sound. She stroked his nape and back, marveling at the feel of him, hot and hard and magnificently male. She kissed his forehead.

He nuzzled her neck, his lips against her skin. His arm moved around her waist, and he pulled her tightly against his torso, crushing her breasts.

Jane stopped breathing. Every nerve and fiber of her being was alive with sensual awareness, throbbingly so, demanding more. She knew she should leave him. Soon, she told herself. Just a little more. She wanted just a little more time to be together like this. Her own hand slid down to caress his waist. She trembled.

He groaned. His big palm was sliding now along her back, at first slowly, sensually, then with the stirrings of urgency. He nuzzled her neck. His hand began exploring her derriere.

Jane froze, heart pounding. He was clearly asleep, and she should make her exit now. Jane couldn’t. His hand was slipping over one high curve, lazily, intently, and it was delicious. Jane gasped with the pleasure. He was kneading her buttock insistently now, and he moaned, a deep, sexual sound. Jane was trembling. Her knee was practically upon him, her thighs parting of their own will. He urged her leg across his hips and then ran his hand down the back of her thigh. Jane heard the sound coming from deep within her throat—and barely recognized herself. Then she gasped as his hand came back up—beneath her gown.

And then she could not think. His palm on her bare buttock was heaven. She was shaking, on fire. His fingertips brushed the joining of her legs and rear. Jane moaned, hooking her leg around his waist, boldly pressing toward him. Suddenly he pulled her onto her back and was on top of her, pressed against her from breast to ankle, his mouth on hers, hot yet soft and lazy. And against her belly he was hot and hard and not lazy at all.

Jane no longer thought of leaving. She was a prisoner to what he was doing. She opened her mouth, wide, eagerly, and when he thrust his tongue within, she met him fiercely.

He knew it was a dream.

But it was the best dream Nick had ever had, and he did not want to wake up. But to make sure it was Jane, he looked at her, saw her passion-glazed face, the full, parted, wet lips. “Jane.” He groaned. She was beneath him, soft and lush and shaking with need. He dove upon her mouth again, shaking now in his excitement, wishing with the back of his mind that he hadn’t drunk so much so he could enjoy the dream more. His hands stroked her from her waist to her hips. He urgently kneed her thighs apart, to settle his heavy, stiff penis there, where it belonged. She gasped and arched against him.

Groaning in the combination of pleasure-agony, Nick found her breasts, nuzzling them fiercely. The cotton fabric was in the way; he tore it abruptly apart. Lifting one firm breast, he eagerly took its small nipple in his mouth and began sucking voraciously. Jane writhed beneath him. Her nails clawed down his back. He felt her hands on his buttocks, stroking frantically. And he could not wait.

Raising up, he thrust against her.

She cried out.

Vaguely, even though it was a dream, he remembered she was a virgin. “Sorry,” he whispered, panting, reaching down, his hand shaking. He rubbed the full wet folds of her femininity. She cried out. He could not wait. Parting her, he eased in, then thrust fully, hard, into her.

Jane clung to him as he plunged again and again into her. The pain had been brief and momentary. She tried to move in tandem with him, but it was impossible, he was like a crazed bull, beyond control. And she felt the volcano within her, building, insistent, about to erupt. “I love you.” She sobbed. “Please, please …”

“Jane,” he cried out, tensing on top of her. He collapsed, panting. She felt something wet and sticky between her legs. Breathing harshly, she clung to him, kissing his wet hair again and again. He kissed the side of her neck.

Her body was alive, desperately yearning for something fierce and unknown. She moved her hips experimentally beneath him, hoping to encourage him into another bout of passion. But he was soft now, slipping out of her, his arms tightening around her. He rolled to his side, pulling her with him. “Jane,” he said.

Was he awake? Jane froze, peered at him, and saw he was still asleep. As they held each other, she stared at the ceiling, sanity returning. Oh, God, she thought, what have I done this time?

Then she decided it did not matter. She loved him. She had wanted him. It had been wonderful. Now she would never, ever leave him.