Dark Fires (15 page)

27

Inside the auditorium, it was dark and quiet, the audience spellbound, and on the stage, bathed in light, Jane performed.

He stood very quietly, his spine rigid, his back to the doors leading to the lobby. He made no move to find a seat, and he made no move to leave. Indeed, even though it was the third and final act, he had only just arrived. He stared, un able to peel his gaze away from the actress, just like everyone else in the theater.

Beneath his breath, the Earl of Dragmore swore crudely.

God, he hated her!

After all this time, he had thought he would feel nothing. That he would be cold and indifferent. Yet it was not cool indifference flowing through his veins, but hot anger. He trembled with it.

Hearing about her yesterday, he had not been able to stay away.

She was beautiful—as Lindley had said. She was a contradiction, both angelic innocence and carnal sensuality. His lips sneered, and he wondered how many lovers she’d had since him. He told himself he did not care, and this time, he cursed aloud.

“Shhh,” fifty people hissed at once.

He ordered himself to leave, but he did not.

And when she was particularly funny, and everyone around him roared in mirth, he did not laugh. He did not even smile.

She had left him.

He had loved her—and she had left him.

As intense as his anger had been in that moment, his despair had been worse. Yet he had not let her go to London alone and fending for herself. He had sent a runner immediately to Gordon at the Lyceum, to ascertain that she had arrived safely and was cared for. That assured, he had given in to his fury and hatred, spending his days in dark, angry despair, seeking solace in a bottle, closed up alone in his library. After a few days he returned grimly to the living, to run Dragmore. The anger and hurt faded to manageable proportions, and by a month’s time, he felt nothing at all.

He met with Gordon once, to determine the extent of the responsibility he owed Jane. For she was still his ward. Gordon assured him Jane was no burden, that he loved her as he would a daughter, having loved her mother as a friend. Not satisfied, the earl made arrangements to support her financially. He did not see Jane, indeed, made damn sure they met at Tavistock Square to avoid this happening. And then he put her out of his mind.

Except, sometimes, in the lonely darkness of the night, she came to him and, half asleep, he reached for her—but it was only a dream, and she was not there.

The play was over, and Jane was taking her bow alone before the crowd, which was roaring its approval. The earl stood frozen, his gaze never wavering from her. She was beaming, ecstatic, and when someone pelted her with red roses, she laughed, picking one up and waving it at the audience. He felt a chink in the armor of his hatred. Her joy was nearly contagious. Desperately he wrapped the cloak of burning emotion more tightly around himself, standing more rigidly, fixing a look of loathing upon his features. She disappeared backstage amid shouts of “Angel! Angel! We want Angel!”

Angel, he thought savagely. Witch was more like it. And he clenched his fist so hard it hurt.

In the lobby he paused, the crowd flowing around him, giving him the usual wide berth and even wider stares. Those who did not see him were chattering animatedly, with laughter interspersed and many comments of praise for Jane— especially among the men. Nick could feel his heart throbbing with dark intent. In fact, he became aware of his entire body pulsating, alive and heated. He knew he should just drag his damn feet to the main doors and leave the goddamn theater. Instead, he abruptly turned and went backstage.

Jane was flushed and smiling. She knew that tonight she had been better than ever, and she could not wait to read the critics tomorrow. “Jon,” she cried, whirling, her chiffon floating around her, “have I ever been better?”

Lindley grinned. “I don’t think so, darling, never.”

Jane turned to Robert Gordon. “Have I?” she demanded. “Have I?”

“Never,” Robert assured her. “Maybe tonight calls for a special celebration.”

Her laughter was rich, warm and undeniably infectious. “I feel like dancing!”

“This can easily be arranged,” Lindley said eagerly, catching her hand and pulling her to him. “Shall I take you dancing, Jane? And to supper?”

Jane looked at him flirtatiously, her mood too impossibly good, her elation making her float like the angels in the clouds above. She opened her mouth to reply, knowing she was flirting and knowing she should stop, when from outside the door came the sound of thunder.

And then again thunder boomed, as someone banged once, furiously, and the door shook.

Everyone inside the room froze, then Gordon started forward, frowning angrily. Jane reacted with instinct—and intuition. “No!” she shrieked. “Don’t open it!”

“Who is it?” Gordon called rigidly. “No need to break the door down, man!”

“It’s the Earl of Dragmore” was the frozen reply.

Jane went white.

Seeing this, Lindley’s hands went to her shoulders. “It’s all right.”

“No! It’s not,” Jane cried frantically, clinging to Lindley. Then, to Robert: “Don’t open it! Don’t let him in!” She had one coherent thought among the knifing panic, and that was to escape.

“Jane.” Gordon frowned. “We must be civil—”

But Jane was already across the room, her fear giving her wings, and at the back door. “Delay him,” she cried to the two men in a whisper. “Delay him, tell him I just stepped out and I’ll be back —please!” Neither man could deny her appealing look. And then she rushed out, the door drifting shut behind her.

The thunder came again. “Open the goddamn door, Gordon,” the earl demanded. “Now—before I break it down!”

Gordon and Lindley exchanged glances. “Maybe you’d best do as he suggests,” Lindley said, shooting a glance at the door Jane had escaped through. He didn’t like her reaction to the earl, not at all.

“Let’s give her another minute,” Gordon said, low. “Although why she—”

Thunder boomed, wood cracked, and the door flew in off its hinges, the earl’s shoulder behind it. He righted himself, his face a grim mask of determination—and then he saw Lindley. Anger blazed. His gaze swept the room, seeking Jane. “Where is she? I know she was here—I heard her.”

“She’ll be right back,” Gordon said calmly. “Damn it, Shelton, there was no need to break down the door!”

But Nick wasn’t listening. He was staring furiously at Lindley. “What the hell are you doing here?”

Lindley smiled easily. “The same thing as you— I came to see Jane.”

They stared at each other.

The earl looked around again, taking in the soft Aubusson carpet, the plush settee, the rosewood butler’s table, the dressing table and gilt mirror. He eyed the many vases of flowers, and the Chinese dressing screen—black with inlaid gold and opal dragons. His gaze lingered on a wispy blue satin robe hanging upon it. Then he saw the other door, near the dressing table, and in a stride he reached it and flung it open. He stared down the black hallway. Then turned.

“She left,” he said, his tone low and barely controlled.

Neither Lindley nor Gordon responded.

With a violent cry, the earl’s arm swept out, and he savagely cleared the table of its contents, sending a vase of roses and all Jane’s toiletries smashing to the floor.

A shocked silence followed.

The earl broke it. “Where is she?”

Lindley didn’t move a muscle, but Gordon grimaced.

“Where is she?” When Gordon didn’t respond, the earl leapt. He threw him against the wall, pinning him there. Gordon cried out. “Tell me, damn it, before I break your neck,” the earl shouted.

Lindley hauled on the earl from behind, trying to drag him off Gordon. “Stop it, Nick, damn it, stop it!”

The earl froze, Lindley’s assault no more bothersome than an attack of gnats, and then he slumped, freeing Gordon. He leaned against the wall, forehead pressed there, shoulders slumped. Gordon skittered away. “I’m sorry,” the earl said heavily. “I’m sorry.”

28

Jane was not able to sleep all night. Her thoughts were filled with him.

She lay awake staring at the ceiling, waiting, listening, for the sound of a carriage or a horse. Her chest was so tight it hurt. She was so stiff she hurt. She was sure he would come after her.

But he didn’t.

Just as he hadn’t come after her two years ago.

At first, panicked in the darkness, she was sure the only reason he could have had in coming to see her after all this time was Nicole.

But how had he found out? No one knew about their daughter, no one except herself and Molly and Gordon, and Jane trusted the other two with all her heart. Yet she did not underestimate the earl, not for a second. He was shrewd. He certainly wasn’t coming to say hello—or take up where they had left off. She refused to acknowledge the bitterness that rose. Only one thing became clear: He could not know. She grew calmer as dawn approached. No, he could not know. But he had been so angry. She had heard it in his voice. Yet she recalled only too well that the earl was an angry man. It took so little to light the fires that burned within him. Such dark fires.

She would not feel compassion.

Today she did not play outside in the yard or sit on the pink swing with her daughter. They stayed inside, just in case he did come. Hiding. Despite the voice of logic, she was afraid.

Holding Nicole after breakfast, Jane debated what to do as her daughter explored the ribbons in Jane’s hair. If she were a true mother, she would quit the Criterion and take Nicole away and just disappear. But Jane didn’t think she could do this, not yet, not unless there was absolutely no other choice. Maybe she should send Nicole and Molly to Brighton for a short vacation, just until things died down. She could confront the earl, demand what he wanted, surmise if he knew about Nicole—yes! This was what she would do.

Leaving Nicole playing in the parlor for a moment, Jane hurried into the kitchen, just next door. “Molly, pack up a few things. I want you to take Nicole to Brighton for a week.”

Molly’s eyes widened, then she squealed with delight, having developed a fondness for travel once she’d discovered it. Jane explained why, and the two women walked out of the kitchen together, making plans.

A man filled the doorway of the parlor, his back to them. He was rigid.

Jane froze, hands clutched to her breast. “Jon! How did you get in!”

He whirled, eyes wide, stunned. “The door was open, wide open.”

Jane hurried past him to her daughter, who was sitting and playing with a silver box she must have somehow knocked down. She knelt, sweeping Nicole into her arms.

“My God,” Lindley said.

Rising, holding her daughter fiercely, Jane said with outward calm, “Molly, please close and lock the front door.”

Molly was red. “I’m sorry, mum. When the milkman come, I must have left it ajar.”

“It’s all right,” Jane said, her gaze bonded with Lindley’s.

Lindley stared at Nicole. Jane kissed her hair, rubbing her cheek there. “I think you should go, Jon,” she managed. She felt it, her world beginning to cave in. She was trembling.

“I had to see you today,” Lindley said stiffly. “I had to see you. I couldn’t sleep all last night, thinking about what happened at the Criterion yesterday. Thinking about how afraid you were to see him. Do you know he broke the door down?”

Jane said nothing. Tears slipped down her cheeks, and she closed her lids tightly.

“Now I know why. It’s his, isn’t it?”

Jane held the toddler closer. “No.”

“She has black hair, almost as black as his. Her skin isn’t dark, but it’s not as fair as yours. And her eyes are not blue and not gray, but somewhere in between. But you know what the giveaway is? Her cheekbones. High, wide—like his. How old is she? Let me think—thirteen months?” Suddenly his face went hard. “That bastard!”

Jane felt the panic. “Please! Please, Jon, if you care at all—you mustn’t tell him!”

Lindley stared. “He doesn’t know.”

“If he finds out he’ll take her away from me, I know he will!”

Lindley said nothing, not moving a muscle.

Jane put Nicole down, wiping her eyes, but the tears kept coming. “Please, Jon, he has Chad, and —I love Nicole. Please don’t tell him. I’m so afraid. I won’t have a chance if he knows, even if I run away to India. Please.” She sobbed, her control breaking.

Lindley went to her and swept her into his arms. She wept upon his shirt front, and he held her, stroking the hair at the nape of her neck. “Don’t cry, Jane, please. I won’t say a word. Shh.”

Jane clung to him, shaking. She lifted her tear-stained face. “Promise me?”

Lindley felt the swift stabbing of doubt, and Jane saw it. Her face crumbled. Lindley groaned, hugging her harder, burying his face on the top of her hair. “I promise,” he said harshly, knowing he would regret it.

And then he forgot about regrets. Jane was soft in his arms. Her breasts were crushed against his chest. She smelled of lilies. Her hair was silk. Not for the first time, he was assailed with desire, the heat building rapidly in his loins. “Jane,” he said harshly. He should move away, yet he could not.

“You are so good.” She sniffed, her face buried in his shirt. “So good, so kind.”

“Damn kindness,” Lindley said. He tipped her chin up and kissed her, hard.

Jane froze. Lindley’s mouth moved voraciously over hers, testing, tasting, demanding. When he prodded her lips with his tongue, she opened slightly, enough for him to thrust in. He realized through a hot-red fog that she was not responding, just allowing him to kiss her. He was so thick against her belly he wanted to explode. Somehow he pushed himself away from her. He gave her his back to regain control.

When he turned again Jane was watching him, a squirming Nicole protectively cradled in her arms.

“I’m sorry,” Lindley said. “But you know I want you, Jane.”

“I thought we were friends,” Jane said softly.

“We’re friends, but I want more.”

“I can’t give you more.”

“Because of him?”

Jane shook her head. “No. Because I don’t love you.”

“Do you love him?”

She didn’t hesitate. “No.”

Lindley shoved his hands in his pockets. “I suppose that makes me feel a bit better.”

“Jon.” She came to him and touched his cheek. “I need your friendship. I’ve come to count on it. Don’t—don’t walk away, please, not now.” Her voice was tight and high.

“God, Jane, I wouldn’t!” He touched her hair, and felt his need again. “But I’m a man, Jane, and I won’t lie to you anymore. Do I have a chance?”

“What do you want?” she asked sadly. “A tumble? A mistress? I know you don’t want me as your wife.”

He felt ashamed, and reddened.

“I thought so,” she said softly. “Once I thought I loved someone and I gave myself to him freely. If I ever love again, I will do the same, but not until then—not for sport and not for gain.”

His shame increased, and maybe it was then that he started to fall in love with her. “I will always be here for you,” he said. And he knew, as he said it, that it was the truth.