Dark Fires (8 page)

13

“Whatever is going on in here? This racket is unbearable!” Amelia cried.

Jane didn’t look at her. “Careful, John,” she warned as he stood precariously upon a ladder in the yellow parlor taking down the heavy brocade drapes. Too late; the drapes fell, a goodly portion upon him, making him lose his balance. Fortunately, Thomas steadied the ladder just in time, preventing an accident. “Are you all right?” Jane cried anxiously.

“Yes’m,” John said, grinning with embarrassment. He was just a year or two older than Jane.

“What
is
going on?” Amelia demanded from the doorway.

Jane sighed and turned to her. She gestured gracefully with one hand. “As you can see, we’re cleaning.”

Amelia’s eyes narrowed.

All the rugs had been rolled up to be taken outside, swept, beaten, and aired. Likewise with the heavy, moldering drapes. Two maids had moved all of the furniture into the center of the room, the better to attack the gritty corners and cobwebs.

“John,” Jane instructed, “ask Howard to help you remove all the furniture, except the piano, of course, into the drawing room so we can wax these floors.”

“My, my,” Amelia said. “We are the perfect housekeeper, aren’t we?”

Jane turned. “I would not go around calling other people names, Amelia. They might call you something back.”

Amelia had the sensitivity to flush. “There are names you could be called too,” she shot. “I know all about you—Miss Barclay. You may be Weston’s granddaughter, but he never publicly acknowledged you!”

Jane reddened, but lifted her chin. “My father did. And I am proud of who I am.”

“Pride will not get you what you want,” Amelia said, laughing. “Excuse me—it will not get you whom you want!”

The truth of that statement hurt. “But at least I have pride,” Jane flashed back. “At least I don’t stay with a man who practically accuses me of being a whore to my face!”

Amelia went white with fury. “At least,” she hissed, “I make him happy when it counts! When the lights are out! You will never be woman enough for the earl!”

No matter how hard Amelia struck, nor how cruel she was, Jane could not threaten her with revealing what she’d seen. With innate dignity, she turned her back on the older woman. She realized then that the two maids, John, and Thomas were all frozen, having heard every word. She knew her cheeks were pink. Good Lord, did they all think that she coveted the earl? Nevertheless, she smiled at everyone and said cheerfully, “We will never get this room freshened if we all stand about gawking.”

Immediately everyone returned to his task.

Amelia snorted.

“Annie, take everything off the mantel, if you please. It’s as filthy as the rest of this room.” Jane was aware, as Annie complied, that Amelia had stomped with all the grace of a cow out of the parlor. She realized her small hands were clenched into fists at her sides, and she relaxed them. That woman was a viper. How could he be so blind? Jane was trembling. How did Amelia know she cared about the earl? Would she tell him? Oh, Jane thought in despair, Amelia had no decency, she would tell him, laughing, and he would most likely be amused.
Amused.
If he should learn her feelings, as confused as they were, and be amused, Jane would die! And then she heard the front door closing, and Amelia’s voice, no longer caustic, but sweeter than honey. “Hullo, darling. My, you look hot.”

There was no reply.

Jane found herself at the door, peering down the corridor and into the foyer. The earl was striding toward her, Amelia hurrying alongside him. “Shall I tell Thomas you’re ready for dinner, darling?” She cooed. “I’ve had him prepare a wonderful treat!”

Jane gritted her teeth, furious. She had supervised the day’s menu—with the earl’s foreign tastes specifically in mind.

He saw Jane; his stride slowed.

Jane found her chest unbearably tight. As on the day before, he wore tight, tight breeches—she saw thick, powerful thighs and his heavy groin. His shirt was half open and soaked through with mist and sweat. His chest was slick. His hair was damp and tousled. His eyes were bright before their light was carefully extinguished. “Hello, Jane,” he said.

She smiled. Her eyes shone. “Good day, my lord,” she replied softly.

He didn’t stop, but his gaze lingered, bringing warmth to every fiber of Jane’s being. Then he was past. Amelia threw her a look of searing hatred. Jane didn’t care, not in that moment. He had spoken to her. He had been civil to her. Yesterday he had been kind to her. He had been kind to her the night before. And even though he had only said hello, Jane had felt more, so much more. And it wasn’t a childish fantasy. Jane clasped her hands to her breasts with a deep, deep breath. She was taming the lion—she was gentling the Lord of Darkness.

And then she saw the streak of mud he had trailed through the house.

She sighed. Maybe he wasn’t aware of what he was doing. Maybe they didn’t have mud in Texas. Maybe he just didn’t care. Either way … Jane turned and started after the earl and Amelia. The door to the library was open. Amelia was gushing in delight over something. Jane froze. Amelia was holding up a glittering necklace of gold and lapis. Her expression was ecstatic.

“Thank you, darling, thank you!” she cried, flinging herself at the earl.

Jane backed away. The earl was giving her presents? Expensive jewelry? It shouldn’t hurt, but it did. It crushed her earlier joy. He was a stupid, rutting boor of a man who couldn’t see past a pair of big breasts! And to think, to think she had actually hoped to civilize him? To think she had fancied herself falling in love with him! To think she had thought he was coming around and starting to care about her! She was a fool—as big a fool as he! She could never compete with the likes of Amelia!

Jane hurried down the hall and out the front door. Bitter tears stung her eyes. The problem was, it was too late.

She was already in love with him.

14

“What?”

“I am sorry,” the earl of Dragmore said, without expression. “This is good-bye, Amelia. It’s over.”

Amelia stared, white-faced, the necklace dangling loosely from her hand.

“After dinner the coachman will take you to Lessing. There’s a five o’clock train to London.” He started to walk past her.

She grabbed his arm, her face ugly in its vicious fury. “You bastard!”

He stood very still. “I never said I wasn’t a bastard,” he said dryly. Little did she know she spoke the truth.

She slapped him across the face.

With the back of his hand, he rubbed his flesh, as if to remove her touch. “Now that you’re calmer, please see to your things.”

“You bastard!” she cried again, this time her voice breaking. “I love you!”

He raised a brow. “You don’t love me,” he said crudely. “You love this.” He touched his groin briefly.

“That’s not true! I do love you, I always have …”

“Spare me the theatrics.” His voice cut like a knife. “It’s over.”

“It wasn’t over last night!”

The earl looked at her. “Don’t press me to say things I shouldn’t have to say.”

She shrank, then. “It’s her. That little blonde. It’s-”

“She is my ward,” he said curtly. “I’m arranging a marriage for her. I am hungry. You may join me —but not to discuss this topic.”

“Bastard.” Amelia sobbed, and she ran out of the room.

The earl walked into the dining room and felt a twinge of pleasure at the sight of a third place set on the table—for Jane. “Thomas, I don’t think Amelia will be joining us.” He looked around, but Jane was not in sight. “Five minutes,” he told his butler.

He bounded up the stairs. He felt renewed. Invigorated. Why? Because he’d recognized the fact that he despised his own mistress and had decided to get rid of her? Yes, that was it. Too bad he hadn’t come to this conclusion a long time ago.

He remembered dinner with Jane the day before yesterday. He remembered her sweet smile when he’d poured her a glass of wine—after he’d been unspeakably rude to her. Her manners had been so perfect, so proper, while he had behaved, and looked like, a farmer. He recalled how her face had lit up like an angel’s when he’d said hello to her just now in the hall. Something within him had lit up too.

He stripped off his shirt, throwing it on the floor. He strode into the water closet and began washing his torso, under his arms, his face. After toweling himself dry, he slid on a fresh, clean white shirt. Then he glanced down at his breeches, stained and dirty from his day’s labors. With a sigh, he sat and yanked off his muddy boots. He donned another pair of pants, then he wiped off his boots, gave them a quick polish with his dirty shirt, and pulled them on. He hurried downstairs, his step lighter than it had been in a long time.

Jane had not appeared. Amelia’s place had been removed. The earl paced a few minutes, aware of Thomas’s curiosity, feeling ill at ease. He had never waited for anyone, not in four long years— he always dined alone. His face grew pink, high up on his cheekbones, giving him a sunburned look. “Thomas, where is Jane?”

“I saw her go outside, sir, and I don’t think she’s returned.”

He realized she wasn’t coming. And why should she? She probably expected Amelia to be present. She probably expected his own foul humor. The earl sat down, refusing to acknowledge his disappointment. He was used to dining alone. It made no difference to him.

Chad had his own Shetland pony, a fluffy black-and-white gelding that had been a gift on his fourth birthday. He was already a superb rider for his age. Like his father, he rode bareback with ease. It was a sight, the two of them. The earl on a lean, seventeen-hand hunter, his son on the fat, eight-hand pony. They were trotting through a cow pasture on their daily ride. Two wolfhounds ranged alongside them, sniffing at every tree and rock and gopher hole.

“Papa,” Chad cried, “look at the log. Can I?”

A big old oak had rotted and fallen and lay sprawled in front of them. The earl studied the log; Chad pleaded with him. “Please, Papa, please? I can do it!”

The log was bigger than anything Chad had already jumped, but his son was ready for it. The boy rode as if glued to his mount, better bareback than with a saddle, his balance impeccable. “Wait here,” the earl said, and he rode ahead.

The earl circled the log. When he had determined that the ground was safe, he came back, but not before breaking a branch off of the fallen tree. He handed it to his son. “Give him two swats, Chad.”

Ponies had bad, variable tempers. This one was better than most, but the earl had no intention of taking any chances that the pony might decide to balk at the last minute and throw his son. Chad understood. He smacked the Shetland smartly on the shoulder once, to wake him up. His head came up, ears went back. Chad grinned, nudged him with his heels and smacked his flank. They set off at a canter.

“Keep him collected,” the earl called, his chest tightening with pride. Chad rode beautifully, gathering up the pony beneath him, controlling the willful little beast, and then the two of them soared over the log as one.

Chad crowed with delight, stroking the Shetland and patting him enthusiastically. “Did you see? Did you see us?”

“Well done.” The earl smiled. He rode round to his son. “Here, reward him.” He handed his son a carrot and the boy leaned forward to feed the pony.

The earl’s thoughts changed. Again. Where was she? He and Chad had left after tea. The earl of course did not drink tea, but for his son’s sake, he observed the afternoon snack with the boy. Jane had not appeared. She had been gone for hours. Nick had to face his feelings, and he didn’t like doing so. He was worried.

What if she had twisted her ankle and could not get back to the house?

What if she had been accosted by vagabonds?

He and Chad continued on. His son was quiet, having already told him all about his day. Every other sentence had been about Jane. Today she had shown him how to make a sling shot. They had been having a shooting contest, their target a row of bottles on a fence. He had won, he had said proudly. Tomorrow she was going to teach him how to talk through cans.

“Through cans?” The earl was dubious.

“Through cans,” Chad confirmed.

It did something, hearing of his son together with Jane. It also made the earl think of how badly the boy needed a mother—not stern Governess Randall. Nick cut off his thoughts. One marriage—particularly his—was enough to last a lifetime.

They took a path through the woods on their way back to the stables. They rode in a companionable silence, their horses blowing softly. A late-afternoon sun had dissipated the day’s heavy mist, and now it pierced brightly through the canopy of leaves overhead, glittering on the damp bark and foliage. The forest sparkled. Ahead of them a brook gurgled, followed by the sound of splashing and laughter.

“Someone’s swimming in the creek, Papa,” Chad alerted his father.

“Probably a couple of the tenants’ boys,” the earl responded, not caring. After he left Chad back at the house, he would have to search thoroughly for Jane. She could not just walk off and disappear for hours and hours without telling a soul where she was going.

They entered the glade that the brook crossed. The earl at first saw that he was right. A couple of boys stood knee deep in the water, fishing. He recognized Jimmy, the head groom’s nephew, and his cousin, who was a few years older, maybe fifteen. And then he saw her.

He yanked his mount to an abrupt halt and stared.

Jane stood on the far side of the stream, in the shadows. Like the boys, she was in the water—but up to her thighs. Like the boys, she held a stick and line. Like the boys, she was soaking wet, from head to toe. That was where all similarity ended.

Her blouse and chemise were practically transparent. It molded her firm young breasts like a second skin. It left no doubts as to her gender, nor to her burgeoning womanhood. Her skirts molded her slim hips and her curved thighs and what was between them. She was practically naked.

“Jane!” Chad squealed. “Jane! Can I fish too? Papa—can I fish too?”

The earl was so stunned that he couldn’t speak. Then the beginnings of hot, hot fury started its slow burn. He looked at Jimmy and his cousin, somehow, miraculously, controlling his rage.

Jimmy was only twelve, and the earl dismissed him. His cousin was another matter. The redhead stood near Jane, in the sunlight, not the shadows, and he was no boy. He was nearly full grown, tall and lanky, almost as tall as the earl. He had been saying something to Jane, grinning. She had been laughing. At Chad’s voice, all conversation and activity ceased.

“Pop, let’s go fishing!”

“No, Chad,” the earl said unequivocally, and Chad fell silent. “Get out of the water, Jane.”

Her smile faded. He saw her confusion. His heart was thrumming hard and fast. He watched her wade out. Her long, long legs became visible, the skirt clinging to every feminine inch as she climbed to shore. The redhead was staring too. Not with a little boy’s interest. The earl saw him tug at his crotch.

“Shit,” he said with an ominous growl.

Jane froze, just yards from him.

“This,” the earl ground out, “is highly inappropriate.”

She blinked.

He spurred his hunter to her, and before she could move, he reached down and hauled her up in front of him, as if she were no more than a sack of potatoes.

She wiggled. “Sir! I protest! You can’t manhandle me—”

“No?” he said in her ear. Already he was aware of his mistake. Her perfect little behind was wedged between his thighs, not an auspicious place for it to be. Soon
he
would be tugging at his crotch. “Sir
still!”

“I am not a child,” she quavered. “To be treated like this!”

He clamped his arm around her waist, steadying her. “Then why,” he muttered in her ear, “do you persist in acting like one?”