Chapter 6
Jane passed a sleepless night. She tossed and turned, both miserable and angry.
She would never give up her dreams, yet she sensed that the earl would be as immovable as a stone wall.
Again and again their conversation replayed itself in her mind.
The words became lost among the images. Mostly his image, dark and threatening.
He had not a jot of compassion in his entire large, hard body.
His eyes were silver ice. If she wasn’t careful, she would probably be married within the fortnight.
Knowing him now, as little as she did, sensing the dark, hot anger pulsing within him, she thought that perhaps what they said was true, perhaps he had killed his wife.
After all, where there’s smoke there’s fire, and he had been on trial for the murder—the trial of the Earl of Drag-more had been sensationalized by the press, making headlines every day for a week.
It had only been three and a half years ago.
Jane had seen some of the papers. That particular week Matilda and the parson had argued vehemently once over whether he was guilty or innocent, Matilda certain he had done the grisly deed.
She had won that battle. But he had been acquitted.
Some time during this period he had gained the popular title the Lord of Darkness.
And then she remembered his hands.
She saw them clearly, big and powerful, hands that could kill.
Yet how could a murderer’s hands stroke a little boy’s hair with such tenderness?
Jane was assailed with the memory of how, earlier, in the nursery, Nick had not been able to take his palm out of Chad’s thick hair.
The power had been cowed by gentleness, such gentleness …
Jane hoped he hadn’t killed his wife. Suddenly she wished she could remember the details of the case. She had only been fourteen, and she hadn’t read the papers, just glanced at the headlines and listened to Matilda and the parson fighting.
When she finally fell asleep she dreamed.
But not of the murder. She dreamed of his hands, big, gentle, stroking Chad’s hair.
Except the hair changed from brown to blond.
And he was stroking her hair. His warm hand, throbbing with life, slid to her neck, cupping it.
And across her shoulder, down her arm … The pleasure was unbearable.
She awoke stretching like a cat, sensually, languidly, a smile on her lips.
Her breasts felt full and aching, and her nipples were small and hard, rubbing against the thin lawn of her nightgown.
Jane did not want to wake up. She touched her breast, a small caress, held it, then her hand drifted to her belly and paused.
Her gown was twisted up around her thighs, which were spread open, sprawling lasciviously.
She recalled then, in a flash of clarity, that she had been dreaming of his touch, and she went pink. Yet it had been so real.
She would never dream that dream again!
Thank God he would never be able to read her mind!
Jane leapt from the bed and washed and dressed in a plain blue-striped dress.
She wished now that she had brought her crinoline, but because she hated it and never wore it at the parsonage she hadn’t.
She wondered if he expected her to take her breakfast in the nursery as well.
She was seventeen, not six. She would not—even if he thought her a child.
Still, as she went downstairs she was soundless, purposefully, and outside the doors to the breakfast room she hesitated, momentarily unsure, even afraid to enter. The room was empty.
Relief was vast, but there was a tingling of disappointment too.
The sideboard was still graced with hot, covered serving dishes and platters.
His place was empty, the plate gone but the setting still there, left in disarray.
Jane could still feel his presence, or so she imagined.
There was no setting for her. With determination, she went out and into the kitchen.
A dozen servants stood about, gabbing. Food being prepared for the earl’s next meal lay about on what appeared to be a dirty countertop, the mutton unwrapped, not even on a plate.
Jane was aghast. Dirty pots were piled in the sink.
The floors were filthy, both dirty and stained.
The walls, usually white and now gray, needed a washing as well.
“Mum, can I help you?”
It was Molly. Jane smiled. “Yes. Please set me a place at the table in the breakfast room. I will be taking” —she hesitated—“breakfast there from now on.” She wanted to take all her meals with him, but decided she had better go inch by inch. “Molly, why is that counter like that?”
“Excuse me, mum?”
“Who is in charge here?” Jane asked.
“I am,” said a chubby man in a chef’s white uniform. He smiled back at her, thinking he had never seen such a sweet angel-like doll in his life. “I’m Frankel, ma’am.”
“Frankel—” She searched for the words. “Would you please remove that mutton to the dogs and find his lordship something else for his dinner?” She smiled encouragingly.
“Would you please have the counters cleaned before you do another thing?” She paused, to see if she had offended him.
Her smile was quick, warm. “This kitchen needs a woman’s touch! ”
“That it does, miss!” Frankel agreed wholeheartedly. They beamed at each other.
“After you have fixed the earl’s dinner, can you see that all the counters are washed down, the floor swept and mopped?
And the pots and pans should be done immediately.
” There was more, so much more, but Jane knew she would have to stand there and supervise personally to see it done.
“Do you need more staff?” she asked innocently, knowing that he did not.
“No, miss.” Frankel began barking out orders, puffed with pleasure, the general with his army performing for the lady. It had never occurred to Jane that she would not be obeyed. She was used to winning people with her smile, beauty, and good nature.
But Molly hadn’t moved. She was watching her nervously. Jane turned to her inquiringly. “Mum, did his lordship say it’s all right?”
Jane fought the blush. “His lordship will not mind.”
Molly gave her a glance filled with doubt.
In the breakfast room Jane waited for Molly to set her a place. That was when she saw him.
Through the tall, arched windows she watched him come galloping around the corner of the house.
Galloping. Across the beautiful, perfectly tended lawns.
Clumps of grass and dirt actually flew up and hit the windowpanes.
His stallion was as black as the devil. He sat bareback.
They appeared unnatural, like some ungodly creature, or something out of mythology, a Centaur, perhaps.
The earl went galloping away, riding like a madman.
In his wake he left an endless gash of mud and dirt.
“He is mad.” Jane didn’t realize she’d spoken aloud until she heard herself. “He’ll kill himself!”
“Oh, no, mum, there’s no one who can ride like he can.”
Jane glanced sharply at Molly. There was no mistaking the pride in her tone and, now, the shining of her eyes. Why, Jane thought, startled, she’s half in love with him! “But look what he’s done to the lawn!”
Molly shrugged. “He don’t care.”
Jane thought of the mud she’d seen in the foyer yesterday and the dust in the parlor, the state of the kitchen. No, he didn’t care. “Molly, how long have you worked for his lordship?”
“Just a few months, mum.”
Jane was disappointed. “Are the stories true?”
Molly’s face lit up. “About his wife?” she whispered.
Jane bit her lip. She shouldn’t be gossiping with the servants, but … “Yes.” She was whispering too.
“He could have killed her,” Molly said. “He’s so angry. And so strong.”
“Yes, I think …” Jane stopped, looking at Molly. “How do you know he’s strong?”
Molly actually blushed.
Jane was no fool. Molly was pretty and plump, the earl a handsome man.
She felt the hot hurt balloon in her heart and told herself she was being a ninny.
Many lords dallied with servants. It was not unusual.
Why had she felt such a rush of tears? She turned away, to look back out the window.
To her shock, she saw an army of gardeners, a dozen of them in their baggy knickers with shovels and spades—and they were patching the vast runnel he had made with pieces of sod right before her very eyes. Jane gasped.
“He never comes back this way,” Molly explained. “He’ll be gone until dinner. When he returns, it’ll be as good as new.”
It was unbelievable. “Where do they get the sod?”
“They buy it every week, keep tons of it out back. He does this every day.”
The amusement faded. The man was insane, she decided, and it was incredibly arrogant of him to treat his home with such disdain.
“Thomas was here when it happened,” Molly confided, low.
Jane whirled. “The butler?”
“Yes’m. You know, she died in the fire.”
“No, I didn’t know.”
Molly nodded toward the south wing, just visible through the window, the walls black and crumbling, the windows gaping, jagged holes, like toothless open mouths. “They think he set the fire —to kill her?”
Molly nodded. “He almost killed her lover. You know about that? Crippled him, he did. The Earl—”
“Molly! That’s enough. You have duties upstairs.”
Both girls whirled, Molly curtsying, Jane flushing. Thomas stood, arms folded, watching as Molly ran off. Jane managed a good morning, her ears pink. Thomas replied politely, but his eyes were all-seeing, his expression reproving.