Chapter 7
By two in the afternoon Jane knew what she was doing. She was hanging about the downstairs foyer, waiting for him to appear, as if she were some smitten schoolgirl. She wasn’t smitten, oh, no, not in the least. She was just … fascinated.
She had gleaned all sorts of information from Molly as the plump maid had done her chores upstairs.
The earl took coffee, not tea, and eggs, steak, and potatoes, all fried, at six in the morning.
He did not eat kippers or smoked salmon and he hated kidney pie.
He read the papers while he ate, then rode his stallion out to oversee his vast acreage.
Almost invariably destroying the lawns. He returned between two and two-thirty for dinner, then spent the afternoon in his library taking care of the business of the estate and his own private affairs.
Supper was at eight. He often took whiskey, not brandy, before.
Some evenings he retired and some he went out.
Molly had been a gold mine of gossip. Jane learned that the earl was American, not English.
His mother had been the old earl’s daughter, and she had married a rancher in Texas.
The earl had been raised there. He had come to England upon his majority to take over Dragmore and had dutifully married Patricia Weston.
Patricia had been the duke’s eldest son’s only issue; her father had been killed in a hunting accident before the duke himself died of natural causes and old age.
She was Jane’s cousin although they had never met.
Patricia was the last of the Westons; Chad would inherit the duke’s title and estates.
Patricia had been a blond, green-eyed beauty who could have had any peer in the land.
Yet, Jane thought, she had chosen the Earl of Dragmore. Apparently it had been a love match.
Yet a year after Chad’s birth Patricia had left her husband, running away with a lover.
Molly told her that Patricia had been afraid of the earl, afraid he would kill her for her infidelity.
He had chased them down and challenged her lover, the Earl of Boltham, to a duel.
Boltham had been crippled—to this day he walked with a limp.
“After that he hated his wife,” Molly told her eagerly. “Hated her. Locked her up. Wouldn’t let her leave Dragmore. Hit her, he did. Raped her.”
“Molly!” Jane protested. “This is all gossip—and it’s terrible of you to be saying such unkind things about his lordship!”
“It’s true,” Molly cried. “Believe me, mum, I know him. He’s the kind who’ll take what he wants, when he wants it—if you get my meanin’.” Molly winked.
Jane did, indeed, understand. She refused to think of the earl with Molly, taking what he wanted when he wanted it, and she was not going to even consider that he had raped his poor, persecuted wife.
Molly shrugged. “Anyway, he just got tired of her one day an’ set the fire an’ she died.”
“The courts found him innocent,” Jane said.
“Wasn’t enough evidence that it was murder,” Molly replied. “But he wanted to kill her, he’d said so plenty of times, plenty of folks heard him say it. An’ the judge said the fire was set. If he didn’t set it, who did?”
“Are you sure the courts found the fire to be arson?”
Molly nodded. “Ask Thomas. He knows. If he’ll tell you.”
“Then why did they acquit him?” Jane found herself getting exasperated.
“He had an alibi.” Molly grinned, dimpling. “He was with a whore all night. She testified. A famous London madam. But everyone knows how easy it is to pay those birds off, mum.”
That he had, or might have, consorted with a prostitute seemed to bother Jane as much as anything. She turned away, telling herself that she had gotten what she deserved for gossiping with the smitten maid. It was all just rumor, not even secondhand.
Could he have killed his wife?
She did not believe it. She would not believe it.
It was two-fifteen and there was no sign of the earl.
Jane caught her reflection in a Venetian mirror in the hall.
Her face was pink with a healthy flush. Her blue eyes were bright, shining.
But, with dismay, she thought she still looked like a schoolgirl in the high-necked, plain blue dress.
Maybe she should be wearing crinolines. The braid definitely had to go.
And then she saw his reflection behind her in the glass.
She whirled. She hadn’t heard him approach.
He eyed her.
Jane bit her lip, her heart pounding furiously. She felt like a thief caught red-handed, which was ridiculous, for she hadn’t been doing anything wrong. Their gazes locked.
He was damp with perspiration. It trickled on his brow.
His black hair was wet. A drop ran from one very high cheekbone and down to his strong, hard jaw.
The cords were visible on his neck, as strong as the rest of him, and slick, too, with sweat.
She could smell him—man mingled with horse and leather and cut hay.
Her fingers nervously smoothed her unwrinkled skirt.
His gaze followed her hands.
Jane took the opportunity to look at his chest. His shirt was, unbelievably, open almost to his navel.
His chest was broad, the chest muscles thick, sprinkled with black hair.
She could see a taut, copper nipple. His torso below was flat and crisscrossed with sinew.
It moved as he breathed. His breeches, skin tight, clung to his hips and groin.
His sex was heavy and prominent. Jane instantly yanked her gaze to the floor, burning.
She remembered her dream, vividly, how she had imagined him touching her, how she had felt upon awakening.
The burn, the yearning. She felt that way now. She couldn’t breathe.
They had been standing staring at each other for only a few seconds, but it seemed like an eternity. Jane dared a glance at his face. His was rigid, as if he were controlling anger. Briefly, grimly his gaze scorched her. He nodded abruptly and strode past her, without a word.
Shock at his rudeness was replaced with hurt anger.
He did not even notice her, could not even be civil, did not care to even say good day!
She stared after him, blinking furiously at the tears that welled.
Molly appeared at the end of the hallway, curtsying and giggling.
He didn’t stop. He disappeared into the dining room.
Shock rose again. Wasn’t he going to wash and change before his meal?
Had Jane a proper wardrobe, she would change for every meal, including tea, into the appropriate costume.
She would also change for riding or an outing in the carriage.
This was the norm for all ladies and gentlemen.
It was unbelievable that the earl would come in from the fields, dressed like a field hand, and dine that way.
He had also tracked dirt down the entire hallway.
It was unbelievable.
Then she recalled that he had been raised far from civilization, among savages, most likely, in the wilds of Texas. She couldn’t stay angry. He just needed to learn the social graces. She imagined teaching him. And just as quickly shoved that disturbing thought away.
Her mind raced. What if she just appeared at the table and joined him?
What could he do? Yell? Quell her with a freezing look?
Order her away? He would do the last, she thought with dismay.
Order her to the nursery, and the humiliation would be unbearable.
But … if she didn’t try she would never know.
Impulsive, Jane, an inner voice chastised. Do not be impulsive—look at the trouble it always gets you in.
She ignored her logical self. Lifting her skirt, she tiptoed down the hall.
She paused near the open doors, listening, but he made no sound.
Then Thomas asked him if he would like more wine and he grunted some reply.
Jane winced at his manners. He needed a wife, she thought.
A wife would never let him be so uncouth.
And she imagined herself dining with him as his wife.
In her fantasy, she was as gorgeous as her mother, not petite and slender but lush and voluptuous and dressed in satin and jewels.
And the earl—he was dressed in a black evening suit with tails, looking magnificently handsome, and he was adoring her with his eyes, hanging onto every word she spoke, every trill of laughter.
She peeped inside.
He sat alone at the head of the vast table, which was long enough to seat thirty or forty guests.
His solitary presence in the large room was suddenly significant and wrenching.
Never had a man seemed so alone. Jane had never been lonely in her entire life until she had been forced to leave London and go to the parsonage.
The contrast then had been gruesome, making her understand loneliness better than anyone who had never experienced the warmth of love and family.
Now she watched the earl and felt tears rise—tears of compassion for him.
In that instant, she knew, with some timeless, ageless instinct, that the earl was more than alone, he was unbearably lonely. She felt anguished.
He lifted his head, stopped his chewing, and stared at her.
Jane felt a surging of hope, and she waited for him to ask her to join him. She even smiled, tentatively.
He stared and said nothing.
Her courage failed. Jane turned and fled.