Chapter 42
Jane said nothing during the drive back to the house on Tavistock Square, and Lindley, after a few attempts at conversation, let her be. He handed her down from the carriage and walked her to the front door. Thomas let them in.
Lindley hesitated in the foyer, clearly reluctant to leave. “Don’t let him get you down, Jane. You deserve only happiness,” he said, low. Thomas was hovering in the alcove as he put away Jane’s velvet wrap.
Jane managed a shrug. “I’m fine, really I am.”
“How about a brandy?” Lindley suggested. “It’s still early.”
“Jon …”
“For God’s sake, Jane, am I your friend or not? You know you can trust me! And he’s out with Amelia.”
Jane nodded and ordered Thomas to fetch them some paté and cold roast chicken. He grunted, moving off with obvious displeasure. Lindley followed Jane into the parlor. “He used to like me,” he said dryly.
“At least he is loyal to the earl,” Jane said.
“You care for him, don’t you?” Lindley said, amazed. “Even after all he’s done to you.”
Jane colored, sitting at one end of the oversized sofa. “He is my husband. As such, I am loyal too.”
“Damn your loyalty,” Lindley cried, sitting near her. Jane tried to skitter away but couldn’t, as she was already at one end of the couch. He grasped her hands. “He does not deserve your loyalty,” Lindley snarled with passion.
“Please, don’t.”
“I thought I knew Nick, but I don’t!” Lindley stated savagely. “To flaunt that whore publicly while newly wed!”
Jane cast her eyes down. This sore, sore spot brought her close to fresh, yet old, tears.
“Ahh, Jane, I’m sorry.” He pulled her hands against his stomach. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“It’s all right,” she said softly, not looking up. “We have an—an agreement.”
“What kind of agreement?”
She looked at him. “I’ve allowed him his paramours,” she said, not steadily. She inhaled. “Don’t trouble yourself over me, Jon.”
He touched her face. “Trouble myself over you?” He laughed. “Jane, darling, I love you, and knowing how unhappy you are is making me miserable!”
Jane was stunned.
“It’s true,” he said, low, kissing her hands, one after the other. “I love you. You deserve better. You deserve love, not cruelty. God—” He kissed her hand again, this time keeping it pressed to his cheek. He looked at her. “I want you, Jane. I want you.”
She tried to pull away, and sensing her agitation, he let her go. Immediately she jumped to her feet and moved away. “I already told you,” she said. “I cannot be your mistress.”
“Why not? He has Amelia. And others. Why not? I can make you happy.” Lindley stood urgently. “At least I would die trying. Let me try. Give me a chance.”
She shook her head numbly. “Don’t you see? When I make love with a man, it’s just that— love.” Her tone dropped. “I’m sorry, Jon, but I don’t love you.”
He was very still. “I know,” he finally said. “But I think you would come to love me, if you let yourself.”
“I’m married.”
“Damn!” He paced away, then turned. “But you don’t love him, Jane.”
She bit her lip, staring at him with wide eyes.
“Oh, God! You do!”
She moved away, feeling unspeakably sad. “I’m sorry, Jon. Please, just be my friend.”
“I had better go,” he said harshly, the hurt clear in his tone.
Jane pursed her mouth so as not to cry. She watched him leave abruptly. He wouldn’t look at her. She felt so bad for him. Why was life so unfair?
Thomas arrived with a trolley table set for two, pushing it into the middle of the room.
“I shall be dining alone, Thomas,” Jane told him, taking her seat.
She helped herself to a glass of white wine and sipped it as Thomas uncovered the platters, then left.
She wasn’t even hungry—just unbearably tired and thoroughly miserable.
Jonathon Lindley, in love with her, and she had hurt him. The earl with Amelia. The scandal. And here she was, so alone and so lonely. She suddenly wished Jon hadn’t left.
And as it turned out, she wasn’t as alone as she’d thought.
“No appetite?”
She gasped to find her husband leaning in the doorway, his expression mocking. “I—I didn’t hear you come in.”
He smiled without warmth. “It’s in my red blood” he said, moving into the room. He stripped off his tie and let it fall onto a chair.
“What?”
Another sarcastic grin. “Maybe someday I’ll tell you a tale.” He tossed his jacket on the same chair; it slipped to the floor. “A true tale,” he said, prowling closer.
Jane didn’t move, watching him carefully.
She could not take her eyes from him. There was a coiled energy in him, and it was menacing.
In that moment he reminded her of a panther, stalking his prey.
Stalking her. And a hot, hot memory of him pressing her to the floor and plunging into her assailed her.
He paused by the table, inspecting it. “Dining alone? Why is that? The table’s clearly set for two.”
Jane looked at him. His eyes glittered.
“Don’t tell me.” He laughed, the sound mirthless and harsh. “You were expecting me.”
“Would you care to join me?” she managed.
Her heart was beating wildly. She could feel her blood pulsing in every fiber of her being.
Suddenly she was aware of her body as never before—of her legs in their sexy high heels, the fullness of her hips in the fitted gown, her breasts straining against the low bodice. She was flamingly, agonizingly alive.
“How kind of you, dear wife,” he said, abruptly hauling out a chair and sitting. “As it turns out, I’ve yet to eat. Shall I serve you as well?”
“Please,” she whispered helplessly.
He served her chicken and cold carrot and raisin salad, paté and warm toast. Then he served himself.
She watched his strong brown hands, his long, lean fingers.
She stared at his downturned face, at the strong jaw, the hawkish nose, the sensuously chiseled lips and high, harsh cheekbones.
He looked up, bared his teeth. “Don’t wait for me. ”
She toyed with her food.
He attacked his.
Jane could not eat. She was aware of him cleaning his plate fiercely, with the same kind of thick, raw energy she sensed he harbored in his body. He finished, shoved the plate away, and raised his glass. “To you, wife.”
She didn’t move. He drained it. When he set it down, his glittering eyes went to her bosom.
Jane could not breathe. She would be fooling herself if she denied what she was waiting for now—his touch. She wanted him. Despite all the hurt and humiliation, despite Amelia, now, right now, she wanted him to take her in his steely arms and make hard, hot love to her.
Their gazes locked. Jane leaned slightly forward. She willed him to come to her. Instead, he lunged to his feet with a savage curse and strode from the room.
Disappointment left her trembling.
She sat still and unmoving for a long time, trying not to think.
He did not want her, he’d probably just bedded Amelia.
It hurt. It hurt so much. Slowly she rose, taking her glass of wine with her.
She moved to the French doors and stared unseeingly into the night, blind to the moon and the stars. Then she went upstairs.
At her door she paused, her hand on the knob, not opening it. She knew he was two doors down the hall. Her body was flaming from the thought. She would just go to say good night. She would not, she told herself, make any forward moves, but she would give him an ample opportunity to come to her.
She decided not to knock. She pushed open the door to his bedroom. He was standing in the middle of the room, shirtless, trousers unbuttoned and belt open, an unlighted cigar in hand. His gaze whipped to hers.
He was all gleaming bronze skin and thickly packed sinew. He was a beautiful male animal. She drank him in.
“What do you want?” he said harshly, taking one rigid step toward her and going no farther.
She tried to breathe evenly, and failed. “I—I just wanted to say—say good night.” Jane swallowed, her palm pressing against her own abdomen, her breasts rising and falling visibly.
“Damn,” he growled. “Damn! Didn’t Lindley satisfy you?”
The question barely registered, and then she dismissed it. She only knew that if he didn’t touch her she would die. And if he did touch her …
“Didn’t he?” the earl roared, fists clenched, taking another step forward. His body shook. His skin glowed in the lamplight.
“No,” Jane whispered. Her gaze fell from his hot eyes to his flat belly and into the vee of his open trousers. His sex bulged against his underpants. She met his gaze. “Lindley is only a friend.”
He stared, his muscular chest rising and falling now too. “Jane,” he said thickly. “You’re asking for it. If you don’t leave—now—you’re going to get it.”
Jane didn’t break their eye contact. And she didn’t move.
He struggled visibly with himself.
“Nicholas,” she said softly, and boldly stepped forward to touch his hard belly.
For one instant he gasped, and they both stared at her small white hand low on his dark abdomen. Then he covered her palm with his, groaning, pushing it down into his trousers. He filled her hand through the underwear.
He caught her up, kissing her wildly, carrying her to the bed.
She didn’t release him, but began to stroke his thick length, hard and fast. He threw her down, pressing on top of her, anchoring her head with her hair, tearing at her mouth.
Jane slipped her hand into his briefs and gripped him.
He was sticky, sliding easily in her grasp.
He gasped, arching on all fours, thrusting into her palm. “Jane,” he cried, their gazes meeting.
“Please.” She moaned. “Please!”
He pressed onto her, tossing up her skirts, tearing off her delicate French lace panties. At the feel of his fingers against her heat and wetness, Jane sobbed. And she guided him against her.
He thrust home. They cried out together, strained together, rose together, fell together. He plunged savagely and she met him savagely. Jane suddenly gripped the headboard, keening, and a moment later the earl collapsed with his own cries on top of her.