Chapter 49
Before sweeping Jane up in his arms and rushing with her into the house, the earl directed a searing look of disbelief and hatred at Patricia. “Thomas,” he shouted, “bring tea and whiskey, cool cloths and smelling salts.”
He pounded into the study. He lay Jane down upon the sofa as if she were made of fragile china, smoothing hair away from her forehead. “Jane,” he said, low, soft. “Jane, wake up.”
And then, although there was no sound, he felt her animosity and contempt and he turned to see his first wife standing in the doorway, staring at them. “How quaint,” she said.
“You bitch,” he bit out, and turned back to Jane.
“Papa!” Chad came running in, white-faced, Governess Randall on his heels. “What’s happened to Jane? Is she dead?” He started to cry, although manfully trying to hold back the tears.
“She’s only had a little faint,” the earl told him. “Chad, be a good man and go upstairs with Randall . Jane will be up shortly and you’ll see she is fine. You’ve missed enough studies as it is today.”
Although reluctant, Chad allowed the governess to take his hand. He followed her out, with many backward glances at Jane. Jane moaned. The earl touched her face, coaxing her back to consciousness. “Wake up, darling,” he murmured. “Jane, wake up.”
Thomas entered with the damp cloths and liquor. “The tea will be just a moment more,” he said, handing the earl a whiskey. He ignored Patricia quite royally.
Jane eyes fluttered open.
The earl propped her up. “You’ve had a shock,” he said grimly. “We all have. Here, sip this,” he said, guiding the glass to her mouth.
Jane took a draft, coughed, turned away protesting and saw Patricia. She froze.
The earl whipped his head around furiously. “You may await my summons in the parlor,” he said through gritted teeth.
Her eyes blazed, but she was also afraid, and with a negligent shrug she exited.
“Oh, God!” Jane cried, sinking back down and covering her face with her hands.
“We’ll work it out, Jane,” the earl promised, but there was a note of desperation in his voice.
She sat up. “I want to go to my room,” she managed. Her face was stark white, and she turned her agonized blue gaze upon him. “How can she be alive? How?” she cried. “And why has she come back now?”
“I don’t know,” he said tautly. “I don’t know.”
The earl closed the parlor door behind him, leaning against it. Hatred blazed from his eyes.
Seated like a queen in the center of the couch, still every bit the beauty, dressed richly in gold silk and brocade, Patricia Weston met his stare steadily, a tiny smile of superiority turning up the corners of her mouth.
“This is unbelievable,” the earl said. “Have the past six years been amusing, Patricia?”
She made a moue. “Apparently they have been quite amusing for you.”
He clenched his fists. “Why have you come back? And where the hell have you been?”
“I’ve been in America, mostly,” she said, as if discussing a two-week holiday. “And I came back for what’s mine.” Her green eyes hardened.
“You mean Clarendon?” The earl laughed. “Clarendon is Chad’s. And I have a wife.”
“Do you? You don’t mean that little tart? I am your wife, she is merely a mistress. Legally speaking, that is.”
“You goddamn bitch. You think to take your place as my wife in my home, in my life? Well, think again!”
“We can find a mutually satisfactory arrangement, Nick.” Patricia smoothed her skirts. “I will reside elsewhere, of course. Our paths need never cross. You must only furnish me with a reasonable allowance and my inheritance, which I left behind in my haste to flee you six years ago.”
“I will gladly give you the ten thousand pounds that is your estate,” the earl spat. “I have no need of it.” The enormity of the dilemma facing him confronted him squarely, painfully. “God!” he cried, realizing with anguish that his wife was Patricia, not Jane.
“Don’t worry, you may keep her. It suits me, in fact. But of course you cannot live with her,” Patricia said. “It would be too indiscreet.”
He whirled. He wanted to strangle her. “Maybe I should do what everyone accused me of doing all those years back,” he growled. “Maybe I should kill you!”
Patricia paled.
“Don’t,” the earl warned, pacing forward. “Don’t you dare to give me ultimatums.”
“I’m sorry,” she said, eyeing him with fear.
“Did you know I was tried for your murder?” He was shaking with fury. He saw the flash of fear again in her eyes. “You were in hiding, pretending to be dead—while I was almost convicted!”
“I didn’t know.”
He was sure she was lying, he saw it in her eyes. “You unbelievably selfish, self-centered bitch. Am I to assume you were with Boltham? He left for America after the trial, did he not?” Again, he did not need her answer. “You didn’t shed one tear over your son, did you?” he snarled.
“Chad is yours,” she said, shoulders squared, head held high. Distaste twisted her lips. “Every bit yours.”
He compared her to Jane, beautiful, big-hearted Jane, and could not believe he had ever loved her. “Who died in the fire?” the earl shot.
“My maid, the Irish girl.” Patricia shrugged. “The silly twit fell in her haste to flee and hit her head. I had to leave her behind.”
“Did you start the fire, Patricia?”
“No.”
The earl knew it was a lie.
She shrugged. “You cannot prove anything.”
“You would go to such extremes to escape me? And you feel not a jot of guilt for that poor girl who died?”
“I hate you,” Patricia suddenly hissed. “I’ve always hated you, from the moment we met! I did what I had to! I would do it again!”
The earl had a sudden idea. “Who has seen you? Other than the servants? Who knows you are still alive?”
“No one who knows me,” Patricia said. “Except Boltham, of course.”
“I will give you more money than you can possibly spend,” the earl said vehemently. “But I want you to get out of this country and never come back. Do you understand?”
Patricia smiled. “So you can live with your new wife as if I am really dead? Forget it! I am tired of America. Boltham bores me. And he is penniless too. I want my place back in Society. I am not leaving. I am tired of being an anonymous English noblewoman!”
“You selfish bitch,” the earl said.
It was over, wasn’t it? It was over before it had really begun. Their life together. His wife, his first love, was back, to claim her rightful place at his side. Why else would she appear? Jane hugged her pillow and wept.
Fate was so cruel, to bring her and Nicholas together then wrench them apart. How, how would she survive?
And they weren’t even married. His wife was Patricia, she was just his paramour in the eyes of God and the law. Jane sobbed harder.
Did he still love Patricia?
And now what?
“Jane,” the earl said, entering without knocking.
“No,” she managed, clutching the pillow even tighter. She lay curled in a ball on the bed. “Not now.”
“We have to talk,” the earl said.
“Go away, go to her! Go to your real wife!” Jane cried hysterically.
He sat beside her, the mattress dipping, and pulled her against him. She fought him. “I don’t want to go to her,” he said thickly. “Jane, we must be calm. We must talk.”
She did not release the pillow. Her ears were ringing, her temple throbbing, and everything was so unreal. She was so afraid. “I don’t want to talk. Not now,” Did he still love her? Why was he so calm?
“Jane, don’t let her tear you up like this. It will be all right,” he vowed. “You will see. We shall work it out.”
It was impossible and she knew it. There was nothing to work out. Patricia was his wife and she was not. Patricia had come back because she was his wife. Hadn’t she?
“What does she want?” she heard herself say, her voice sounding strange and far away. Although she knew the answer, she prayed, she hoped, to hear something else.
For a long moment he did not speak, and she caught a glimpse of something like desperation in his eyes.
But then there was only firm, steel resolve, and she knew she had imagined seeing any other emotion.
“Please, Jane,” he said. “Don’t torture yourself.
Trust me. You know I will always take care of you and Nicole.
Always. We will find a solution. I promise. ”
Jane almost laughed, hysterically. She had known it, sensed it, the moment she first saw Patricia.
There was only one solution. Obviously Patricia had come back from the dead to resume her role as his wife.
That left one role for Jane—as mistress.
Nicholas would “take care” of her. Jane knew she could not relinquish Nicholas to another woman, especially not to his first love.
She could not, would not, be his mistress, after being his wife.
She balled up her fists. And just when he was starting to love her a little!
“Don’t cry,” the earl said shakily. “She’s gone, for now, anyway, to Clarendon. She won’t be staying here, regardless.”
Jane lifted her face, gripping his shirt. “Make love to me, Nicholas,” she said desperately. “Make love to me now.”
“Jane,” he protested.
Her fingers clenching his hair, she pulled his head down and kissed him with all the desperation and love she felt.
He did not resist, then began to respond, her hunger feeding his.
Jane pulled him down on top of her, tearing at his shirt, the buttons flying off.
He kissed her fiercely, crushing her breasts.
It was going to be the last time, and she knew it.
“Come to me,” she screamed, biting his mouth. “Come to me, Nicholas, now!”
“Jane!”
She wrenched open his trousers, yanking at them, baring his thick manhood. The earl gasped as she bit his jaw, her nails raking down his back. “Nicholas!” she screamed, weeping.
He tossed up her skirts and impaled her.
Together they strained in desperation, the one to the other, their hot tears mingling on their cheeks. And after, Jane could not cry anew, for she had nothing left to give.
The earl stroked her face and hair, holding her. “We will work it out,” he said again.
She tried to smile, and failed.