Dark Fires

by Brenda Joyce

“You are a fool,” he cried. “And I am perverted, sick, sick.” Bluntly he said, “I don’t remember what happened. Did I rape you?”

  “No!” Her smile was at first hesitant, then it began to shine. “It was wonderful!”

  He stepped back, as if struck. “Did I abduct you?”

  She stared. Then, in a small voice: “No.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  She faltered. “You were sleeping. I only wanted to comfort you, hold you. But you were so beautiful, I—” Seeing his black expression, she froze.

  “I was sleeping? What are you saying?” he roared.

  “I didn’t think when I climbed into bed. I just wanted to hold you, and when you started kissing me, I … I … couldn’t stop …”

  Relief was instant, flooding him. He hadn’t raped her, he hadn’t abducted her. Then the fury came. “You got into bed with me? While I was sleeping? And you let me make love to you? Damn you! Damn you!” he roared.

  She flinched as if struck, then backed away. Tears filled her eyes.

  “Ahh, shit,” Nick said, turning away, leaning on the bureau. He had to think—he couldn’t think. And then he heard someone in the hall. He whirled. He had to protect Jane’s reputation at all costs.

  “Quick! Get into your robe! Don’t make a sound!”

  He sent the maid off on a false errand, then rushed back into the room. He whipped the bloody sheet off the bed, balling it up. He would have to rinse it immediately, then spill red wine upon it. “You get back to your room,” he ordered Jane in a deadly voice. “And make sure no one sees you leaving this wing. Do you understand?”

  She nodded, her face crumbling, a child on the verge of tears.

  “And you await my summons there,” he said with a snarl.

  The earl was sick.

  It didn’t matter that she had come to him, although he thanked the God he did not believe in that he had not abducted her. What was done was irreversible. He had ruined her. He almost wanted to kill Jane. She was utterly reckless, impulsive, thoughtless! So much for propriety, he thought savagely. She did not have a proper bone in her body!

  He recalled, too perfectly now, her passion as she writhed beneath him. No, she had not a proper bone in her entire body!

  Nor did he. For with the memory came hot desire. He hated himself for wanting her again.

  He could never find her a husband now. He would not even consider it. His own fate had been sealed, as had hers. He would, of course, do his duty and marry her.

  You are kind and good.

  He furiously shoved the echo of her words away.

  He paced his sitting room. Anger was in every taut stride. He did not want to marry. He did not want a wife. Especially he did not want Jane as a wife.

  Again, he thought of her uninhibited passion. When his body started to respond, he pushed the thoughts away. This was no reason for marriage. He could fuck anytime, anywhere. Damn her!

  He sank onto the settee. And he felt it then—the fear.

  For some unfathomable reason, Jane imagined herself in love with him. She had a schoolgirl’s crush. He knew well enough that soon this would disappear. Reality would replace fantasy. She would see him as he was, the way Patricia had seen him. Patricia had not even known of Chavez, yet she had thought him uncouth and perverted in his appetites. Soon Jane would too. She would hate him …

  The Earl of Dragmore was afraid.

  Abruptly he stood. What did it matter what she thought? He was older, wiser. She would be his wife, bear his children, obey him. If she hated him, it did not matter. If he repulsed her, it did not matter. He was not the same man he had been five years ago. He had since grown a thick, impenetrable skin. He could handle seeing her eyes, now filled with adoration, glazed with disgust. Besides, there was no choice. They were getting married.

  Yet the fear was there, cloying.

  He knew that if he loved her, she would hurt him.

  The earl was uneasy, standing near the door, now closed, just within Jane’s bedroom. Jane was nervous too. She stood anxiously by the bed, hands clasped, her eyes luminous upon him. “I’m sorry!” she blurted before he could speak.

  He ignored her. “We are getting married.”

  Jane gasped.

  “Hopefully,” he continued, his tone impassive, “you are not pregnant. We will marry as soon as decorum allows, so as not to seem hasty.”

  Jane was trembling, and a smile transformed her face. Her eyes shone. She loved him—and now she was going to become his wife! None of her other dreams mattered anymore, only this, her marriage to the earl and the life they would share. Her smile broadened. Did this mean he loved her?

  His face grew dark. His tone was distinctly dangerous. “You look pleased.”

  “Oh, I am,” Jane cried.

  He reached her in a stride and grabbed her. Jane cried out. “Was this a seduction, then? Are you nothing more than some scheming little fortune hunter? Did you plan all of this, right down to the final act where I took your damn virginity? You were a virgin—were you not?”

  He was shaking her, hurting her. Jane’s eyes teared, but from the hurt in her heart, not his hands upon her flesh. “No, no.”

  He stared at her, trying to assess the truth.

  “I love you,” she told him. “That’s why I want to be your wife.”

  He laughed, tossed her away. “Love?” He snarled. “You do not know the meaning of the word. Love does not exist, except for fools. What you feel is a child’s adolescent infatuation and, to be crude, pure lust.”

  She felt as if her world were crumbling, brick by brick, beneath her very feet. “It’s not true.”

  “No?” he taunted. “You would tell me about love, about lust, about men and women?”

  She hugged herself. “Why are you doing this?” she whispered. “Why do you want to hurt me?”

  “Why do you think?” he shouted. “Goddamn you, did I ask for a ward? I already have a son, I do not need another child to look after! Did I appear to be in need of a wife? Did I?” He roared.

  Tears crept down her cheeks. “You don’t want to get married, do you?”

  He laughed caustically. “Top of the class, Jane.”

  She turned away, her heart breaking. “You don’t love me.”

  He didn’t answer, and it was answer enough.

  She looked at him through thick tears, her vision blurred. He was dark and hard and angry. “Why are you marrying me?”

  “Duty. One thing I have always done is my duty.”

  “You hate me.” She gasped, stunned.

  He stared, then abruptly turned and slammed out of the room. The walls shook.

  Jane sank to the floor, tears pouring from her eyes. He was marrying her because of duty and honor and other such nonsense. He did not love her, not even close. He hated her. She had seen it in his eyes.

  That night she left him.

  The earl found the note the next day when Jane did not appear for dinner and the maid said her bed had not been slept in. It was brief and to the point and emotionless:

  Dear Nicholas,

  I do not want to marry either. I told you I am going to be an actress. I will be eighteen in October, and I hope you realize that I am quite old enough to take care of myself. I know you can find me if you choose, so I will not hide my whereabouts from you. I will be with my dear old friend Robert Gordon, the manager of the Lyceum. Please realize that this is the best solution for the both of us.

  Jane

  His vision was swimming.

  Nick was shocked to realize he had dampness on his cheeks.

  He crumbled the letter, crushing it.

  And the pain was unbearable.

  She had left him.

  Jane had run away rather than marry him. He had known all along that it would come to this. When given the choice, she had chosen what all women would choose—not to spend a lifetime with him.

  He remembered everything then, and the memories were torture. The first time he had
seen Jane, with her aunt Matilda. Her trepidation had been vast, while she was sweet and innocent, like an angel, her eyes big and blue as she stared at him. He saw her as she played with Chad, he saw her white-faced in stunned surprise as she fell from the old nag in Regents Park. He saw her in glorious fury as she told the Duchess of Lancaster that she was wicked and depraved. He recalled how she had laughed and flirted with Lindley. He recalled how she smiled at him. And he recalled the night before last, now, more clearly than ever before. Her frantic response to him, her body arching and twisting beneath his, her hands claws upon his back. He still wore her marks. Her heat, her sweetness.

  Mostly he recalled last night, his cruelty and her stricken, hurt expression, the tears welling and slowly falling.

  He knew then that it was too late. What he had fought from the beginning had happened. He loved her. He loved her as he had never loved anyone before, not even Patricia. But it did not matter.

  She had run away from him. She did not want him.

  Hadn’t he known all along that this would happen?

  Jane had left him. It was over.

  He closed his eyes. The pain was unbearable.

  II

  Fallen Angel

  LONDON 1876

  24

  The applause continued.

  Jane’s heart surged. As she curtsied again, alone on the vast stage, a vision in shimmering blue chiffon, the crescendo increased, and Jane thought that this once the ovation would become thunder, that this once it would become endless. But already, and she had only just taken her bow, she heard the pitch dropping. Still smiling, Jane inclined her head and left the stage.

  Her smile disappeared. From elation came the dragon of despair. She felt it choking her. Would she ever get a standing ovation as her mother had?

  Would she ever be as good as her mother?

  “Jane, darling, you were wonderful!”

  Jane managed a smile for Robert Gordon’s benefit. He was beaming, and he hugged her soundly. It felt good, and Jane clung briefly.

  He was middle-aged with graying hair and a mustache. He gave her a searching glance, then swept her into her dressing room. Jane dropped down on the dark-red velvet love seat, feeling the drain now, as Robert popped open a bottle of champagne. He handed her a glass. “You were wonderful, Jane,” he said levelly.

  She looked at him, her eyes big and blue amid the white stage makeup, her lips rouged, cheeks flushed the color of ripe strawberries. “So you say.”

  “Jane.” It was reproving. Jane sipped the champagne and closed her eyes, head back. “You are very talented,” Robert continued. “We’ve only been running three weeks, and London loves you! The performance tonight was nearly sold out!”

  Jane opened her eyes. “But it will be the same tomorrow, won’t it, Robert? They’ll say I am quite talented, especially for one so young. Then they’ll wonder—will she ever reach the grandeur of her mother?” Jane suddenly set the champagne flute down with force. “I’m tired of being compared to my mother! Tired of it!”

  Robert came to her and put his arm around her. “You are young. You are good. Give yourself time.”

  Jane rubbed her eyes. “I’m just tired, Robert, forgive me.” She stood and walked to the dressing table and began to remove her stage makeup with Pond’s cream and cotton. Robert left her. When she had finished, she released her hair from its chignon and tied it back in a simple tail. Robert returned with his arms full of roses. Jane had to smile.

  “Do you want to see the cards?” he asked.

  “Are they all amorous?” Jane returned.

  “Of course.”

  Jane laughed, shaking her head. “I’ll take the flowers home.” She glanced around. “There’s no place here for any more.”

  And there wasn’t. Roses in vases were everywhere: upon her dressing table, on the butler’s table, on the side tables by the sofa. At least in this one respect she was similar to her mother, Jane thought. She had many admirers, not that she cared. Nor did she even care to know who they were.

  They went out the back entrance, to avoid a few men who were waiting in front of her dressing room, hoping to catch a glimpse of her and have a few words. It was that way every night. At first Jane had been flattered, then amused. Now she accepted the attention and admiration as a part of her celebrity, as she did the appellation “Little Angel.” Apparently someone had remembered that she had been called “Sandra’s Angel” as a child and had been too glad to revive the nickname. She was glad they had dropped her mother’s name; the cross would have been too much to bear.

  They had avoided the busy mobs and traffic on Picadilly Circus where the Criterion Theatre was located; the street out back was silent and nearly deserted. The Criterion had been built only two years before as an annex to the popular Criterion Restaurant. Things had changed. All of London’s theaters were now booking long-running performances, instead of troupes that had a variety of acts in their portfolio. Troupes no longer traveled about England and performed, and the companies changed when the performances did. It made more sense, as evidenced by the popularity of the play Jane was acting in now, James Albery’s comedy, Pink Dominoes.

  Jane sat with a shawl around her shoulders in Robert’s coach. There was still a bite in the air in the evenings, even in mid-June. She was very tired from her performance, and Robert understood, as he always understood, and he said nothing. Impulsively Jane reached out to squeeze his hand, and he squeezed hers back. Jane didn’t know what she would have done without Robert.

  Not how she would have survived, but how she would have lived after leaving the Earl of Drag-more.

  Robert had still been at the Lyceum almost two years ago, and Jane had found him instantly. Her world was still intact, shattered but intact, because she expected the earl to come claim her. Not out of love, but out of duty. Yet deep inside her soul, deep within her heart, she had the fantasy that he would chase her because he realized, at that last moment, that he loved her and could not live without her. But he hadn’t come.

  And then her world had shattered like crystal glass. For he hadn’t come.

  Robert picked up all the pieces. Jane stayed with him, grieving, her heart broken. He encouraged her to come to the theater with him, and after a few months of serious depression, Jane found her heart again in her love of the stage. And she began to smile once more; the tears came less.

  She just wished she could hate him, and knew she never would.

  Jane had a small town house on Gloucester Street

  . Originally she had stayed with Robert, but soon both deemed that arrangement inappropriate. The apartments were small and three-storied, plaster over yellow brick, in a modest but fresh neighborhood filled with shady elms. She even had a small yard in the back in the Mews with daisys and black-eyed Susans and a swing. One of the stagehands had painted it for her, a pretty shell pink.

  “Robert, I’m very tired,” Jane said, hoping he wouldn’t want to come in.

  “I know. I’ll come by in the morning.” He looked at her.

  Jane gave him her cheek, and he kissed it, his mouth lingering. “Good night.” She flashed him her smile, the one everyone said was so angelic. Then she slipped out of the cab and through the wrought-iron gate to the house.

  Molly was waiting. “Evenin’, mum, more flowers?” A merry grin split her face. “How was it?”

  Jane smiled. “Good. Here, take these, please.”

  Molly laughed at Jane’s tone, taking the armload of roses. “I’ve got roast beef still warm in the oven, mum.”

  “Maybe later,” Jane said, watching Molly leave with the flowers. She smiled. It had been impulse, asking Molly to come with her that night so long ago when she had run away, but the maid had instantly agreed. She had never been farther than Lessing, and the thought of going to London had been immeasurably exciting to her.

  Jane hurried upstairs, kicking off her high-heeled slippers and quietly opening a bedroom door. One small nightlight was on, illuminating th
e room. There was a small bed, the headboard painted pink and blue and white. Blue and yellow clowns graced the wallpaper, holding pink ribbons. A few dolls lay scattered about, and a new, white-and-black wooden rocking horse grinned at Jane from the center of the room. Jane moved to the bed, its sides up, to look at her daughter.

  She smiled, because Nicole did that to her, made her unbelievably warm and happy—and unbelievably protective.

  No one knew about her.

  No one was going to take her away from Jane.

  Jane knew, without a doubt, that if he knew, he would claim her and take her away. Just the thought made her sick with despair—and furious with maternal anger. If he had come after her when she had run away, then the child would have been theirs together. But he had forfeited all rights. Nicole was hers. Hers. And he was never going to take her away from her. Not ever.

  Molly understood and Robert understood. They were the only ones who knew her secret. It was a terrible thing to live with, like a dragon breathing fire, to know that one day her secret might be found out and that one day he might come and take Nicole away from her.

  Jane refused to feel any sympathy for the Earl of Dragmore. She refused to consider his right to know. She refused to consider his feelings—and the kind of father he would be. He had Chad. Nicole was hers.

  She heard it then, Molly racing up the steps. She was coming too fast, something was wrong. Jane straightened, one last glance at her year-old daughter, wanting to touch the dark curls but resisting. She quietly left the room, closing the door and leaning upon it. Molly appeared, breathless, wild-eyed. Jane’s body tensed in anticipation. “What is it? What’s happened?”

  “Oh, good Lord!” Molly cried, white-faced. “There was a knock on the door and I looked out the window, but it’s so dark, so when I saw a gentleman on the stoop I thought it was Robert come back! Or I’d never have opened the door!”

  Jane’s heart stopped.

  “But it ain’t! Mum! He’s here!”