mouth tightened at the mere thought of Jane ever sharing of her lush beauty with any man but himself. It was unacceptable. Insupportable. Unbearable.
She belonged to him, damn it!
His jaw clenched. ‘If it really is your wish to avoid being seen again this evening, then I suggest that you go to your room by way of the back stairs.’
Like one of the servants, Jane acknowledged dully. But was that not what she was? Here on sufferance only? As a temporary companion to Lady Arabella?
And as occasional lover of the powerful Duke of Stourbridge…?
Her chin rose proudly. ‘I think not, Hawk.’Her tone was coldly dismissive as she deliberately used his given name. ‘I have no intention of behaving in the manner of a serving girl returning to her room after an illicit tryst with the master of the house!’ she added, as he frowned darkly.
His face darkened ominously. ‘I do not think of you as a servant, Jane—’
‘Then do not suggest that I behave like one!’
As was usual for them, Hawk acknowledged grimly, they were arguing now they were not caught in the throes of physical desire. But for Jane to even suggest that he thought of her in the same terms as one of the maids at Mulberry Hall was utterly ridiculous. Utterly provoking!
His mouth twisted grimly. ‘I believe you were the one to suggest that as your given role, Jane. Not I.’
Her eyes sparked with temper. ‘You implied it, Your Grace,’ she snapped.
‘No, Jane, I did not,’ he sighed. ‘But who am I to argue with a woman when she has made her mind up to something?’ he added grimly.
Her eyes glittered. ‘You are the arrogant Duke of Stourbridge!’
‘Undoubtedly,’he drawled, with an acknowledging inclination of his head, absolutely positive that Jane was trying to provoke an argument with him. Another argument with him…‘I believe, Jane, that we will resume this conversation when you are feeling less argumentative.’
‘And I believe we will not!’ Jane snapped, as she stood up to begin pulling on her gown.
Hawk’s breath caught in his throat as he watched, stood transfixed at her agitated movements.
Jane could have no idea how beautiful she looked, with her red hair falling in loose curls almost to her waist, that silky chemise barely covering the fullness of her breasts and the alluring curve of her thighs before she pulled her gown over that nakedness. But Hawk was very aware of it as his body once more ached, throbbed with the return of his desire, leaving him in no doubt that he would find little rest tonight in the loneliness of his ducal bed.
It had been this way since he had first met Jane, he acknowledged ruefully. At Markham Park she had been a constant source of disruption, as he had been at first irritated by her and then amused by her. She had become more than an irritation on his journey to Mulberry Hall, and even the work that had kept him so busy about the estate the last few days had not been enough to dispel thoughts of Jane once he retired to his suite for the night. The added memory of their time together in the stables was enough to totally chase away any idea of rest.
But tonight, with the taste and feel of Jane still upon his lips and hands, he knew that he would find sleep impossible!
‘As is your wish, Jane,’ he bit out tersely. ‘But that has been the usual way of things in our acquaintance to date, has it not?’ he added hardly.
Did he really believe that? Jane wondered frowningly. Did he really believe that, given a choice, she would leave his side ever again?
She loved this man. Loved him as Hawk St Claire. Loved the Duke of Stourbridge.
And there lay the real problem.
As Hawk St Claire there might have been some hope, albeit a slim one, of him one day returning her love. But as the Duke of Stourbridge—a man destined to marry well in order to provide the ducal heir, to take as his wife a woman of a status and breeding suitable to be the mother of that heir—there was absolutely no hope of Jane, a woman who did not even know who her real father was, being able to measure up to his exacting standard.
She forced a deliberately mocking smile. ‘As you say.’ She gave a derisive nod. ‘Please do not let me delay you a moment longer from returning to your sister’s guests.’
His eyes glittered dangerously. ‘You will not dismiss me in that contemptuous tone, Jane!’
Jane’s soft laugh was deliberately taunting. ‘I am so sorry, Your Grace.’ She made him an exaggerated curtsey. ‘Please forgive me, Your Grace.’ She eyed him tauntingly as she straightened. ‘For one very brief moment I actually believed you when you said you did not believe I was subservient to you!’
Hawk wanted to shake her. Wanted to put her over his knee and spank her.
But more than either of those things he wanted to take her in his arms once again and make love to her! Completely this time. Wanted to bury himself deep inside her silken sheath before losing himself in the inferno of her inner heat.
But as he dared not trust himself to do either of those first two things, knowing either would immediately lead to the third, he took the only other course open to him—he turned sharply on his heel and strode forcefully, determinedly, away from her and from the privacy the summerhouse offered to his real needs and desires.
Jane waited only long enough to ensure that the Duke had really gone before falling down onto the chaise in a devastation of grief-stricken tears so heated they seemed to burn as they cascaded unchecked down her cheeks, knowing she had alienated Hawk for ever with the wantonness of her behaviour.
Chapter Twelve
‘Come in, Jane, and close the door behind you.’
Jane had been sitting alone in the parlour eating a late breakfast, Arabella being still upstairs in her rooms, following the dinner party the previous evening, when one of the maids had come to inform her that the Duke wished to see her at once in the library. Jane had lingered—delayed—at the breakfast table long enough to finish her cup of tea as she contemplated the reason for Hawk wanting to speak to her again so soon after they had parted so angrily the evening before.
Perhaps to tell her she would have to leave his household?
Immediately?
If so it was the same conclusion Jane herself had come to during her long hours of sleeplessness.
The tone of his voice now—undoubtedly the Duke of Stourbridge’s voice, cold and imperious—was more than enough to compel her into stepping softly into the library and carefully closing the door behind her before once more turning to face him.
The tall, imposing, imperious man who stood so broodingly silhouetted in front of the window—dark clothing expertly tailored, hair brushed neatly back from that arrogant brow, hands linked behind his rigidly straight back—bore very little resemblance to the piratical lover of the previous evening, with his clothes in disarray and the darkness of his hair curling onto his broy.
As she, Jane hoped, bore no resemblance
