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“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