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from the time before he’d known and fallen in love with Sandra. Jane knew they loved each other and was so secure in this fact that the truth had not upset her. It was only much later, after her mother died, that her father’s marriage and her own illegitimacy suddenly became an issue—with her newly found fame as London’s darling of the stage.
    The earl felt sorry for her. He fought the unfamiliar sympathy. He concentrated on his smoldering anger—he had been tricked, deceived. Marrying the chit off would be no simple task. It would be nearly impossible, no matter how pretty she was. She was the bastard of an actress—her mother might as well have been a prostitute for all the difference it would make to Society. He would have to give her an incredible dowry—and then some.
    And it wasn’t exactly as if his reputation was spotless, either. He almost laughed, then, thinking of the irony of it—the man who had stood trial for the murder of his wife, in one of the century’s most shocking courtroom dramas, trying to arrange a “respectable” marriage for an actress’s bastard. How appropriate.
    “He loved her very much,” Jane said. She was staring at the floor. “It’s the truth.”
    He eyed her.
    “Those were the best, most wonderful times.” She looked up, eyes wet. “Daddy and I would watch Mother on the stage. He’d hold me in his arms, up high, so I could see. He would always tell me how wonderful she was, how beautiful. Then he’d tease me, telling me that one day I’d surpass even her. And she was wonderful, she was beautiful. She always performed to standing ovations—the audiences couldn’t get enough of her. And the men. They all fell in love with her. But she wanted no one except my father.”
    Even if it were true, it made no difference to Nick. He supposed they, were lucky, to have shared something special, even if for a short while. He thought of Patricia. He thought of the day he had learned the truth—the day she had left him and Chad and run away with her lover. He looked at the fragile child standing in front of him. “Your mother died when you were fourteen? And you were sent to your aunt’s?”
    “Mother died when I was ten. Robert—the manager—let me stay on with the company until I was fourteen.” Suddenly she blushed and gazed at the floral carpet. “Something happened,” she mumbled. Recovering, she met his gaze with a faked shrug. “He decided I had best go to relatives.”
    It was unbelievable—a child raised by a troupe of actors. “What happened?”
    She blushed again. “One of the actors, someone new …”
    He studied her, at seventeen still so young, and imagined her at fourteen—nearly sexless, a mere child, a wraith most likely. He felt hard, hot anger. “Did he hurt you?”
    Jane shook her head. “Scared me, is all. He wouldn’t have … I’m sure he wouldn’t have … He only kissed me, touched me. He wouldn’t have hurt me. He was my friend.”
    She believed it. Whoever had molested her had been depraved, but she, to this day, thought him her friend. She was utterly innocent. He imagined, with some horror, what would happen if she was allowed to go to London to the stage. A lamb among wolves. She would be slaughtered. The earl stood abruptly. “It’s late.”
    She smiled tremulously. “Then you understand? I won’t have to get married?”
    The one thing the earl understood was his duty, his responsibility. And she was now his ward. “You will be married as soon as I find a suitable prospect,” he said firmly, moving to the door and opening it.
    Her eyes were wide, distressed.
    “Good night, Jane.” He watched her. She wanted to argue. He waited, and it came.
    “I won’t get married.” Her full lower lip pouted, trembling.
    He smiled slightly. “We shall see.” It was a dismissal. He watched her leave, trying to ignore the tumult rising within him. There was no choice, he must marry her off. The problem loomed, like a five-foot stone