Dark Fires by Brenda Joyce

could move, he opened the door to the back corridor where she stood. It was hard to say whom was more surprised when they came face to face, she or the earl. She tried not to appear cowed. She let her arms fall to her sides.
    “Is Amelia here?” he asked.
    Who was Amelia? “I do not know,” Jane answered breathlessly.
    His gaze pinned her, then slid, quickly, below her neck. He turned abruptly away with a muttered curse and wheeled back into the dining room. She heard his chair grating against the floor as he yanked it out. Swallowing, Jane entered as gracefully as possible. She sat down at the place on his right.
    His eyes went wide. He recovered; they narrowed. He said nothing. He just stared.
    Jane reached for the little silver bell. Her hand, damn it, shook. She rang it. He was still staring. His presence was overwhelming. Jane felt tiny— worse, like the child he thought her to be. She was starting to regret what she had done. And still he said nothing.
    Thomas entered, followed by two servants with platters of food. He seemed to be hiding another smile upon his bland face. “Wine, my lady?”
    Jane opened her mouth.
    The earl’s hand rudely covered her glass. Jane noted that it was clean—unlike the rest of his work-dampened body. “She is not my lady,” he said distinctly.
    Thomas was unperturbed, turning to the earl. “My lord?”
    The earl gazed at Jane, hard. “Am I to understand,” he said sarcastically, “that you seek the pleasure of my company?”
    Jane blushed. For some awful reason, the cat had her tongue.
    He laughed. He removed his hand and nodded at Thomas, who filled his glass with a rich French Bordeaux.
    Jane peeped at him. He was being served a lamb stew and vegetables, and he was ignoring her—or he was actually oblivious to her presence. She could not believe she had succeeded in attaining her goal so easily. And then, as he started to eat, not waiting for her to be served, she felt indignation rise. She couldn’t help it. She said, “My lord?”
    He paused, fork raised, barely looking at her.
    “Usually one waits for everyone to be served before starting one’s meal.”
    A small, ugly smile started, and then he resumed eating. “This is your choice,” he said. “Not mine.”
    She gasped.
    With his fork, he pointed at her, still smiling. “But don’t you dare to criticize me.”
    He ate savagely, not sparing her another glance. Jane wanted to cry. She understood, then, that he hated her. How had she not realized this before? And now, to sit at his table and be ignored after being so put-down…. This was worse than being ordered away. She numbly thanked the two servants who had served her and stuck her fork into a piece of lamb. She would not cry. He was the one at fault, not she. He was rude and insufferable. He was the boor. He even smelled. It was the height of boorishness.
    “Shit,” the earl said with a growl, throwing down his silverware. “If you start crying …” He stared at her grimly.
    Jane blinked at him fiercely. She would not shed a single tear in front of this man, not ever. He scowled and reached for the decanter of wine. He filled her glass, without looking at her.
    Jane knew then, astonished, that she had just won some small kind of victory—that he was, in some brutish way, trying to atone for his earlier rudeness. It didn’t matter that she did not want any wine, what mattered was what he had done. Her appetite returned. She began eating slowly. He wolfed his meal. The silence was complete, not companionable, the tension thick and awkward, but Jane was no longer completely dismayed. Yet she had learned her lesson, and she did not dare to attempt to converse with him. Other than peeping at him cautiously a few times, she concentrated on her food with determination.
    The earl threw down his linen napkin and, hands braced on the table, started to lunge to his feet. Jane froze, her fork in midair. The earl froze too. The tension increased, as taut as a