Free Dark Fires by Brenda Joyce Page A

she would not fall in love with him. She had learned her lesson.
    She was wearing the plaid dress she had arrived in, the one she particularly detested. The hem was already muddy, for she had crossed the gash in the lawn that the earl had made that morning during his reckless gallop. Jane smiled. The gardeners had been mending it industriously. Each and every one of them had smiled at her and said hello, all fifteen of them. Jane had counted their astonishing number.
    She lifted her skirt and climbed onto the stone wall and settled herself down. A black-faced lamb skittered away from her feet, to the safety of his mother’s side. Jane sighed and raised her face to the sun. A red robin took wing from one of the ancient oaks on her right. Jane admired it. She then heard a harsh, heavy panting.
    She tipped her head toward the sound, which seemed to be emanating from the two huge oak trees where the robin had been nesting, near the wall. A strangled gasp sounded. Jane jumped to her feet, concerned, and then she heard a woman’s cries of ecstasy.
    She backed away—but saw a flash of vivid magenta. She had assumed it was some farm workers dallying. But the flash of magenta riveted her. The fabric gleamed. No milkmaid wore magenta silk. Curiosity might have killed the cat, but it had never killed Jane. She had the worst, or best, suspicion, depending on how one looked at it. She tiptoed toward the trees, trying to make as little noise as possible.
    Not that they would have noticed her if she’d been a mad bull seeing red.
    Lady Amelia Harrowby lay flat on her back, her magenta skirts tossed to her waist, her plump white thighs wrapped around the man’s neck. He was clearly a farmer, and he was pumping into her. Jane had been raised in London. She knew what the act entailed. But she had never seen it performed before. She stared, mesmerized and fascinated.
    Amelia’s breasts were bared. She was thrashing and moaning, her hands on the man’s shoulders, leaving red welts there. He was shirtless. Sweat slicked his broad, muscled back. He wore his pants, but they’d slid halfway down his narrow hips. His penis was big and red and slick as it plunged in and out of Amelia.
    Jane couldn’t move. A wet heat filled her, tightening her, swelling her. She imagined the earl— he would look something like the farmer, broad, muscular, big. Her breath stuck in her throat. Her heart raced. The farmer collapsed upon Amelia, who was screaming in pleasure. Jane realized with a start that they had finished, and she might be spied at any moment. But her feet were like lead. Taking a breath, trembling, she started to turn. She heard Amelia cry out in surprise.
    Jane’s gaze flew to the older woman and she saw her white, shocked face. A dozen thoughts raced through Jane’s head, not least of which was: Did the earl know? What would he do if he knew? Somehow, Jane did not think he would be pleased to find out that his mistress was cuckolding him with one of his tenants. Jane did not smile. She was indignant, even outraged. Did the earl know what kind of tramp Amelia was? And how could she, Amelia, do this to the earl, when he was so lonely and in need of succor?
    Amelia closed her eyes, gasping like a fish out of water.
    Jane found that she was upset, even angry. The earl did not deserve this. And with her anger came newfound hope.

12

    He hesitated before knocking twice upon her door.
    “Molly? Come in,” Jane said.
    “It’s not Molly,” the Earl of Dragmore said, entering. Their gazes skittered, then locked.
    She was the first to look away. He could not look away. Jane was sitting in front of her dressing table, brush in hand, her long, thick blond hair loose and flowing to her buttocks. The earl stared. It was a sight he’d imagined too often, and seeing her this way, in reality, made his chest quite tight. For a moment he forgot why he’d come.
    Her gaze came back to his. “My lord?”
    “Are you joining us, Jane?”
    “No.”
    He