Her childhood had been spent knowing she was not what her father wanted. Now she'd found herself a man who felt the same way. What Asher had done tonight cut deeply, ripping open old wounds that had barely begun to heal.
"I can't believe he's with that vamp," Jane muttered indignantly. Tonight Asher had not only rejected her; he had humiliated her as well. Tomorrow everyone in the ton would know that he preferred his ex-mistress to his wife. It was unfair and cruel. The only saving grace was that Asher had had the decency to leave the theatre before the play began. That was something for which to give her cad of a husband credit.
Still, speculation in the theatre had run rampant, forcing Jane to wear an emotionless mask when all eyes turned upon her. Fortunately Ian and Clair had fended off the worst of the gossipmongers. Jane had made it home before she burst into tears in the privacy of her room.
Staring at the ravages of her face, she could still see the results of her crying binge in her puffy eyes and red nose. No, she would never be a beauty.
"'Mirror, mirror, on the wall, who's the fairest of them all?'" Asher's voice echoed from the doorway into her bedchamber, startling Jane, who hadn't even heard him approach.
He could tell that Jane had been crying. A stab of guilt pierced him. Scowling, he brushed a piece of lint from the cuff of his jacket. He hadn't felt guilt in at least a century. It was an uncomfortable feeling, and one he seemed doomed to experience since meeting and marrying this infernal Van Helsing chit.
Staring at her husband's reflection in the mirror, her green-silver eyes hard, Jane retorted, "Fairest? Why, you of course. Or Lady Montcrief, if she were here." She turned. "Certainly not me. My looks could curdle milk to hear you tell."
Her words hit Asher square in the heart, worse than a well-aimed stake. "Jane, I never said your looks would curdle milk. You… mistake my words."
"I mistake nothing. How could you escort your former fling for all the ton to see? How could you so humiliate your wife in a public setting?"
"Unwanted wife," he reminded her.
"And now all society knows it," Jane spat. "I could box your ears—or box you in your box! How could you prefer that predatory, murderous creature? I thought you had better taste."
"I have excellent taste," Asher retorted. He hated feeling guilty! He was a superior being, far above such petty emotions, being both vampire and one of the most highly titled men in the realm. And if he couldn't be married to Clair, he hadn't wanted to be married at all. He certainly hadn't wanted to be married to a Van Helsing. It made him cruel. "Except in wives. So, Lady Montcrief is none of your business."
Her temper ignited, Jane stood abruptly, shoving her husband back with a strength that surprised him. "You find her interesting even after she tried to kill you and Clair. Tell me what she possesses that could make you find her attractive after such a betrayal? I want to emulate her, so that you might condescend to take me to the theatre. Perhaps I can dance a jig around the room naked, a rose in my teeth. No, it would have to be blood, wouldn't it? I shall kiss and nibble around your man thing like a goldfish. Or bite your thigh."
Asher's eyes widened in stunned shock, the image of her dancing around the room naked making his blood heat. "You're being vulgar, Jane. And the word isn't 'man thing'—it's 'cock,' or 'rod,' or 'phallus.' Not 'man thing.' That's so demeaning."
"So your cock is demeaned and that concerns you, but not your wife? How touching!"
"Are you practicing to be a harridan?" Asher questioned tartly. "I must remind you that the Countess of Wolverton should be more careful."
"Why, you bloodsucking bastard. Dare you criticize my conduct when you have made me a laughingstock by your insensitivity?"
"Mind your manners, backstabber," he replied frostily. But he couldn't help staring at her heaving bosom, and at the pulse beating rapidly in her neck. Just a little sample, he thought as he stepped closer, in awe of her fire. She was so pretty when enraged.
"Coldhearted corpse!" Jane glowered, and she raised her hand to slap him. Asher caught her palm and threw it aside.
"Vicious vampire murderer!" he replied. And yanking her to him, he kissed her fiercely, savoring the hot spice of her lips, listening to the blood beating in her heart. His erection came to life. He wanted her—it was that simple and that complex.
Infuriated beyond words, Jane jerked away from her husband, her fists clenched, wanting to pound on Asher's chest and at the same time to run her hands all over that smooth sweet skin. "I hope you cock up your toes," she gasped.
Asher shuddered, trying to stem the tide of pure lust he felt. He was cocked up all right. "Thank you for your kind wishes," he said.
"I hope you rot in your grave!" she seethed. "It's bad enough that you ignore me all the time, but now I can add humiliation to the myriad list of your faults. And not just private humiliation, which you supply daily, but public. In front of all society. You're nothing but a debauched fiend. And I deserve better than to be imprisoned with you for life."
"What a charming sentiment. Now I know how you really feel. All those earlier words of wifely devotion and loyalty, they were merely words. Words without honesty. But then, why I should expect honesty from a Van Helsing is beyond me," Asher sneered. Surprisingly, Jane's venom hurt. He had thought his heart long frozen over.
But as he glared at his wife, he knew he couldn't trust her. He just wouldn't give her that power or satisfaction, for she would betray him as surely as she was a Van Helsing.
"Humbug! You wouldn't know honesty if it bit you on the neck." And with those words, Jane turned and fled the room, her long hair trailing loose behind her like a glorious brown-gold cloak.
Asher yelled after her, "Or staked me in the ass! Oh, sorry, you already did that!" It was childish, but no Van Helsing alive was going to get the last word on him. Not if he had anything to say about it.
Her husband's words made Jane even angrier then she already was—not an easy feat to accomplish. But her horrid hubby did it with such polished ease. So she had made a tiny mistake and poked him in the fanny; it wasn't the end of the world. Or even his own end,—at least, not the end of his life. It had been his hind end.
Reaching the hallway, Jane furiously realized that she was leaving her own bedchamber. Slapping her hand against her forehead, she grumbled, "Stupid, stupid, stupid."
Chagrined, she stormed back inside, pointing a finger at the door and saying, "Take your stubborn distrust and your rotten, rakish, vainglorious vampire ways out of here."
"You're quite pretty when you're mad." He bowed curtly, a sardonic smile on his lips, his anger obviously simmering as he stalked from the room.
As he closed the door behind him, Asher heard the sound of glass exploding against it. In spite of himself, he laughed. His feisty little wife had stood up to him in a fine fit of temper. She was a virago, but she was his virago. And somehow the sound of the word "his" began to feel right.
Shaking his head in disgust at his momentary lapse, Asher went to find his valet. He had to impart the dangerous news he had discovered. The disappearance of so many prostitutes and Lady Veronique had him deeply concerned that vampires were the cause. Vampires with no moral concerns, no concern for the rest of the species. Vampires who drew attention to the nest in London. Asher could think of only one vampire despicable enough: Dracul. Yes, Asher's nemesis. He must be alive and well, and living in London. Where, Asher wasn't sure yet. But he would find out as if his life depended on it—because it very well could.
Dracul was many things, and all of them were very, very bad. The Prince of Darkness was… well, just that. There wasn't even a flicker of light in his blackened soul. He inspired fear and terror. But most importantly, the count detested him with a burning intensity which did not bode well for any of Asher's close friends.