by Olivia Drake
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Contents
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Acknowledgment
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Teaser
Also by Olivia Drake
About the Author
Copyright
To Jennifer Enderlin, an editor of superior skill, keen insight, and great enthusiasm.
Your work is appreciated!
Acknowledgment
As always, a big thanks goes to four fine ladies who cleverly pinpoint where the manuscript needs work, who patiently listen to me whine, and who gently convince me to fix it anyway: Joyce Bell, Christina Dodd, Betty Traylor Gyenes, and Susan Wiggs.
And thanks to Connie Brockway for managing to get in the last word, as always.
Chapter 1
Wessex, England
Late April 1816
For only the second time in her life, Miss Jane Mayhew found herself facing a naked man.
At least she presumed he was naked beneath the rumpled sheets. Entwined with a giggling blonde in the four-poster bed, he turned toward the doorway with more irritation than abashment.
Then he sat up, the covers falling to his waist, the gray light of morning bathing his athletic form. “What the deuce—Jane?”
She refused to avert her eyes from that shocking display of muscled chest. She would not let him intimidate her as he had done so many years ago. To regain her equilibrium, Jane had only to consider the bundle that had been left on her doorstep that morning. “Lord Chasebourne, I demand a word with you. Immediately.”
“Good God. Has your cottage burned down?”
“Of course not. It’s another matter. One of vital importance.”
He relaxed a little. “Then if you’ve come looking for lessons,” he drawled, “you’ll have to wait your turn.” One of his hands moved beneath the counterpane, doing heaven knew what to the blonde, who tittered unashamedly. “You may return at a more suitable hour.”
“Don’t be absurd,” Jane snapped. “I shall remain here until you grant me an audience. In private.” For emphasis—and because her legs were trembling from her own audacity—she lowered herself to a gold-fringed ottoman and sat rigidly upright. She planted the point of her umbrella between her sturdy half-boots, which were muddy from her march across the moors.
Never in her life had she behaved so boldly. She far preferred her books to confronting irredeemable London rakes. But drastic circumstances called for drastic measures.
Ethan—Lord Chasebourne—stared at Jane. His dark, chiseled features had matured into a godlike handsomeness. She remembered him as a wild, unruly lad who chased the girls and made them squeal. Just as the blond strumpet squealed when he idly fondled her. All the while, he kept his gaze on Jane.
She would not shiver under the chill of those obsidian eyes. Into the silence, the mantel clock ticked and a flurry of raindrops struck the windows. Abruptly he slapped his bed partner on her bottom. “Run along now,” he murmured silkily. “We’ll finish later.”
“But Chase, darling—”
“Go,” he stated.
Pouting, the blonde snatched up a frilly pink robe that lay rumpled on the carpet. Jane glimpsed a pair of astonishingly huge bosoms before jerking her gaze to the silver crest that adorned the blue canopy. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the woman blow him a kiss and then saunter out of the bedroom, leaving a waft of heavy perfume.
Jane had heard about such women. Fallen women. Women who thought nothing of sharing a man’s bed.
A tiny pang nibbled at Jane’s aplomb. Once, just once, she would like to be lush and pretty, rather than too tall, too angular, too plain. She’d like to have fair hair and red lips and astonishingly huge—She stopped that absurd thought. She didn’t want to attract a man like this one. It mortified her to recall that at one time she had secretly fancied herself in love with Ethan Sinclair, then heir to the fifth Earl of Chasebourne.
She hadn’t seen him in years, but he hadn’t changed. If anything, he had sunk lower in her estimation.
Now the sixth earl, her childhood nemesis lounged in bed, his skin swarthy against the white pillows, the sheets riding scandalously low on his hips. He casually clasped his hands behind his head, as if receiving angry spinsters in his bedchamber were nothing new to him. She forced herself to meet his direct gaze. Really, it was ridiculous to feel this flush of mortified fascination. She had cared for her father in his final illness, and no aspect of the male anatomy was unknown to her.
Ethan regarded her with condescension. “Still poking your nose where you’re not wanted? May I suggest that in the future, you send your calling card with my footman rather than barging into my bedchamber and spoiling a most pleasurable morning.”
She sat stiff and straight, her gloved fingers gripping the ivory handle of the umbrella. “Pilcher refused to deliver my message. I was obliged to take matters into my own hands.”
“Still the same bossy female, too. Apparently no one has ever told you that a woman wins favor with men through deference and submissiveness.”
“I am not here to seek your favor,” Jane retorted. “Nor am I one of your mutton-witted hussies.”
“So whose mutton-witted hussy are you?” He laughed at his own jest. “Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.”
She didn’t like the queer tightening in her stomach when he looked her up and down, one dark eyebrow cocked. Nor did she appreciate the amusement that quirked the corners of his mouth. It made her feel gauche and unpolished, as if he were privy to a mystery she could never know.
And he was. She could never fathom the depravity of a man reputed to be the greatest lover in all England. A man who’d had the audacity to divorce his wife for her adultery.
A man whose exploits had made him shirk his responsibilities.
Jane sprang to her feet and stalked to the foot of the bed. “Enough of this idle conversation. I’ve come here for an extremely important purpose—”
“Whatever your complaint is, it can wait until I’ve dressed. Now kindly have the courtesy to take yourself downstairs.”
“No.” Jane would not be put off. If she left now, he would go prowling after his harlot. Men like him were weak, venal creatures, and Jane might not see him again for hours. “You will heed what I have to say—”
“Suit yourself, then.”
Ethan threw back the covers and rose from the bed. She noticed two facts in rapid succession. First, he had grown much taller; he was one of the few men to tower over her. Second, he was built nothing like her ailing old father.
The breath stuck in her throat. Her fingers clenched convulsively around the handle of the umbrella. Despite her better intentions, a flaming heat scalded her cheeks and sped through her body. Sh
e spun around, fixing her gaze on a closed mahogany writing desk.
His chuckle increased her embarrassment. “Something wrong, Miss Maypole?”
She wanted to cringe at that hated old nickname. But she was no longer a too lanky adolescent, afraid to offend the boy she secretly adored. “I am Miss Mayhew to you, sir.”
“I do beg your pardon,” he said from somewhere behind her.
He didn’t sound sorry in the least.
She heard the slap of his bare feet as he moved toward the dressing room. The hinges of a clothes press squeaked. A drawer slammed. She imagined him pulling a linen shirt over that magnificent torso, stepping into a pair of tight breeches—
Jane halted her runaway thoughts. She felt overly warm in her high-necked gown. It wasn’t like her to waste time on wicked speculation. Especially not when she had an injustice to rectify.
“Lord Chasebourne.” Her voice came out thin and raspy, and she spoke louder so that he could hear. “Lord Chasebourne, I am determined to tell you why I am here.”
“Tell away,” he called.
“Just this morning, the most intolerable situation has come to my attention.” Jane welcomed the outrage that imbued her with the courage to swing back toward him. “I wish you to know that I will not permit your abandonment of Marianne.”
He stepped out of the dressing room. His shirt flaps hanging down to his fawn breeches, he fastened his cuffs with silver links. “Marianne?”
The sight of him half-clothed was every bit as daunting as his former nudity. With his dark mussed hair and half-opened shirt, he looked like the prince of depravity. She swallowed. “Don’t pretend ignorance. Surely you recall her existence.”
He shot her a distracted glance. “There was Mary, Countess of Barclay, but that was years ago. And Marian Phillips, the actress. However, our liaison lasted only one night, so she can hardly cry abandonment.”
“Enough about your women,” Jane snapped. “The world already knows you are a cad in the worst degree. A bounder extraordinaire. A—”
“A rake, a rogue, and a scapegrace,” he finished with a droll grin, ticking off the names on his long fingers. “A knave and a blackguard, too.”
“This is no occasion for levity. You will do right by Marianne. It is your duty.”
Snatching up a starched cravat, he strolled to the pier glass between the tall windows. “Where is the chit, then?” he asked in a jaded tone. “I shall pay handsomely to get her—and you—out of my life.”
“Pay!” Jane marched forward and glowered at his reflection in the mirror. “You will do more than issue a bank draft, Ethan Sinclair. You shall behave as a man of honor. If you do one thing right in your misbegotten life, you will take care of your own infant—”
“Wait a moment.” He swung around, his cravat half-tied, the ends dangling. “You’re saying Marianne is a baby.”
“Of course she is. And you shall take charge of her care immediately.”
Those impenetrable brown eyes studied Jane. Then he threw back his head and roared with laughter. “No infants for me, thank you. I prefer my females experienced.”
“This is not a matter for jesting.”
“Well, she can’t be mine. I’ve taken scrupulous care not to sire any bastards.”
It was on the tip of Jane’s tongue to ask how. She had only a hazy notion of the manner in which children were conceived, yet surely if preventive methods were available there would be no unwanted babies born. “Marianne is your byblow. She must be.” Digging into the pocket tied to her loose skirt, Jane walked to him and dropped an object into his hand. “Here’s the proof.”
He looked down at the gold signet ring embossed with a C entwined with holly leaves. Jane knew he had inherited the seal upon his father’s death some ten years ago. “This has been missing for at least six months or more,” he mused, rotating it between his fingers. “Where the devil did you find it?”
“Inside Marianne’s swaddling blanket along with a notecard bearing her name. She was left on my doorstep early this morning.”
A lump constricted Jane’s throat. She had opened the door of the cottage to go on her daily walk and almost stumbled over the basket with its bundle of slumbering baby, set on the stoop like a gift from the fairies. Falling to her knees, Jane had gazed in awe at the tiny eyelashes, the button nose, the rosebud mouth. With trembling hands, she had lifted the baby from the basket and cuddled her close, an indescribable joy rising in her.…
“And you didn’t see anyone running away?” Ethan asked. “Or perhaps hiding in the bushes?”
She gave him a withering look. “No. But it was obviously one of your women.”
“Then explain why the baby wasn’t left on my doorstep.”
“It’s simple. The mother was afraid to confront you. I am not.”
“Utter nonsense.” Ethan slid the ring onto his finger, then pivoted away to finish tying his cravat. “She’d have come straight to me for help. I treat my women well. They each receive a fine gift when our liaison ends.”
“Well, one of them received an additional gift—nine months later.”
He chuckled. “That’s a Banbury tale. My guess is that this child is the offspring of a shepherd or farmer who wants her to have a better life. You should have a look around the area, see who’s lately been enciente.”
“The swaddling blanket was of the finest quality. And Marianne’s name was written in a lady’s fine hand.”
“Show me this notecard,” he said in a scoffing tone. “I’ll see if I recognize the penmanship.”
“I didn’t bring it with me.” Jane could grudgingly accept that he hadn’t known about the infant. But not this willful lack of concern. “The baby is undeniably yours.”
“You’d like to think so. Someone is playing a nasty trick on you, that’s all.”
“No, you are trying to shirk your obligations.” Jane regarded him in disgust. For all his masterfully male features, he was living proof that physical beauty went only skin deep. “I can’t imagine why I thought you’d want your own baby. What more could one expect of a divorced man?”
His good humor vanished, leaving his face hard and cold. “Have a care what you say, Miss Maypole.”
She didn’t care. “Furthermore, I would never have thought you could fall so low,” she said, tasting the bitter remnants of old illusions. “You should be ashamed of yourself, denying support to a helpless infant, withholding your guardianship to a little girl who didn’t ask to be born a bastard. Whether you like it or not, she is your daughter. And you, Ethan Sinclair, are a worthless excuse for a man.”
His hostile stare unnerved her. His hands tightened into fists at his sides. For one startling instant, she sensed a darkness in him, deep and black and dangerous. And too profound for a shallow rake. Abruptly he said, “Where is this child? I wish to see her.”
“She is presently at Mayhew Cottage, napping in the care of my Aunt Wilhelmina.” Still unsettled by the impression of hidden depths in him, Jane took a shaky breath. “And do not think for one moment that because we are women, we should watch over Marianne instead of you.”
“Consider your obligation ended, then. You may deliver the infant to my housekeeper. She will see to her welfare.” All sardonic politeness, Ethan strode to the bedroom door and held it open. “Good day, Miss Mayhew.”
* * *
In a daze, Jane descended the grand staircase with its wide marble steps. The coolness of the wrought-metal railing penetrated her threadbare glove. She should be feeling triumphant—or at least relieved that she had accomplished her mission. But instead, misgivings churned in her stomach.
During her time upstairs, the drawing room doors had been opened. Several housemaids were cleaning the spacious chamber. One swept ashes from the rug, while another piled glassware onto a tray and toted it to the scullery. A third servant hurried upstairs with a frilly corset that had been discarded on the floor. Along with the scent of beeswax, the air reeked from tobacco and spiri
ts.
Jane pursed her lips in distaste. Obviously, Ethan Sinclair had hosted a wild debauchery the previous evening.
So much for his suitability as a father.
She shuddered to imagine sweet little Marianne being raised in such an immoral environment. And therein lay the crux of Jane’s dilemma. Had she been wrong to come here, to demand that Ethan assume his paternal role? Would he show any love to his illegitimate daughter, or simply banish her to the dubious care of servants?
Was she the one abandoning Marianne?
Pursued by doubts, Jane fled out the front door. She paused beneath the huge portico and gazed past the formal gardens to the vast, windswept moor, half-hidden by the misting rain. She had come here on a moral mission, to make Ethan shoulder responsibility for his sins. It was only fitting he grow up, after all. Like her, he was fast approaching twenty-seven.
Unlike her, he had yet to assume the sober maturity of an adult. Deliver Marianne into the hands of a housekeeper, indeed.
Now Jane realized her lapse of judgment. She could not—she would not—bring a child to this dissipated household. A house where he fornicated, where he kept unchaste women and strutted around naked.
She snapped open her black umbrella. Instead of taking the path that led to home, she marched down the graveled drive, heading toward the gatehouse and the main road to the village.
She had another plan for Marianne’s future.
* * *
“Damn the meddlesome bitch,” Ethan muttered under his breath.
Standing by the library window to catch the meager light of late morning, he glowered down through his spectacles at the legal document that had been delivered to him only moments ago. The single brief paragraph stated that he would relinquish forever all rights to the foundling named Marianne and sign her over into the wardship of one Jane Agatha Mayhew, of Mayhew Cottage, Wessex.
Ethan tried to fathom why he felt so infuriated. He was being spared the nuisance of assuming responsibility for a baby who was in all likelihood not of his blood. His anger must stem from the fact that Jane had ruined his morning—and now proceeded to withdraw the reason for doing so. Without so much as an apology, she had invaded his house and pecked at his good humor until he bled from a rare attack of conscience.
