by Olivia Drake
What would he think of her transformation?
She felt caught up in wild impatience. Tonight she would make her debut into glittering society. She would dance and mingle and converse with the highest members of the ton. Perhaps she would even dare to flirt.…
The countess pressed a feathered fan into Jane’s hands. Regarding her protégée with approval, Lady Rosalind let her mouth curve into a wise smile. “Now, if there is one man in particular whom you favor, don’t let him know it straightaway. Don’t dance with him at first. Make him wait. Tease him, whet his appetite for you.”
Ethan. Was it possible he would pay court to her?
Jane controlled a delicious shiver. “Oh, my lady. How will I not muddle things?”
“Follow your instincts,” Lady Rosalind advised cryptically. “By the end of the night he’ll be begging to kiss you.”
“Kiss me? Am I to let him?”
“That, my dear, depends on how much you desire him.” On that scandalous statement, she touched her fingers to her lips in farewell, then hastened away with Gianetta.
Jane could not sit still. She paced into her candlelit bedchamber and back again into the dressing room, startled anew each time she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. She liked to hear the swish of her skirts, to feel the silk caress her skin. She liked the faint fragrance that eddied from her. She felt as if she had not lived before this moment, that in all her six-and-twenty years she had been asleep, dreaming about this evening of enchantment.
Very soon, carriages would begin to arrive. She would glide down the grand staircase, as much a fashionable member of the aristocracy as any other guest. She practiced waving her fan, peering over it coquettishly, dipping it down over her breasts. She giggled aloud at her antics, feeling wonderfully alive, foolish and free.
Anything could happen tonight. Anything at all.…
Then she remembered.
Walking to the window seat, she retrieved the folded paper from beneath the cushion and stared down at the spidery handwriting. The reminder of Lady Portia’s dire straits sobered Jane. Amid all her gaiety, she must not forget her mission.
She tossed the note onto the fire. The flames consumed the paper, the words glowing for a moment, then blackening to ash. But the message remained etched on her mind.
At midnight, you must lure him outside.…
Chapter 9
Greeting a few late arrivals, Ethan stood beside his mother in the entrance hall. He had to admit that Lady Rosalind had outdone herself in the preparations. Swaths of gilt cloth draped the tables. Masses of white lilies filled every corner, while statues of gods and goddesses created the aura of a Grecian temple. The silvery strains of harp and violin music drifted from the ballroom at the top of the grand staircase. Lady Rosalind wore white chiffon with lavish gold embroidery, managing to appear both innocent and worldly.
He bent down to mutter in her ear, “So, Mother, how much is your little party costing me?”
The countess playfully swatted his dark blue sleeve with her ivory fan. “Enjoy yourself and don’t ask questions. Now do be a gentleman and walk me upstairs. Kellisham is waiting to squire me in the opening dance.”
“I’m surprised he isn’t ensconced in the library with his political cronies,” Ethan said as they strolled up the broad, curving staircase. “Enjoying a glass of brandy and a cheroot, while solving the problems of the nation.”
“Bah. It is our betrothal ball, and he has vowed to stay by my side the entire evening. He would have joined us in the receiving line had our nuptials already been announced.”
Her serene smile grated on Ethan, stirring old resentments. He leaned closer so that no one else could hear. “It is not too late to change your mind. Kellisham is rather old, don’t you think? I know you prefer younger blood.”
At the doorway to the ballroom, she stopped and regarded him. “That is a cruel and unconscionable remark.”
Pain shimmered in her blue eyes, a pain he denied. He had every right to condemn her past actions, he told himself. The previous year, she had carried on a wild, improbable affair with his best friend, Captain Lord John Randall. Their flirtation had begun in secret, while Ethan had been sowing his own wild seeds right after the divorce proceedings, and by the time he’d noticed the little looks they’d shared, their disappearances from ton events, it had been too late to prevent the liaison.
Even then, he’d been incredulous, unable to believe the truth. He could not imagine his mother—his mother—luring into her bed a man nearly twenty years her junior. A trusted friend whom Ethan had known since their schooldays at Eton. Randall had been his boon companion on drunken binges and rollicking adventures with women. They had been as close as brothers.
Ethan had been furious with his mother, and frustrated by her refusal to give up her lover. In a fit of rage he had challenged Randall. He had used his fists, and Randall, damn him, had not fought back.
Not a month later, Randall lay dead. Killed on the bloody fields of Waterloo after leading a daredevil cavalry charge.
Ethan realized that his mother stood gazing at him, distress on her fine-boned face. He loathed the shame that crawled from the dark place inside himself. Stiffly, he bowed to her. “I apologize for my bluntness.”
“But not for your condemnation of me.”
“Surely you cannot hope for my approval now. You didn’t need it then.”
“No, I didn’t. It was my only liaison since your father’s death nine years ago. Someday I hope you can bring yourself to love someone. And I pray you never know the pain of loss.”
“Thank you for the advice. But it still doesn’t excuse the affair.”
“We were both adults, Ethan. Why is that so difficult for you to accept?”
He couldn’t answer that without sounding like a prudish maiden aunt. Like Jane. He kept his voice cold. “Ah, there is Kellisham. I don’t suppose you ever told him about Randall, did you?”
Inside the crowded ballroom, the duke conversed with a group of stodgy aristocrats. He spied Lady Rosalind, and a smile gentled his stern features. Square shouldered and dignified, he made his way toward them.
“You mustn’t say a word of this to him,” Lady Rosalind whispered. Her eyes wide with worry, she pressed her white-gloved fingers into Ethan’s sleeve. “Promise me you won’t.”
For the barest instant, he considered spilling the old scandal to the duke. He relished the notion of watching as Kellisham gazed in shock at Lady Rosalind, listening to her feeble attempts to make light of the truth.
But that would be petty revenge. Ethan wanted his friend back, that was all. He wanted to laugh and drink and trade stories. He wanted his life to be as carefree as it had once been.
“As you wish, Mother. Your little secret is safe with me.”
She relaxed, her fingers loosening their grip on him. He saw the effort it took for her to smile. By the time Kellisham approached and bowed over her hand, her mask of gaiety was firmly in place.
“Your Grace,” she said in a warm, melodious voice. “How handsome you look tonight.”
“I cannot begin to match your radiance.” Hardly able to take his eyes from her, the duke nodded at Ethan. “If you will excuse us, Chasebourne, the musicians are awaiting her ladyship’s signal to begin the first set.”
“You would be advised to find yourself a dance partner,” Lady Rosalind said to Ethan, before Kellisham could lead her away. She pointed across the cavernous chamber. “By the by, there is a beauty you haven’t seen before. The girl in dark green, over there by that large fern.”
He felt cynical amusement at the sparkle in his mother’s eyes, when she had appeared so disconsolate only moments ago. As she and Kellisham disappeared into the throng, Ethan looked in the direction she had indicated. Strange, his mother had never been one to play matchmaker. She had always been too involved in seeking her own pleasures.
Guests swarmed the area where the dancing would begin. Here too were pillars and statuary and g
reenery to create the impression of a Grecian temple. The mirrored walls reflected the light from the chandeliers, and the long row of glass doors had been opened to the balcony overlooking the garden. People strolled from group to group, and for a few moments his view was blocked.
Then he saw her.
She stood on the opposite side of the ballroom, a willowy woman in dark green surrounded by a knot of gentlemen. Not surprisingly, her admirers included Duxbury and Keeble, sharks drawn to fresh blood.
He didn’t recognize her at first. She stood in profile, her figure painted by the soft glow of candles. A charming tangle of curls tumbled down to her white shoulders in a style that invited a man to bury his face in her hair—and other places. His gaze roamed down the expanse of bare skin to a pair of small but shapely breasts. His interest piqued, he scrutinized her features again, half-hidden by her feathered fan. There was something naggingly familiar about her, but he stood too far away to identify her.
His mother wanted him to meet this girl. That was enough of an incentive to head in the opposite direction. But she intrigued him, and he strolled toward her, not pausing to chat when acquaintances in the crowd nodded to him, not stopping to flirt whenever a pretty woman smiled at him.
As he drew nearer, his sense of recognition grew stronger and yet more elusive. Copper highlights in dark hair. Eyes of indeterminate color. Dramatic features, not at all delicate, though she plied an opened fan that hid the lower portion of her face. There was no wedding band on her finger.
Perhaps he should mourn that. One couldn’t seduce an untried girl.
Determined to solve the mystery, he approached her from the side. If they hadn’t met, he would have to seek her chaperone to perform the introductions. Or perhaps he could bend convention and request that Duxbury present him.
She was listening politely as Keeble told one of his stupid jests. Taking refuge in the fronds of a huge fern, Ethan stood close enough to see the viscount lean forward confidingly and say, “The truth of the matter is, he keeps a harem at his country estate.”
Guffaws and mutterings of disbelief came from the other gentlemen.
Keeble tugged self-consciously at the brown curls combed over his balding pate. “It’s true. Chasebourne said so himself. Didn’t he, Ducks?”
The Honorable James Duxbury vigorously nodded, his blue eyes avid in his baby face. “He is quite the irredeemable rogue. Not that we would ever speak ill of our host, of course.”
“How wise of you,” said the lady in green. “Especially since Chasebourne is standing right over there, eavesdropping.” She snapped her fan shut and used it to point at him.
As one, her covey of admirers pivoted to stare at Ethan. But he took only peripheral notice of them. It was the woman who captivated him. She pinned him with her sharp blue-gray eyes.
Jane’s eyes.
Impossible.
Stupefied, he posed like a statue amid the fern leaves. She couldn’t be Jane. Where was the knot of scraped-back hair? The high, choking collar? The sallow skin and dreary black gown?
Where was his starched and disapproving spinster?
It was as if a sorcerer’s spell veiled the two of them. He could hear the thrum of his pulsebeat, the muted murmurings beyond the bubble of silence enclosing him. In the candlelight, her mouth looked red and inviting. Her cheeks glowed and her hair curled attractively around her face. The expanse of creamy neck lured his gaze downward past her gold locket to her breasts. Her smooth and seductive breasts. He felt the urge to fondle them, to see if they were as soft as they appeared. To his horror, he felt the stirring of desire.
And he was lurking behind the fern, gaping at her like a besotted mooncalf.
He forced a casual grin, pushed aside the clinging leaves, and strolled toward the group. “Keeble. Duxbury. I see you are among the first to meet my houseguest.”
“Miss Mayhew is the essence of innocence,” gushed Keeble, clapping a beringed hand to his broad, brocaded waistcoat. “She is a true original.”
“The paragon of perfection,” added Duxbury, standing beside her and ogling her bosom.
Ethan fought the impulse to knock their fool heads together. Didn’t they know this was only prim and proper Jane? “Well, Miss Mayhew,” he said. “It seems you should be congratulated on your harem.”
She made no reply. She merely spread her fan and peeked over the green-tinted feathers like a courtesan tempting him to come hither. The blue-gray of her eyes held mysterious depths, and Ethan had the mad urge to drag her into a deserted room and discover all her secrets.
Ridiculous. Jane had no secrets. His mother had created a masterful hoax, that was all.
Keeble cupped his hand to his ear. “Hark! I hear the musicians tuning their instruments for the first set. You promised me the opening dance, Miss Mayhew.”
Ethan shouldered past the other men. “As her host, I’ll do the honors.”
Jane neatly sidestepped him and tucked her hand in the crook of Keeble’s arm. As she did so, Ethan caught a whiff of her elusive fragrance. “I’m so sorry, Lord Chasebourne. I’ve promised every dance until nearly midnight, but I’ll be happy to accommodate you then.” She paused, studying him from behind the veil of her lashes. “In the meanwhile, I’m sure you’ll have no trouble choosing a partner from your harem.”
Chuckles swept the gathering. Ethan bared his teeth in a grin, but inside he seethed. He watched Jane and Keeble walk away, a preposterous pair if ever he saw one. She stood half a head taller than the viscount, despite his high-heeled shoes and fluffy curls. She was as slender as he was stout, as innocent as he was depraved.
The other men went in search of dance partners, leaving Ethan to his ill-humored thoughts. Jane had no inkling of what she was doing, encouraging that scoundrel. For all her intelligence, she had grown up in the country and didn’t know the ways of men. Given half a chance, Keeble would lure her into a darkened room and plunge his hands up her skirts.
Ethan had envisioned performing that very action himself, but he discounted it. Certainly he’d felt an instinctual urge, the primitive response of male to female. However, he had the good sense not to act on his impulses—at least not all of them. He chose his women for their experience and worldliness. He had never preyed upon a maiden, even if she was six-and-twenty years old and in want of a thorough kissing.
He shut off another unbidden fantasy. Kissing, indeed. Jane would likely bite off his tongue.
“Ethan, darling. I’ve been searching all over for you.” A blond woman glided up to him, pressing her cushiony bosom to his arm.
He frowned blankly at her before memory oozed into him. The house party. The drinking. He had awakened with a throbbing headache to find her snuggled up to him the morning Jane had come storming into his bedchamber. “Ah, Claudette.”
“Claudia,” she corrected with a playful slap on his wrist. “Surely you haven’t forgotten our night together.” She pouted, tilting her head and thrusting out her lower lip. “I haven’t forgotten how quickly you sent me packing. I am beginning to believe you didn’t mean what you said before I left.”
“Said?” He glanced at Jane and Keeble, making sure he could still see them among the dancers.
“About calling on me, you naughty boy.” She wriggled closer to him, whispering, “My bed has been ever so cold lately.”
Her antics left him cold, an odd circumstance considering he usually relished a woman of her frank sensuality. Tonight she was an annoying distraction from his duty to guard Jane.
Yes. He mustn’t let Jane make a fool of herself.
He was about to make his excuses when he realized Claudia would enable him to keep a better watch. Carrying her dainty gloved hand to his lips, he kissed the back and then smiled his most charming smile. “Forgive me for neglecting you,” he said. “Would you care to dance?”
* * *
He had lost no time in finding a partner.
From her position down the row of dancers, Jane surreptitiously eyed
Ethan, his broad-shouldered form elegant in dark blue and silver. He squired a blond woman who looked familiar to Jane, but it took a moment to determine why. Then recognition slapped her so hard she felt the sting of heat in her cheeks.
Wessex. His bedchamber. The morning she had gone to challenge him about Marianne.
A hot resentment knotted Jane’s belly. Now he was escorting his strumpet in full view of the ton. No wonder he had a rotten reputation.
“… Miss Mayhew.”
As the intricate pattern of the country dance brought her closer to Lord Keeble, she realized he was addressing her, a slight frown on his pasty face. “I beg your pardon, my lord,” she said. “I was concentrating on the steps.”
“I merely commented on how beautifully you dance. You move like an angel borne along by gently beating wings.”
His gushing compliment was so ridiculous that she almost laughed in his face. He surely had noticed that she’d made a few missteps. “Thank you. But you would be advised to watch your toes.”
He took several little mincing hops around her in accordance with the dance. “How droll you are. I vow, Chasebourne is a rogue for keeping you hidden in Wessex, away from the rest of us gentlemen.”
“Hidden? What nonsense. You make me sound like one of his harem.”
“Pray forgive me, I do not mean offense. I only wondered how long you have known him.”
“We are neighbors, and our mothers were friends many years ago. That is our sole connection.”
Keeble’s thick lips turned down in disappointment. “I was so hoping you could tell me something delicious. Have you ever before been to one of Chasebourne’s house parties?”
“Never.”
“Tell me,” he said, motioning her closer. “Did you ever meet his former wife? The Lady Portia—who is no lady, I hear.”
“I…”
To Jane’s relief, the dance pattern separated them for a few moments. The last thing she wanted was to discuss Lady Portia. It would be difficult enough to lure Ethan out into the garden.
