Too Wicked to Love

by Olivia Drake

  Removing his dripping greatcoat, he scowled at the valise filling the space beside Aunt Willy and then settled himself beside Jane. “Ah, but you make a perfectly respectable chaperone,” he said. “And do pardon me for disturbing your nap.”

  “I wasn’t napping. I was knitting a scarf for Jane.” Aunt Willy rummaged through the tangle of black yarn in her lap, found the wooden needles, and resumed working, the long sticks clacking rhymically. “Our Wessex winters can be cold and damp. Mark my words, she’ll catch a chill and end up with rheumatism like me.”

  “I don’t mind the cold, Aunt,” Jane protested, rebelling against elderly complaints. “I’m quite warm-blooded, really I am.”

  Ethan’s gaze flashed over her, swift and hostile as the lightning that seared the dark sky. She realized belatedly that he might put another interpretation on her words.

  Instead of a chill, she felt hot all over. Her body burned with the memory of their fervent embrace. She shouldn’t care what he thought of her. But she did.

  She was glad she’d worn one of her new frocks, a deep copper silk topped by a fine gold pelisse. It still felt strange and wonderful to be garbed as fashionably as one of his London ladies. Lady Rosalind had disposed of all Jane’s old clothing. The dowdy dresses had been taken away by the ragman, and in her heart, Jane didn’t mourn the loss. She liked her new appearance, the gowns that swished as she walked, the silk stockings held up by a scrap of lacy garter, the low-cut bodice that made her feel naughty, as if she were flaunting her femininity. Whenever she saw her reflection in the mirror, she had to look twice, unable to believe that polished lady was really her.

  Unfortunately, Ethan seemed unaffected by her new image.

  “There’s an inn a few miles ahead,” he said in an abrupt change of subject. “If the storm doesn’t abate, we’ll stop there for shelter.” He turned to stare outside as raindrops sluiced down the window glass.

  Lightning lit the unnatural darkness. Jane tried to concentrate on her book of poetry, though she was vividly aware of the man who sat beside her. She could smell his dampness, the leather of his boots, the musk of his cologne. He sat mere inches from her, and she felt the heat radiating from him. She wanted to smooth back the wet locks of hair that curled around his ear. She wanted him to caress her again; she wanted to open her mouth beneath his and let him taste her deeply.…

  The rain beat down like a voice scolding Jane for her foolishness. It was best to face the truth. Their kiss had meant nothing to him. He was a scoundrel who had seduced scores—nay, hundreds—of women. Quite likely, he’d already forgotten his passionate encounter in the garden with a lovelorn spinster.

  Gradually, the clacking of needles slowed and ceased. Once again, soft snores emanated from her aunt. This was her chance, Jane thought. Her chance to ask him the questions that had nagged at her.

  “What is that you aren’t reading?” Ethan drawled.

  Startled, she clenched her fingers around the book. “This?” she said, murmuring so that she wouldn’t awaken her aunt. “It’s a collection of poems by William Blake.”

  “‘Tyger! Tyger! burning bright.’ His verse charms ladies with words so trite.”

  His irreverent rephrasing almost made her smile. “It isn’t hackneyed. Blake writes beautiful verse.”

  “Then why were you staring everywhere but at the book? Come, admit the truth, it’s sentimental pap.”

  “It’s not.” Jane found herself bristling and took a deep breath. “Ethan, I don’t wish to quarrel. There’s something more important I have to say.”

  His gaze did another sweep of her bosom. “If it concerns the night of the ball, I don’t want to hear it.”

  Did he mean Portia? Or the kiss?

  Surely Portia.

  “I know you’re angry that I arranged the meeting with Lady Portia, and I’ve been wanting to apologize for tricking you.”

  He flashed her an enigmatic look. “If there’s one thing I dislike, it is a meddlesome woman.”

  She met his gaze squarely. “My cause was just. And I must know. Will you help her?”

  “She has refused my offer of aid.” He glanced out at the storm. “So there, your conscience may be at ease. You did all you could.”

  “Refused?” Jane blinked in bewilderment. “I don’t understand. Did you offer too paltry a sum?”

  “I offered her a cottage in the country. But she wanted five thousand pounds. To pay off her gaming debts.”

  Jane was shocked into momentary silence. Five thousand? She’d had no idea Portia would ask for so staggering an amount. And for gaming debts?

  Judging by the way he drummed his fingers on his buckskin breeches, he wasn’t telling her everything. “Surely you mean George Smollett’s debts. Gambling is a man’s sport.”

  Ethan lifted one eyebrow in cynical amusement. “I see you have not lost your skill at making assumptions.”

  “Then tell me the whole truth so that I won’t have to guess.”

  “The truth is that some people find betting irresistible, men and women alike. The lure of winning is so strong, they will wager funds they don’t possess, the deed to their house, even the food from the mouths of their children.”

  Jane shuddered to imagine such an obsession. Was that what Lady Portia had done? Had she been too mortified to admit her weakness to Jane? “You gamble, don’t you? Yet you don’t seem wanting for funds.”

  “I know when to stop. Self-control is a gambler’s greatest asset.”

  “I’ve always thought you a man who indulged his urges to excess.”

  “Indeed so. Though my favorite vice has to do with more fleshly pleasures.” His lips cocked in a half-smile as he scanned her again without interest. “And more … experienced women.”

  Sharp as thorns, his ridicule pricked her. Despite Jane’s improved appearance, he viewed her as undesirable, a rustic without appeal. “About Lady Portia—”

  “You seem fascinated by my former wife.”

  “I’m worried about her child. Portia cannot have but three months left until her confinement. She will need funds to care for the infant.”

  He shrugged. “I’ll send her enough to get by, then. And not a penny more.”

  Even as Jane felt thankful for his aid, he reached across the carriage and picked up Aunt Willy’s silver flask. He uncorked it and sniffed. Then he tilted his head back and took a deep swallow while Jane stared in surprise at his audacity.

  He grimaced, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. “How can your aunt drink this disgusting stuff?”

  “Put that down,” Jane said in a biting whisper. “It’s her medicine.”

  “It’s brandy mixed with molasses. Along with a dose of opium, I’d hazard.” He glanced at her aunt, snoring in the corner, her fingers tangled in her knitting. With a hint of his familiar deviltry, he leaned closer to Jane and whispered, “I fear your aunt is a drunkard.”

  That suspicion had crossed Jane’s mind a time or two, but she wasn’t about to admit it. “And you’re a rake. We all have our faults.”

  “Except you, Miss Maypole. How did Duxbury put it? Ah, yes. You are a paragon of perfection.”

  She ached to see more than humor glinting in his dark eyes; she wished he would pull her into his lap and kiss her giddy. “No one is perfect, Ethan. I’ve certainly made my share of mistakes.”

  “Perhaps you have at that.”

  His gaze flicked over her mouth. Did he regret their kiss in the garden? She didn’t. Not one glorious moment of it. But better she remember her true purpose, to protect Marianne. “Tell me about Lady Greeley,” she said.

  Ethan shifted on his seat, stretching out his long legs so that he did not disturb her slumbering aunt. “The rain would have been preferable to this inquisition,” he drawled.

  “Pardon me for persecuting you. But if Lady Greeley is Marianne’s mother, then I ought to learn everything about her.”

  “So. What gems of insight do you wish to know?”

  �
�How long did your affair with her last?”

  “Less than a week.”

  “Is she the sort of woman who could leave her baby on a stranger’s doorstep?”

  “Yes.”

  His unhesitating reply irritated Jane. “Why would you consort with a lady of such callous, unconscionable nature?”

  “Must you ask? Physical attributes mean more to me than moral character.”

  He was teasing her, she thought, giving her the answer she expected. Was it only wishful thinking that made her want to see the good in him? “Why would Lady Greeley not have contacted you directly? Why would she feel that she couldn’t turn to you for help?”

  “Devil if I know.”

  “She left Marianne on my doorstep. And with your signet ring. Don’t you find that peculiar?”

  “Everything about this situation is peculiar.” He stared down at the embossed ring on his finger, the gold glinting dully in the gray light. “To be honest, I don’t know when she would have taken the ring. I wasn’t in the habit of wearing it back then.”

  “Where was it kept?”

  “In a jewel case in my dressing room. It took a while for me to notice it was missing.”

  “Well, then. Lady Greeley must have slipped downstairs to your bedchamber while she was visiting you in the tower room.”

  All warmth vanished from his face, leaving his eyes cold and black. “What do you know about the tower room?”

  Her mouth went dry. She riffled the pages of the book in her lap. “Just that Mrs. Crenshaw said I was not to disturb you there. It’s obvious that’s where you entertain your women.”

  He stared at her for another minute, and Jane had the impression of secrets lurking behind his expressionless features. She waited for him to say that she was mistaken, that he used the room for some innocuous purpose, perhaps as an office for his business affairs.

  Turning away, he peered out the window. “The rain is slowing. If you will excuse me.”

  He rapped on the roof to signal the coachman to stop, then scooped up his greatcoat and gloves and went out the door. Through the rain-streaked window, Jane watched his broad-shouldered form disappear around the rear of the carriage where his horse was tethered.

  Aunt Willy awoke again. “Have we arrived, then?” she asked, focusing her bleary eyes outside.

  “No, Aunt. Not yet.”

  “Merciful heaven.” Wilhelmina fumbled with her knitting again. “My nerves are quite worn out. If only we could tell the coachman to return us to Wessex, where we belong. How pleasant it would be to settle back into our own cottage.”

  Jane was used to her aunt’s prattling, even welcomed it when they were alone in their cottage with no one else around for miles. But now, she wished for quiet, a chance to think.

  The carriage resumed its gently rocking pace. The interior seemed curiously empty without Ethan. Surreptitiously, she slid her hand across the leather cushion, still warm from his body heat. His male scent lingered in the rain-swept air. She felt an aching awareness inside herself, an awareness that was heightened by the memory of their kiss. Despite all her doubts about his character, one truth remained certain.

  The rakish Lord Chasebourne fascinated her more than ever.

  * * *

  Badrick Hall looked more like a prison than a mansion. Built of gray stone, the grim façade featured rows of mullioned windows and a turreted roof. With monotonous regularity, rainwater dripped from the downspouts. Smoke drifting from one of the tall chimneys gave the only sign of life.

  Ethan was aware of Jane picking a path through the puddles on the graveled drive. He wished to hell she would have stayed at the inn with her grumbling aunt. But Jane never behaved as he bid. She wore an impractical copper silk gown and gold pelisse that brushed her willowy curves—curves that still had the power to astonish him. Her skirt dragged in the mud, and the dampness would have soaked her dainty slippers by now. She ought never to have given up her sturdy half-boots. But he gritted his teeth and kept his opinions to himself.

  The problem was, he couldn’t look at her without hearing his mother’s demented declaration: Jane would make you the perfect bride.

  Jane, his wife. He would sooner wed an inmate from Newgate Prison.

  The mere suggestion of marriage made him want to run in the opposite direction. He couldn’t possibly live up to Jane’s high expectations—not that he wished to, either. He was a man, not a god. And never again would he make the mistake of devoting himself to one woman.

  He mounted the granite steps to the tall front doors, made of thick, studded oak like the portcullis of a castle. His knock caused deep, booming echoes inside the house.

  Touching the pitted, discolored stone of a pillar, Jane gave him that determined look that warned him to prepare for another prying question. “Is Lady Greeley married?” she asked.

  So, she thought him so vile he would carry on with another man’s wife. “Serena is widowed. She lives here with the present viscount, her brother-in-law.”

  He had time to say no more. The door swung open on creaky hinges, propelled by a white-wigged Adonis in crimson and gold livery.

  The footman stood gaping, as if visitors were a rare event. “M’lord?”

  “We’ve come to see her ladyship,” Ethan said.

  “Lady G-Greeley?” His voice squeaked and he cleared his throat. “You can’t … that is … she isn’t … er…”

  “She isn’t in London, so she must be here,” Ethan said impatiently. Quite likely, Serena was entertaining in her bedchamber, and the footman had orders not to interrupt. “Tell her Lord Chasebourne requests her presence in the drawing room.” He thrust back the door and strode into the entry hall, his footfalls sharp and echoing.

  Jane followed him, and he saw her expression of awe as she glanced around at the medieval shields and weaponry decorating the timbered walls. On this cloudy day, with no candles lit, the atmosphere was gloomy. But she didn’t seem to notice. With a soft exclamation, she went straight to a broadsword and caressed the engraved hilt. “This must date back to the time of the Conqueror.”

  She had touched him with the same loving tenderness. To his consternation, he found himself growing jealous of a damned sword.

  “We aren’t here to do scholarly research.” Even as she frowned at him, he turned his back on her and addressed the footman. “Off with you now. Tell your mistress I must see her immediately.”

  “But … but I cannot,” the servant said, wringing his white-gloved hands. “What I mean is, m’lord … well … she isn’t here. I shall fetch Lord Greeley, though. Perhaps he’ll speak to you.” He slid a nervous glance up the broad staircase, and Ethan knew the man was protecting his employer.

  He curbed his annoyance. Certainly he could order Adonis to deliver the message, but why give Serena the chance to play cat-and-mouse?

  “Never mind,” he said. “I know where to find her.”

  “But m’lord, you can’t—”

  Ignoring the footman’s squawk of protest, Ethan strode up the polished oak staircase, past the first-floor landing with its suit of armor, and then ascended to the floor of bedrooms. The scuffle of Jane’s hurrying feet came from behind as she caught up to him. Her scent eddied its freshness through the musty air. Not for the first time, he wondered if her skin smelled so sweet all over.

  “That footman was behaving rather strangely, don’t you think?” she whispered. “I doubt Lady Greeley is at home.”

  “She’s here.”

  He found the right door at the end of a dimly lit corridor and knocked. There was no answer, so he put his hand on the knob. Jane grabbed his wrist before he could open the door, her strong, gloved fingers curling around his.

  “You can’t walk in on her,” she murmured. “What if she’s dressing?”

  He thought it far more likely they would find Serena stark naked and cavorting with her latest lover. Not a sight he wanted Jane to witness. “You’re right,” he said. “It’s best that you wait outside
here.”

  “And allow you to conduct the questioning?” She shook her head. “Absolutely not.”

  “Show a little common sense for once. In all likelihood, she’s in there with a man.”

  “It can’t be any worse than finding you in bed with that blond female.”

  He shot Jane a withering look, but she didn’t wither. With forthright challenge, she held his gaze. Again he felt that peculiar shifting inside himself, the shock of seeing her arrayed so attractively, her hair soft and curling around features that were familiar … yet different. But her formidable stare remained that of his childhood nemesis.

  She was still prickly Jane beneath her rose-pretty trappings. He must never forget that.

  “Have it your way, then,” he muttered.

  He opened the door and entered the darkened boudoir. The curtains were drawn in the bedroom beyond, and it took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the gloomy interior. A familiar heavy aroma of musk pervaded the air, tinged by another, sharper smell. Tobacco smoke?

  He was right. She had a man trapped in her lair.

  “Serena,” Ethan called out. “It’s Chasebourne. I need a word with you.”

  The darkness swallowed his voice and answered with silence. Was she asleep? It was late afternoon, but she was known to stay up all night.

  Carefully picking his way past shadowy lumps of furniture, Ethan walked through the boudoir and into her bedchamber. Memories crowded him—loathful longings, evil excesses, dark depravities. It made his flesh crawl. He must have been mad to bring Jane in here.

  Thrusting his arm out, he pushed her behind him and shielded her with his body. He could see the shape of the massive four-poster in the shadows, but the bed was empty. The coverlet was drawn up to a mound of pillows. Where was Serena?

  In the corner of the room, a tiny orange circle glowed like the single eye of a Cyclops. He had an eerie sense of being watched, which he shook off impatiently.

  “Who’s there?” he snapped. “I won’t tolerate any of your games, Serena.”

  A chair creaked. The pinprick of light moved, and a candle flared to life at the end of a cheroot. The flame illuminated the gaunt, unshaven features of Viscount Greeley.