Too Wicked to Love

by Olivia Drake

  Jane’s eyes widened. He stopped close enough to caress her, though he kept his hands locked to his hips. He wouldn’t make the mistake of touching her again. Nor would he make the mistake of softening to the wounded vulnerability on her bold features.

  She whirled away and paced the small mausoleum, her footsteps echoing off the stone walls. “I do want to be her mother. I’ve never denied that. But we mustn’t fool ourselves, either. The weight of evidence proves that Lady Greeley’s child is dead.”

  “I disagree. It’s too much of a coincidence that she had a baby about the same age as Marianne.”

  “Hundreds of babies are born every day. That doesn’t mean anything.” She firmed her chin and gave him that typically Jane look. “Why are you arguing, anyway? I should think you’d be thrilled to waive the responsibility of a child.”

  Ethan told himself she was right. He ought to rejoice, to snatch the easy escape she offered. All along he had known he would hand over Marianne the moment he proved he was not her father.

  But when he thought of Marianne, so small and trusting in the crook of his arm, he could not deny a fierce desire to be her father, to watch her grow, to earn her smiles and to protect her from harm. She brought hope into his life, turned him from aimless pleasures onto a path of purpose. The truth of it seized him. If there was any chance she was his, any chance at all, then he could not relinquish her. Not ever.

  He looked at Jane, who stood watchful and waiting against the stained glass of the window, and felt a twinge of regret. She’d had so little joy in her sheltered life. And now he meant to take away one vital happiness.

  “You’re right about one point,” he said, steeling himself. “There is no reason for us to quarrel anymore. At the end of the Season, you shall return to Wessex. And Marianne shall remain with me.”

  Chapter 14

  Jane’s first act upon returning to London the next day was to visit the nursery.

  In contrast to the rain the previous afternoon, the sun shone brightly in a cloudless sky. Ethan had ridden the roan gelding, while Jane and her aunt shared the carriage. He had been gentleman enough to escort them back to his house; then he had shut himself in the downstairs library.

  Jane resisted the childish impulse to make a face at the closed doors as she walked past. She thrust her pelisse at a footman, ignored Aunt Willy’s plaintive whining, and ran up the staircase to the top floor, heedless of how hoydenish she might look, her heels kicking up the back of her skirt. She didn’t care about acting the lady. Not any more.

  When she opened the nursery door, she came upon two surprises. First, Marianne was splashing happily in her bath, a round tin tub set atop a table in the schoolroom. Second, Lady Rosalind was doing the bathing.

  A frilly apron protecting her rose-pink gown, the countess held the baby under the arms and spoke in a soft, high-pitched tone. “There now, my little angel. You like the warm water, don’t you? Look at you splash! Aren’t you a clever girl?”

  Marianne cooed back, her arms waving, sending droplets flying.

  Jane’s heart expanded until her chest ached. A prickly heat stung her eyes, but she blinked away the incipient tears. She wouldn’t weep; she hadn’t lost Marianne yet.

  She walked slowly toward the pair. Sunlight shone on the baby’s sprinkling of dark hair, on her plump cheeks and ivory skin. Reluctantly, Jane found herself comparing Marianne’s delicate features to Ethan’s mother. Was there a family resemblance in the dainty nose and fine bone structure, the smiling mouth?

  No. Surely it was only fear that made her see similarities. If she had a painting of Serena Badrick, she might well imagine a likeness there, too.

  Lady Rosalind looked up, the vivacity on her face altering to something oddly akin to guilt. “Why, Jane. I didn’t expect you back until teatime.” She laughed a trifle self-consciously. “You’ve caught me playing grand-mère.”

  She didn’t look like a grandmother. Slim as a girl, she had but a few fine lines at her eyes and mouth to betray her age. If strands of gray threaded her hair, the tawny-gold hue concealed them. “I’m glad,” Jane said sincerely. “Marianne enjoys your company.”

  “So she does.” The countess smiled proudly at the splashing baby. “Are you ready to come out, my little mermaid?”

  The baby displayed a toothless grin.

  Lady Rosalind lifted her from the water and laid her on a linen towel beside the tub. The happy smile vanished. Marianne screwed up her face and howled a protest. Making matters worse, the countess attempted to wrap the infant, but her chubby legs kicked off the towel.

  “Oh, dear,” Lady Rosalind fretted. “I never could get this part right.”

  “Allow me.” Jane stepped forward and handed a silver rattle to the baby, then deftly folded the linen towel like a swaddling blanket around those flailing legs. She picked up Marianne and cuddled the infant to her bosom, welcoming the warm weight, the clean, soapy scent of her. The baby quieted and looked up at Jane, blessing her with a smile of pure, joyous recognition.

  Jane smiled back. A bond of infinite strength stretched between them, tempered by heartfelt anguish. Again, she felt the burn of tears, a weakness she hid by leaning over the baby and smoothing her soft, damp hair. How could she return to Wessex and leave Marianne behind? How could she fill the void in her heart by copying academic manuscripts? From the first moment she’d held Marianne, that morning at the cottage, she had felt as if she’d finally found what was missing in her life, a baby to love and nurture.

  And now she realized something else, something deeper. To know that Marianne might be Ethan’s child gave her an undeniable thrill. In Marianne, she would have a part of him, for always.…

  “Look how well she’s taken to you,” Lady Rosalind said, wistfulness in her smile as she gazed at them. “You are the perfect mother for her. She’s never as happy as when she’s with you.”

  Jane swallowed past the lump in her throat. She wanted to act nonchalant, as if motherhood didn’t matter. But the wretched torment pushed past her defenses, and hot tears spilled down her cheeks. Cradling her precious bundle, she turned away, though not quickly enough.

  “Why, Jane! You’re weeping. Whatever is the matter?” The countess stepped in front of her and put a hand on Jane’s arm, preventing her from hiding again. “Please, my dear, you must tell me what’s wrong.”

  “I can’t be Marianne’s mother. Not ever.”

  Lady Rosalind frowned. Then suspicion tightened her mouth. “Is that what my son told you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Devil take him.” The curse sounded absurd coming from a lady who barely reached Jane’s chin. The countess whirled around and called out, “Gianetta.”

  The Italian maid appeared in the doorway to the nurse’s bedchamber. A tiny, dark-haired girl clung to Gianetta’s skirt, her child whom she had weaned in order to provide sufficient milk for Marianne.

  Gianetta swooped forward and took the baby from Jane. “Angela mio,” she crooned, and Marianne immediately turned her head and fussed for her dinner. Jane felt a pang of longing as the wet nurse bore the infant into the next room and closed the door. Then Lady Rosalind put her arm around Jane and guided her to a bench beneath the sunny window.

  “Now,” the countess said, pressing a handkerchief into Jane’s hand. “Tell me everything Ethan said to you.”

  Jane took a deep breath. Using the lacy scrap of fabric, she wiped her cheeks. “You know that we went to Hampshire to interview the last woman on his list.”

  “Yes. That odious Serena Badrick.” Lady Rosalind’s mouth curled in distaste. “I’m sorry you were forced to meet such a despicable creature.”

  “But we never did meet her.” Jane spilled out the miserable tale, that Lady Greeley had died a month ago, and her bastard infant was rumored to share her tomb, though Ethan believed that before her death, she had made arrangements for the baby to be delivered to him, and somehow, Marianne had been left on Jane’s doorstep by mistake. Jane kept silent
about the fact that she had accused him of being an unfit father.

  “I’ll change,” he’d said glibly, as if gaining scruples were as easy as switching his frock coat. “I’ll become the model of propriety.”

  “You can’t change. You’re a rake, a divorced man. You can’t properly raise a little girl. She needs a mother.”

  He gave her a look that chilled her with its intensity. “Marianne is mine,” he’d said. “And what belongs to me, I shall never forsake.”

  “He wants to keep Marianne,” Jane said, her fingers taut around the handkerchief. “He won’t listen to reason. But it’s only conjecture that Marianne is his child by Lady Serena. We have no real proof.”

  “And it seems you’re not likely to get any.” Lady Rosalind reached out and patted Jane’s hand, stopping her from twisting the handkerchief into knots. “My dear. Marianne must be Ethan’s child—the signet ring proves that. And she looks just like he did as a baby. Did you know his eyes were blue until he was six months old?”

  Jane’s heart sank a little lower. “You mentioned that once before. Even so, we can’t be sure.”

  “Then we must accept the fact that we may never know the identity of her mother. Perhaps because it’s fated to be you. Sometimes women who were never meant to be mothers do give birth.” Lady Rosalind pursed her lips. “Oh, I’m sorry this is so upsetting to you, Jane. I know you wish to raise Marianne yourself. But Ethan must be commended for wanting to keep his daughter. Could you respect him if he gave her away?”

  Her throat tight, Jane whispered, “No … but I don’t wish to lose her, either.”

  “Perhaps you won’t.” Arching a slim eyebrow, the countess studied her with a faint, calculating smile. “I wonder if you’ve considered every possible solution to your dilemma.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well. Ethan is determined to be a father to Marianne. And you are equally determined to be her mother. It seems to me you both share a common goal.”

  “But if I return to Wessex at the end of the Season, I’ll never see her again, never hold her, never watch her grow up.”

  “Then you must arrange for her to have you both.” Lady Rosalind lifted her hand, her gold betrothal ring glinting in the sunlight. “If you play your cards well in the next few weeks, you can entice my son into marriage.”

  Jane’s heart slammed against her breastbone. She fought against the longings inside herself, longings that had been born many years ago and renewed a thousand times by his kiss. “Oh, my lady,” she breathed in anguished denial. “He would never, ever marry me.”

  “Why not? You are pretty and witty and practical, too. And you understand him, I think.” The countess tapped her chin. “Yes, the more I consider the matter, the more I believe you are the perfect match for him.”

  “No.” Jane shook her head vehemently. The thought of marriage to him was so appealing it mortified her. To share his bed, to know his touch on her naked skin … She remembered that charged moment when he had imprisoned her against the wall, taunting her with his intimate secrets, and she had nearly swooned from wanting him. “He prefers women like Lady Greeley. He told me so himself.”

  “Bah. Like any man, he thinks with his…”—Lady Rosalind paused—“that is, he thinks he knows his own mind. But in truth, Ethan can never find happiness dallying with such women. Because he is an honorable man at heart.”

  Honorable? Jane wanted to believe so, but she’d seen too much evidence to the contrary. Betraying his marriage vows led the list. Desperate to deny her foolish hopes, she blurted, “No man of honor would do the things he has done. He even shared mistresses with Captain Randall.”

  Lady Rosalind’s smile died. In an odd, subdued tone, she repeated, “Captain Randall?”

  “Yes.” Seeing pain in the countess’s blue gaze, Jane felt abashed to have blurted out the sordid truth. “Oh, my lady, forgive me for repeating gossip. You knew him, too, of course. He and Ethan were good friends. I should never have said anything to demean a man who died a hero.”

  Lady Rosalind focused her gaze out the window. A ray of sunlight picked out the delicate lines on her face, and for a moment she looked weary and sad, as old as a grandmother. But when she turned back, a smile elevated the corners of her mouth, and the illusion vanished.

  She patted Jane’s hand again. “That is all the more reason for you to wed Ethan. You see, ever since he lost his best friend, he’s needed the love of a good woman. He was hurt and humiliated by Portia, and it drove him to take too many mistresses. But none of them made him happy.”

  “He could never be happy with me. We quarrel too much.” It was more than that, far more. They were opposites, he with his devil-may-care attitude and she with her strict views on propriety. She was a prim sparrow wishing she could fly with a magnificent hawk.

  “You quarrel because you are both strong-minded,” Lady Rosalind said with an airy wave of her hand. “But he needs a bold, resourceful woman to help him be a good father.”

  “My lady, you flatter me, but the truth is, he and I don’t suit.” She bit her lip. “Perhaps I should not have gone to his house when I found Marianne on my doorstep. Perhaps I ought not have told him about her.”

  Lady Rosalind leaned forward, her expression fervent. “Never say that, my dear. Never. You would have denied him the chance to be a father, the chance to better himself by loving his own child.”

  Jane hoped the countess was right, for Marianne’s sake. “If he really cared about Marianne, he would see that she needs a mother.”

  “So make him want you. Flirt with him, entice him the way you did on the night of the ball. Is he not a handsome man, a man you find exciting?”

  The question flustered Jane. Half of her wanted to deny it; the other half ached to pour out the longings that flowed like a deep, unending river inside her. Stiffly, she said, “Handsome is not one of the qualities of a good husband.”

  “But it can make up for quite a lot of faults.” Smiling, the countess rose from the bench. “Think on it, my dear. Most of all, do what is best for Marianne.”

  As Lady Rosalind strolled out of the nursery, Jane indulged the temptation to dream. Could she somehow lure Ethan into offering for her? Could she guard her sharp tongue as other ladies did? Could she make him notice her, make him desire her? It was a heady notion to imagine herself flirting with him, attracting his attention.

  If she wed him, she could be Marianne’s mother forever.

  Foolish hope. He would never choose an inexperienced woman like her. He had made his preferences quite clear. Ever since that night in the garden, when he’d kissed her senseless, he had acted cool and distant, indifferent to her, as if she were unworthy even of his dislike. She might have changed her feathers, but Ethan still viewed her as that plain sparrow. No doubt he hadn’t forgiven her for tricking him about Lady Portia. It would be difficult for Jane to win his trust back.

  But if she wed him, she could always be with Marianne. She could see her take her first steps and hear her speak her first words.

  Ethan would hardly make the ideal husband. He had proven himself a philanderer. He had broken his marriage vows and then punished his wife with the scandal of a divorcement. He’d known so many women, he couldn’t even be sure which one had borne his child. He had no interest in finding another wife. She remembered him standing in the cold mist outside Portia’s town house.

  I shall never make the mistake of marrying again.

  Could she convince him to change his mind? If they wed, she and Marianne could retire to Ethan’s estate in Wessex. Jane could read books to her, share her confidences, teach her good morals, and prepare her for womanhood.

  Jane glanced around the sunny schoolroom, at the round tub sitting on the table, the primers and slates stacked on the shelves, the freestanding globe that Ethan must have twirled as a little boy. He thought this was enough for Marianne, to provide her with shelter and a staff of nursemaids. But Jane knew better. Without a mother’s p
rotection, Marianne would be scorned as she grew to womanhood. As the natural daughter of a notorious rake, she could never take her rightful place in the ton like all the other young ladies. She would be ostracized, unhappy and lonesome.

  But if Jane wed him, they could formally adopt the baby. Marianne would grow up with all the privileges of a lady. She would be respectable, accepted by society.

  Marianne needed a mother who would spend time with her, not a father who brought strange women into his chambers at all hours of the night. Jane didn’t believe he had changed, not really. After all, he hadn’t come straight to the nursery. She had.

  He didn’t love Marianne to distraction. He didn’t worry about whether she’d kicked off her blankets at night or if the nursemaid had remembered to check her nappy. He was not the one who took Marianne on outings and played with her each day. Oh, perhaps he would visit her from time to time, but not with any regularity. Jane knew what it was like to grow up lonely, with no mother to shepherd her, and a father who was focused on his own selfish pursuits.

  And she couldn’t depend on Lady Rosalind to watch over Marianne. In a matter of weeks, her ladyship would marry the Duke of Kellisham and move into his house. She would be too busy in her new role of wife and duchess to give her granddaughter all the love and attention she needed.

  But Jane could provide that affection. She could devote herself to being a mother. If she wed Ethan.

  Taking a deep breath, she tried to contain the giddy excitement that broke free inside her. It didn’t matter that he was the most notorious rake in London, that she had once loved him in secret with all the dreamy hope of her girlish heart. Let him dally with his wicked women. She didn’t require fidelity from him. She wanted only the protection of his name for Marianne’s sake.

  Yes. She could do it. She must do it. She must marry him.

  * * *

  Ethan made his way through the darkened nursery. It was so quiet he could hear the pad of his bare feet on the cold floor and the nursemaid’s rhythmic snoring from the open door beyond the wooden rocking horse.