by Olivia Drake
Reluctantly, he released Jane and walked her to the connecting door. She didn’t yet know of the change in his thinking, and somehow he wasn’t quite ready to enlighten her. In a formal tone, he said, “Run along now. I’ll see you downstairs shortly.”
She didn’t obey, but when had Jane ever obeyed him? She fingered the ivory buttons on his shirt and murmured in his ear, “Send Wilson away. Let me act as your valet.”
Fire flashed to his loins in a searing bolt. God, it was tempting. She was tempting with her enticing eyes and come-hither smile. To hell with restraint. He wanted her. Now.
He strode to his dressing room. Wilson stood brushing a dark blue coat, whisking the fabric with meticulous care. A pair of highly polished black shoes sat on the carpet. Fawn breeches lay on the clothes press, along with a pristine pair of stockings.
“Ah, m’lord,” the valet said. “I’ve prepared your garments, though if you prefer different apparel from what I’ve chosen, I would be happy to—”
“This is fine. You may go.”
Wilson’s narrow face twitched with dismay. “Go? But you’ll require help with your coat and cravat—”
“I’m sure I’ll manage.”
“Well, then.” The officious little man started for the door, then paused. “A message arrived for you just now, my lord. I left it on the desk. The footman said it was urgent.”
Urgent. Ethan had an urgent need right now. He burned from it.
He followed the valet into the bedchamber and saw Jane waiting where he’d left her by the connecting door. Her hand rested on the lever, and she gazed at him with wide-eyed caution, her head tilted to the side, her lips parted. He knew she wasn’t certain of him. She didn’t know about his decision. But she would soon.
Very soon.
He started toward her. He could see the fervor in her eyes, the longing. She wanted this as much as he did. His sensuous Miss Maypole. Why had he denied himself for so many nights? His anger at her seemed unimportant now. There was no reason to refuse her favors. He would enjoy her as he willed, rid himself of this preoccupation so that he could concentrate on his writing again.
He had almost reached her when the valet thrust a sealed missive at him, along with his spectacles. “My lord, here is the letter. A messenger is waiting downstairs for your reply.”
Curse it. Ethan wanted to drop the letter into the rubbish bin. But rationality broke through his fevered senses. If there was a crisis at his estate or some other pressing business, he should at least know about it. Was he so obsessed with Jane that he could not stop to scribble a swift reply?
No woman should command him so.
Ethan donned the gold-rimmed eyeglasses, broke the wax seal, and unfolded the paper. The flowery scent triggered an unpleasant knowledge in him even before he saw the familiar feminine handwriting.
He scanned the brief note, grimaced, and then read it again.
Jane walked to him, her dark brows drawn in curiosity. “What is it, Ethan?”
He made an impatient motion at the valet. Wilson bowed and left the chamber.
Only then did Ethan reluctantly reveal the contents of the message. “It’s from Portia,” he said tersely. “She’s suffered a miscarriage and begs me to allow you to come to her.”
Chapter 20
In the unforgiving light of the setting sun, the red brick town house had an aura of neglect, more so than the night Jane had last visited here. The white paint on the door was peeling. The porch roof listed slightly, one of the columns rotting. The brass ram’s-head knocker, which Ethan had just used to rap on the door, had gone dark and dull for want of polishing.
Jane had been surprised when he’d offered to accompany her to the residence of his former wife. Despite the gravity of their visit, his presence thrilled her. Back in his bedchamber, something had been about to happen, she was sure of it. She had felt the spark leap between them, sensed a change in his manner.
He had left her standing by the connecting door while he’d gone into the dressing room. She had heard only a murmur of voices; then his valet had hastened out with Ethan strolling after him. Ethan’s gaze had burned into her. His intensely sexual look made her heart race, a dark promise that roused a slow pounding deep in her belly. Then the wretched valet had given him the letter, and the moment had vanished.
Now, Ethan stood beside her on the porch, a silent stranger, his thoughts focused inward to places she could never fathom. Had she mistaken his intent? Had he meant to banish her to her lonely bedchamber? Or had she truly succeeded in enticing him?
The door swung open on a squealing of rusty hinges. The same timid maidservant let them in, scampering up the narrow steps as if anxious to discharge her duty and be done. Jane followed her to a musty, dimly lit bedchamber.
Despite the derelict state of the house, this room held a suite of fine mahogany furnishings, highboy and dressing table, chaise longue and chairs. Lady Portia occupied a magnificent four-poster bed. Her blond hair loose around her fragile features, she reclined against the pillows, her eyes closed and her hands folded as if in prayer. She looked as pale as a corpse.
Alarmed, Jane rushed to her side. “My lady! Are you all right?”
Lady Portia opened her beautiful violet eyes. A weak smile touched her dainty lips. “Jane. My dear friend. I knew you would come.” Her gaze shifted to the man standing at the foot of the bed. “And Ethan. How pleased I am that you would visit me in my hour of need.”
“I wouldn’t dream of letting Jane come here alone.”
Was that guarded hostility in his voice? Jane hastened to ask, “How are you feeling, my lady?”
“Somewhat better. Please, if you will sit down.” Portia patted the place beside her, waiting until Jane gingerly seated herself on the bed. “Oh, if only I might relate what happened without offending your sensibilities.”
“You may speak at will,” Jane said. “I am happy to listen.”
“It is horrid to remember, yet I can think of naught else.” Portia took a shaky breath. “Yesterday morning I fell ill, with small cramping pains at first and then a terrible agony. My maid ran for the physician, but by the time he arrived, it was too late. I had lost my baby.” Tears seeped down her cheeks, and she groped for a handkerchief on the bedside table.
Jane felt helpless, inadequate to give comfort for the vast loss. She could only imagine how dreadful it would be to lose the child she’d carried for months—or to lose Marianne. “Oh, my lady. I’m so sorry. I wish I had known. I would have come sooner.”
Portia lifted her head, her eyes like moist pansies against her wan features. “There was nothing to be done. Nothing.” Reaching out, she took Jane’s hand in her cool, dry fingers. “You are so fortunate to have your little baby, your Marianne. You cannot guess how empty I feel right now.”
“How do you know my daughter’s name?” Ethan said sharply. “I’m certain I never mentioned it.”
“Jane must have, then.” Portia stared regally at him. “After you left that night, she and I had a cozy talk.”
Jane couldn’t remember speaking of Marianne, but that seemed trivial now. “Where is … George Smollett? Has he returned?”
“I told you, the cad has vanished to the Continent. He took the last of my funds and left me. Alone to suffer the loss of his son.”
“It was a boy, then,” Jane whispered.
“Yes. The physician has seen to the burial.”
“Whatever the expense,” Jane said, “Ethan and I shall see to it. Send any bills to his steward.”
She looked at him, lifting her chin, half expecting him to challenge her.
He stood with one hand braced on the bedpost. To her surprise, he inclined his head to her. “It shall be as you say.”
“How sweetly you defer to your new wife,” Portia said. “I’d heard you two wed in haste. Jane, so you are Lady Chasebourne now. I must say, you are looking very pretty these days. Pretty enough to tempt the Earl of Sin.”
Jane detected a
note of bitterness. Something in Portia’s manner disturbed her, a narrowing of the violet eyes, a hardening of her facial features. But how could she feel anything but sympathy for the poor woman who had lost so much?
“We’ve overstayed our welcome,” Ethan said, walking around the bed to Jane. “My wife and I must leave you to rest.”
“No, wait,” Portia said in an urgent tone. She clung to Jane’s hand, her fingernails biting like claws. “I need more than a few bills paid. George’s creditors have been hounding me for weeks. I need ten thousand pounds.”
Jane’s mouth went dry. It boggled her mind to wonder how anyone could run up such high debts. Certainly there was nothing in this house to show for it beyond this one roomful of expensive furniture. And hadn’t Ethan said that she needed money to pay off her own debts? Jane struggled with the notion that Portia was milking him for her own greedy purposes.
“Ten thousand, is it?” Ethan drawled. “Last time we met, it was a mere five.”
“Other men have come forward to threaten me. You see, George left unpaid gambling markers, too.” Releasing Jane, Portia wept brokenly into her handkerchief. “Oh, please, do not forsake me. I’m all alone and without protection. Those men would think nothing of ill-using me.”
In spite of her doubts, Jane cast a horrified glance up at Ethan. “We must do something. We must help her.”
Hard and assessing, his gaze was fixed on Portia. “You and Smollett never married. You have no obligation to pay off his debts.”
“Tell that to the men who badger me unmercifully.”
“I’ll make arrangements for you to move out of the city immediately, then. One of my men will aid you, so that no one can trace where you’ve gone. That should take care of the problem.”
“No! I like living in London. I told you before, I won’t be banished to the country.”
“I’m sorry. That is my final offer.”
A breath hissed from Portia, and she clenched her fists. “Beast! You’re the same tightfisted miser you’ve always been. I pity you, Jane, for marrying such an unfeeling monster. He will treat you ill, too. He will seek out other women and ignore you.”
Startled by the furious outburst, Jane leaned over to place her hand on Portia’s dainty shoulder. “Please, my lady. Calm yourself. The strain cannot be good for you in your weakened state.”
Portia glowered at Jane. “If you wish to help me, then convince him. Ten thousand is nothing to him. He has more wealth than he could spend in a hundred lifetimes.”
Jane felt caught in a quandary. She could understand why Ethan would not wish to lay out such a vast sum for gaming debts incurred by a knave. The knave who’d cuckolded him. And what was to stop Portia from gambling again and expecting Ethan to foot the bill? “My lady, will you not consider the fair offer he has made to you? You could move far away from here, begin anew in a place where you will be safe. Really, it is for your own good.”
Portia took several deep breaths. Then her shoulders slumped as if the rage had drained out of her, and she lowered her gaze to her hands. “Yes,” she said in a quavering voice, “you’re quite right, of course. I must leave London. I have no choice but to accept the offer of a house.”
She looked so dispirited that Jane gave her a brief hug. “You won’t regret it,” she said. “Country living is peaceful and pleasant. In truth, you’ll grow to love it once you’re able to take long walks in the fresh air.”
“You are too kind.” The handkerchief clutched to her throat, Portia turned to Ethan. “But where will you send me?”
“To a land agent I know in Cornwall,” Ethan said. “Be ready tomorrow at dawn. Pack only a valise. Everything else will be provided for you.”
With a nod, Portia sank wearily against the pillows. “You must leave me now,” she said. “I am most weary.”
Jane murmured a farewell, and Ethan’s arm encircled her, strong around her waist as he drew her toward the door. She had one last glimpse of Portia staring pensively after them. Jane couldn’t help remembering Portia’s furious outburst. Did that brief display give her a glimpse into his first marriage? How often had Ethan faced such petulant anger?
He will seek out other women and ignore you.
Anxious to depart the house, Jane emerged onto the porch and took a grateful breath of cool evening air. Coal smoke had never smelled so good. The barouche with its pair of matched grays waited at the curbstone, the coachman and footman standing at attention. Ethan kept his arm secure around her, helping her into the closed carriage, then seating himself beside her. With a slight jolt, the vehicle started down the street.
“A pity you had to witness that scene,” Ethan said.
“It wasn’t your fault.” She looked at him through the shifting shadows. “Oh, Ethan, I do hope Portia will find happiness.”
Warm and firm, his hand came down on hers. “I’ll send my man round tomorrow to move her out of the city and far, far away. Aside from that, I cannot force her to behave reasonably.”
His closeness stirred a sweet softness in her. When he took his hand back, Jane missed the security of it. She sensed him withdrawing, saw him turn his head to stare out the window, and said quickly, “Portia tried to manipulate you while you were married to her, did she not?”
He flashed her a grimace. “Quite so.”
A hollow regret throbbed inside Jane, and she turned the gold band on her finger around and around. “No wonder you despise me for duping you. I’ve behaved just like her.”
“You aren’t like her.” He spoke quickly, then paused as if groping for an explanation. “She was deceitful in other ways.”
“What ways?”
“Jane, it doesn’t matter. I don’t wish to discuss her with you.”
Jane felt compelled to sort fact from fiction, to understand what had really happened. “It does matter. I think … I suspect she lied to me.” She laid her hand on his sleeve, aware of his heat, the hardness of his flesh. “I want the truth. Please, it’s important to me.”
“Miss Maypole of the impertinent questions. You never give up, do you.”
She heard no hostility in his voice, only exasperation, and that encouraged her. “Portia told me she made only a single misstep. Because she was lonely after enduring years of your affairs.”
He laughed, the sound more mockery than amusement. “I don’t suppose she would mention the gaming debts, the costly jewels, the constant flirtations.”
“Flirtations? Then George Smollet wasn’t her only lover?”
“He was the only one I discovered her with. They took to my bed while I was up in the tower room.” His tone bored, he glanced out the window at the gathering darkness. “She admitted later she’d known I was there, that she wanted me to catch her in the act. As revenge for my ignoring her.”
No wonder Jane had felt uneasy with Portia’s confidences. Perhaps in some deep part of her, she had sensed a web of untruths. “She did say that you … no longer came to her bed. That you refused to give her a child.”
His quiet chuckle filled the carriage. “Bearing a baby would have ruined her figure. She couldn’t tolerate that. Smollett’s child can only have been a miscalculation.”
Portia had refused to conceive Ethan’s child? Jane was shocked that any woman could be so vain and selfish. She herself yearned to have his baby growing within her. The wish wrapped around her heart, and she forced her mind back to the one question she had delayed asking. “And what of your affairs?”
He sat silent, uncommunicative. She heard the hollow clopping of hooves, the clatter of wheels on cobblestones. His reticence intensified her need to know. “Ethan, did you drive her away by seeking out other women?”
“I’ve always enjoyed women. Ask anyone.”
His flippant answer frustrated her. “A simple yes or no will suffice. Did you betray your marriage vows?”
He thinned his lips, his gaze hard on her through the gloom. His fingers tapped restlessly on his thigh. He glanced out the window, the
n back at her. “No.”
“Never?”
“You heard me. Now cease your questions.”
Jane sank back against the velvet cushions. His brusque tone could not diminish the jumble of emotions inside her, shock and amazement and a strange elation. He had kept his vows. Through four years of marriage to a faithless wife.
His affair with Marianne’s mother must have occurred after he’d obtained the bill of divorcement. Assuredly he’d been no saint then. He had made love to many women. Nevertheless, he was an honorable man, a man who kept his promises.
And Jane had believed the worst of him. But what else was she to think? He’d hidden his honor behind the rakish mask he showed the world.
The barouche drew up in front of Chasebourne House, and he lent her his hand to help her down. Night had fallen, and torches flickered at either side of the entryway. Even when his assistance was no longer necessary, his fingers gripped hers, drawing her inexorably into the house.
Inside the vast foyer, his footsteps were sharp on the black-and-white marble floor. “Come upstairs,” he said.
It was an order, not an invitation, delivered without a smile or his customary jest, though his gaze made a leisurely sweep of her body. What did he intend? More recriminations? Or something else?
Something intimate.
Her heartbeat surged, but a glance at his bland expression gave her little clue to his thoughts. He took hold of her arm, guiding her up the grand staircase. She fancied his touch possessive, more than a gentleman’s courtesy to a lady, and she reveled in his closeness.
Ethan would respect their marriage vows. He would not seek out other women. And she did want him to be faithful. Oh, how she did. She wanted him to love her. Only her.
He escorted her into her chambers. Several candles were lit, giving the large room a cozy, intimate aura. She was keenly aware of Ethan, the masculine power in him, the dark sensuality that made her skin tingle. He couldn’t mean what she hoped, could he? He had spurned her all week. Was it possible he had reconsidered her overture that afternoon?
