by Olivia Drake
Her voice held a velvety hint of the pleasures they’d shared the previous evening. The water lapped at the undersides of her breasts.
“You’re an early riser today,” he said.
For a moment she looked flustered; then she glanced at his breeches. “So are you, my lord.”
He chuckled. “How observant of you to notice.”
“I don’t suppose you’ve come to say you’ve finished reading my father’s translation of Topographia Hiberniae.”
“It’s a bit early to discuss the travels of a priest through twelfth-century Ireland.” He let his gaze roam over her. “However, I’d be happy to assist you with your bath.”
A faint smile lingered on her mouth. “My back, please.”
He rolled up his sleeves and soaped his palms. She bent forward, holding the sides of the tub as he glided his hands over her glossy skin, following the sweep of her shoulders, pushing aside the tendrils at the base of her neck and working his way down the nubs of her spine. Her head drooping, she sighed, that soft little sound more erotic than any made by a seasoned courtesan. Her relaxed state encouraged him to slide his hands around her rib cage and fill his palms with her breasts. The peaks were taut, and against the heel of his left hand, he could feel the quickened beat of her heart.
He reached lower to legs already parted for his touch. His fingers found a slickness there that had nothing to do with soap or water, and he caressed her slowly until her head fell back against his arm and her breath came in panting gasps and the arching of her body caused gentle ripples in the water as she climaxed.
Breathing hard, he cupped her mound and struggled to contain his own raging need. Opening her eyes, she graced him with a dreamy, trusting smile. “Ethan.” Then she delved into the water and brought his wet hand to her mouth, placing a soft, loving kiss in his palm, kissing each finger in turn.
A wild surge of passion shattered his restraint.
He lifted Jane out of the tub. Water coursed down her in rivulets. He crowded her against the wall and wrested open his breeches. With a low cry, she put her arms around his neck and locked her legs around his waist. In the next instant he drove inside her, into her snug velvet heaven.
She clung tightly to him as he rode her, fast and furious. Her frantic breaths, her straining movements, tore a groan from him. Then with fierce exultation, he felt her shudder again, her inner folds clenching around him, and he convulsed with the violence of his own release.
The intense pleasure slowly abated to the glow of satisfaction. He held her close, her legs still wrapped around him, her head lying on the hard pillow of his shoulder. There was a quiet joy in the aftermath, a tender contentment he had never experienced with any other woman.
Jane. His wife. How well matched they were.
The thought shook him, and reluctantly he drew back, holding her waist until she lowered her legs. She looked sweetly tousled, her skin moist and glowing, her hair half-fallen from its pins. “Well,” she said on a breathy laugh. “I’d wondered if it could be done while standing.”
He was intrigued to think Jane speculated about carnal acts. “What other fantasies have you had?”
She blushed and glanced away. “Nothing of consequence.”
He slid his hands up her rib cage, his thumbs lightly brushing her breasts. “Tell me anyway.”
She drew in a breath, ducking her chin to gaze at him through the screen of her lashes. “I once read about an Eastern seraglio … with braziers burning … incense in the air … a bed draped in silk. I’ve wondered what it would be like … to be a slave in a harem … to be seduced by the pasha.”
“A slave girl.”
“Never mind,” she said, shaking her head. “It’s silly, really.”
“Not at all.” Her fantasy became his. He could imagine her draped in gauzy silk, gliding toward him, defiance flashing in her eyes. He would command her to undress, make her lie on the bed while he used all his skills to coax a response from her.…
“Look at you,” Jane said suddenly. “Wilson will suffer an apoplexy when he sees the state of your clothing.”
Her silvery blue eyes danced with amusement, and Ethan glanced down at himself. His damp, wrinkled shirt adhered to his chest, and there was a button missing from his breeches. Grinning, he reached for a towel. “The least I can do is to finish drying you.”
She made a purring sound in her throat as he passed the linen over her shoulders, taking one smooth arm and working his way down to her dainty wrist, turning her pliant hand over to dry her palm and then each finger. He paused over her middle finger, rubbing at the dark smudge beside her nail. “Ink,” he said. “You’ve been writing.”
She curled her fingers into a fist, hiding the stain. “Letters. And replies to invitations.”
“Refuse them all. We’ll find a better way to fill our time.”
He meant it. He would like nothing more than to spend his days and nights pleasuring Jane. Despite their frantic coupling, obsession still burned inside him. He knelt before her, gliding the linen over her breasts, along the indentation of her waist and down her long legs, blotting the moisture between each curling toe before moving upward again to gently wipe away the traces of his seed. Her breath came faster, and she held his shoulders to steady herself.
“Ethan,” she said on a low, pleading gasp.
“Is something the matter?” he teased.
“I do have a perfectly fine bed in there.”
“Is that an invitation?”
She blinked down at him, then tilted her head back and laughed. “No. No, you debaucher, it was not. You’ve made me late already.”
Stepping away from him, she walked to the chair and collected her shift. He admired her tall, willowy form, the sway of her hips, the curve of her behind. Then she pulled the garment over her head, and to his disappointment, the cloth fluttered down to her knees.
Reluctantly buttoning his breeches, he strolled to her. “Late?” he asked. “Where are you off to so early in the morning?”
She glanced at him, then turned away to pick up her corset. “First, I must check on Marianne. She was fretful yesterday, remember? Gianetta says it was nothing, but I wish to reassure myself she is feeling better.”
“And then?”
“Then I must go out in the barouche.”
“For what purpose?”
“Oh, to visit the shops,” she said with an airy wave of her hand.
He caught her by the waist and kissed the tender nape of her neck, breathing in her fresh fragrance. Spurred by impulse, he said, “I’ll accompany you.”
“But you can’t!”
Her vehemence surprised him. It was the first time he’d offered to spend the day with her, and he was annoyed by her refusal. “I can, indeed. I had intended to go over the accounts, but that can wait for another day.”
“You detest shopping. It will be horribly tedious, for I must hunt down the perfect pair of shoes to wear at your mother’s wedding.”
“Forget the shoes, then.” He pulled her back against him so that her bottom cradled him. “Stay home with me.”
She deftly slipped away and donned the stiff corset. “Oh, Ethan, I cannot, not today. In addition to my many other errands, Lady Rosalind asked me to fetch a hat from the milliner’s. It’s the least I can do with her wedding less than a week away.”
He clenched his jaw. She didn’t want his company, and so much the better. It wouldn’t do to let himself get too involved with her daily activities—she might start wanting him to reciprocate. She might insist on reading his poems, probing his innermost thoughts, forcing him to spill out his unmanly emotions.…
He broke out in a cold sweat. Thankfully, she presented her back to him while she fastened her locket around her neck, and he busied himself tying her corset strings. When his fingers brushed her warm skin, he welcomed the stirring in his groin. It reminded him that his principal interest in her was for physical pleasure.
His anger at her deception
had faded to a dark cloud on the horizon of his consciousness. Somehow, he could no longer resent Jane for robbing him of his freedom. He could even admit to finding satisfaction in their marriage. It was convenient to have a lover right next door, where he could avail himself of her body at any time. All in all, Jane was pleasant company and a fine mother for Marianne.
That was all he required from a wife.
* * *
The printer’s shop was quieter than Jane expected. Lanterns were lit to augment the watery daylight. The pungent smell of ink and paper filled the air, along with the remains of someone’s meat pie tossed in the rubbish bin. Along the back wall, several men were bent over trays of type on slanted tables. All around the room, newly printed broadsides hung from drying rods.
She had chosen this shop because it was unlikely she would encounter any member of the ton. Standing by the press, a tall wooden affair that smelled of varnish and lampblack, she regarded the barrel-chested master printer in his ink-stained apron.
Extending her hand, she showed him her mother’s locket. “Sir, I am offering you a superb piece of jewelry. Solid gold, the finest workmanship.”
Staring greedily at the piece, he poked it with a dirty fingertip. “How do I know ye ain’t cheatin’ me?”
“Take it to any jeweler’s shop. You’ve two days until I return to examine the proofs. Please, the locket will more than meet your price.”
“Eh? Mayhap ‘twill do, then.”
With fingers deft from setting type, he plucked the piece out of her hand. The gold gleamed in the dim sunlight. A pang of regret clutched at her breast as her treasured locket disappeared into the pocket of his grubby apron.
It pained her to give up her most prized possession, though she had removed the miniature paintings of her parents. But she owned nothing else of value, nothing that belonged to her alone. She could not use Ethan’s money to purchase his birthday gift. She wanted it to be an offering from her heart.
The poems lay in a tidy pile, tied with a pink ribbon Jane had found in her drawer. She had copied them in her finest penmanship and returned the originals to the tower room. Yet still she hadn’t been satisfied with the result. To hand Ethan a sheaf of loose papers, however prettily done, simply wasn’t good enough. So she had made discreet inquiries and, on this back street of the Strand, found a printer who was willing to set the type and bind the poems into a book with a fine cover of tooled morocco leather.
“You will have it finished by Thursday?” she asked. “It is a gift for my husband, and imperative that it be ready on time.”
“Aye, but that’ll cost ye extra.”
“I quite understand. And you will print one copy—and only one. You are to show no one these papers.”
“Aye.” He ducked his head in the crude imitation of a bow. “’Twill be done as ye instructed, Mrs. Mayhew.”
She nodded, satisfied that he would comply with her insistence on secrecy. To further safeguard her mission, she had given him her maiden name. He didn’t even know her husband and the poet were one and the same. The frontispiece listed the author as simply Ethan Sinclair.
She took her leave and wound a path through the print shop with its stacks of paper and boxes. Excitement fluttered in her stomach. In just a few days, on Ethan’s birthday, she would present the bound volume to him. He would be surprised—and pleased by her unique gift. Any writer would delight in seeing his work printed. Even her unpretentious father had proudly displayed his published treatises on the mantelpiece.
She wanted to see that same glow of satisfaction on Ethan’s face. She wanted to deepen their union, to make him realize how much she loved him and how well they suited each other. She wanted him to see that she could be his helpmate, his assistant, his friend. In addition to his lover.
She blushed to remember their wild coupling that morning, the passion he aroused in her. More than their intimacy, though, his attentiveness gave her hope that he felt an affection for her. He had wanted to accompany her on her shopping expedition, and it had frustrated her to refuse him. Of all days for him to show an interest in her company!
She pushed open the door of the print shop and went outside to find the hackney waiting at the curbstone, the driver dozing, the sway-backed nag nibbling the straggly blades of grass between the cobbles. The shops and houses were crammed close together, the scent of soot and horse droppings heavy in the air. Down the street, two workmen were unloading furniture from a dray and carrying it into a building.
Jane gathered up her skirts and hastened to the hired hackney. She had been careful not to take the Chasebourne barouche on this errand. The coachman had left her at the fashionable shops on Bond Street, and she had given him instructions to return later. He had wanted to leave a footman to carry her parcels, but she refused firmly.
Sometimes it helped to be the Countess of Chasebourne.
Intent on that pleasant thought, she didn’t notice the open carriage parked beyond the dray. Or the eyes that avidly watched her.
Chapter 22
“You’re smiling a lot this afternoon,” Ethan murmured.
Jane felt a bubble of happiness as they walked up the grand staircase at the Duke of Kellisham’s mansion. The muted echo of conversations swirled through the domed foyer. Along with a bevy of aristocrats, they were attending a formal tea in honor of the duke’s wedding to Lady Rosalind.
This morning Jane had fetched the book of poems from the printer. She had felt a thrill of pride to hold the slender volume with its soft calfskin binding, to leaf through the vellum pages and know that Ethan had written such beautiful words. She could scarcely wait to present the book to him this evening, when they were alone.
“Was I smiling?” Jane said, attempting a sober expression. “I must have been reflecting on the fact that today is your birthday.”
“Ah.” Ethan gave her a penetrating look. “I have the distinct feeling you’ve planned something.”
“It’s a surprise. But I’m certain you’ll love it.”
He leaned closer, his breath warm against her ear. “If it involves you removing your clothing, I’m all in favor of it.”
She swatted his coat sleeve with her closed fan. “That would hardly be a surprise, my lord,” she whispered.
“Quite so. But I would appreciate it nonetheless.”
As much as she enjoyed their banter, Jane was aware of another ache within herself, a yearning for something more. Their repartee was like all their conversations: light … amusing … never delving beneath the surface. She hungered to know his deepest thoughts, to share in his confidences. But he used his charm like a shield between them. Never once had he said he loved her. And her longing to hear those words gnawed at her heart.
She bolstered her smile as they neared the grand saloon. Lady Rosalind and the duke stood in the doorway, greeting a steady stream of guests. They made a striking pair, the dowager with her tawny gold hair and delicate features, the duke square-shouldered and dignified.
“My dear Ethan and Jane,” Lady Rosalind said, her blue eyes sparkling, her hands clasping theirs. “How splendid to see you both.”
“You just saw us at luncheon, Mother,” Ethan said dryly. “Remember? You presented me with your annual gift of a cravat pin.”
“Oh, fie. I will not hear your criticism. You must allow me my high spirits. I am to be a bride in two days’ time.”
She glanced adoringly at her betrothed, and the duke smiled at her with such love, Jane again felt the tug of longing.
After tonight, when she gave Ethan the book of poetry, perhaps he would love her. Yes. Even if he were a little angry at first, he would get over it quickly. He would realize how helpful she could be to him in his work. She looked forward to sharing a true intimacy of mind as well as body.
Smiling, she strolled with him into the stately saloon decorated in blue and gold with elaborate gilt cornices and two massive fireplaces. Jane looked around with interest. This world was so far from her humble cottage in
the country, where teatime meant sitting by the parlor fire with her aunt, sipping tea from a cracked china cup and nibbling a thin slice of buttered bread. Here, liveried footmen stood at attention behind huge silver trays of delicacies, sandwiches and sugared confections and a fine array of pastries. She liked both worlds, this one because Ethan was here to share it with her, and the country for its quiet peace.
Aunt Willy had already seated herself with a group of older ladies. Jane saw many familiar faces, and she was soon separated from Ethan. She was happily discussing books with several elderly gentlemen when someone spoke behind her.
“Lady Chasebourne. You look as though you’re hiding a secret.”
Her heart lurched. She spun around to see Lord Keeble standing behind her, Mr. Duxbury grinning at his side. They were like a pair of mismatched jesters, one short and stout, the other tall and thin. She scolded herself for letting them fool her. “If I am,” she teased, “I certainly shan’t tell either of you.”
“You wound me.” Clapping his hand to his peacock-blue coat, Keeble studied her with keen eyes. “But never mind, you needn’t say a word. We always ferret out the truth. ’Tis our talent, ain’t it, Ducks?”
“Yes, indeed. Ferrets, that’s us.”
Duxbury twitched his nose in a weaselly manner, and both men glanced at each other and chortled. Jane almost laughed, too. Really, they were too silly for words.
“Well, Lord Ferret, Mr. Ferret, I see my husband is approaching with two cups of tea. If you will excuse me.”
She made her escape, and Ethan met her beside a potted fern. He wore that faint glower she had noticed on his face whenever she flirted with other men. Rather than vex her, his jealousy gave Jane a warm glow.
He handed a cup of tea to her. “If those two were bothering you—”
“They weren’t.” She placed her hand on his arm, his muscles solid and warm. “You must admit, they’re rather amusing in a witless sort of way.”
