by Olivia Drake
“How is Portia?” Jane asked, shuddering to recall that horrible blow.
“She’ll recover,” Ethan said grimly. “In prison, where she’ll never again steal a child.”
Kellisham cleared his throat. “You’ll wish to be with your family, Chasebourne. Three footmen and one old codger should be sufficient to escort two prisoners to the magistrate at Queen Square station.”
“Who is calling you old?” Lady Rosalind demanded, looking up from her contemplation of the baby.
A grin creased his ruddy features. “Never mind, my dear.” Walking forward, he caressed her cheek. “You must promise to rest now. It is our wedding day tomorrow.”
Her blue eyes soft on him, she said, “So it is, my darling. So it is.”
* * *
Back home, Jane couldn’t bear to be parted from Marianne, and Ethan seemed to share her sentiment. So after being fed and fussed over by a tearful Gianetta, then outfitted in a fresh nappy and pink nightdress, Marianne promptly fell asleep in Jane’s bed. She had her thumb in her mouth, and the candlelight flickered on her tiny, slumbering form. Lady Rosalind smiled fondly from the foot of the bed.
“Well,” she whispered. “Now that all has been settled quite nicely, I shall be off to my own bed.”
“One moment,” Ethan commanded in a low voice. “I want a word with you first. With Jane present.”
Taking his mother by the arm, he walked her across the vast bedchamber to the hearth with its quietly snapping fire. Jane followed, curiosity about his serious manner outweighing her weariness.
“Can this not wait until another time?” Lady Rosalind asked. “We must be at the church by eleven o’clock in the forenoon.”
“Then let us settle this quickly,” he stated. “I noticed today your inordinate distress over Marianne. Is there something you wish to tell me?”
Her gaze locked with his, then flitted to the fireplace, before returning to him. “Tell you? I can’t imagine what you mean. I was concerned about my granddaughter.”
He paced slowly before the hearth, his hands behind his back. “Your granddaughter,” he said in a strange, soft tone. “You’re more affectionate with this child than you were with me. Of course, you were very young when I was born—eighteen years old, I believe.”
“That is so. And perhaps I was rather flighty back then.” She eyed him cautiously. “If you’re troubled by that, I can only beg your apology.”
“That isn’t necessary.” A distracted look on his face, Ethan shook his head. “Just now, I was remembering how you breezed into my house in Wessex on the day Jane found Marianne on her doorstep.”
“Why, yes. I’d just returned from my winter’s sojourn in Italy.”
“Where you had conveniently employed a maidservant who could nurse the baby.”
“Gianetta was nursing her own child. Do you think me so cruel as to force the poor woman to leave behind her young daughter?”
Ethan didn’t reply, but went on. “Then you arranged for Jane to come to London, where you orchestrated my marriage to her. So that Marianne would have two parents.”
Lady Rosalind waved her fine-boned hand. “Oh, la, the child needed a mother, and when I realized Jane’s interest in you, naturally I encouraged it. There is nothing wrong with a little matchmaking on behalf of my son and my goddaughter. And Jane did come to you of her own free will. Isn’t that so, Jane?”
Jane sank slowly down onto a chair. She remembered how skillfully Lady Rosalind had convinced her to go to the tower room, ostensibly to talk to Ethan. But why was he now dredging up the past?
“Yes…” Unable to sort out his meaning, she asked, “Ethan, what are you saying?”
He fixed his intent stare on the dowager. Lady Rosalind twisted her gold betrothal ring and gazed at him. Though she stood regally straight, there was a wariness to her blue eyes, a vulnerability to her fine mouth. The fire bathed her in golden light, and the amber gown shimmered around her slender form.
“I am saying what I should have guessed from the start,” he uttered in a quiet tone. “Marianne is my half-sister.”
Chapter 25
Ethan prepared himself to counter another pretty denial. Instead, his mother’s mouth quivered, and her queenly expression crumpled. She wilted onto a footstool and buried her face in her hands.
“Yes,” she said in a broken voice quite unlike her usual breezy tone. “Yes, it’s true. I gave birth to Marianne.”
A gasp of disbelief came from Jane. “Oh, my lady!” she whispered, her mouth agape. “You? How can that be?”
“I left Marianne on your doorstep, Jane. How I wanted to tell you, both of you. Marianne is … John Randall’s child.”
Though he had suspected as much, her words knifed into Ethan. He turned away, bracing both hands on a chair and staring at the baby on the bed. The old pain tasted bitter in his throat. God! Randall’s child.
Marianne was John Randall’s daughter.
He couldn’t fathom the wonder of it. Instead, he recalled his fury at discovering his mother was having an affair with his best friend. It had happened the previous spring, right after his divorce from Portia. At first he had been incredulous, unable to believe his mother had the audacity to carry on with a man nearly twenty years her junior. Then when the truth had sunk in, Ethan had reacted in rage, challenging Randall to a bout of fisticuffs. He had fought his own friend, and Randall had not returned the blows. Shortly afterward, Randall had left with his regiment. Within the space of a month, he had fallen on the bloody fields of Waterloo.
Leaving behind his seed, his child.
Ethan felt a treacherous softening inside himself. He clenched his jaw lest anyone see how moved he felt.
“Captain John Randall?” Jane said, her voice lifting in amazement. You and he…?”
“Yes,” Rosalind murmured. “For a brief time last year, we were lovers. Does that shock you so much?”
Ethan turned to see Jane kneel beside the stool and place an arm around her mother-in-law. “I’m very surprised, that’s all,” Jane said. “I never once suspected Marianne’s mother could be you. It must have been a terrible secret to bear.” She gently pressed a folded handkerchief into the dowager’s fingers.
Rosalind lifted her tearstained face and dabbed at her eyes. “I thought myself too old to conceive. I was forty-four years of age, after all. Even when I had the signs, I thought … I thought I was experiencing the change of life. And when I did realize the truth, it was too late.” Her voice lowered to an anguished whisper. “John was already dead.”
“How dreadful for you,” Jane said with compassion. “It is never easy to lose someone you love. And to be left alone in such circumstances.”
“I know we were far apart in age, but I did love him. So very, very much.”
She raised her tear-wet gaze to Ethan, and as he took in her torment, his chest constricted and he swung away in a panic. He didn’t want to feel this bond with her. But it was there nonetheless, a shared grief for his friend. Her lover. Marianne’s father.
“I must beg you to understand my reason for the deception,” Lady Rosalind went on, weaving the handkerchief between her fingers. “I could not bear an illegitimate child. I would have been scorned, ostracized. I had renewed my acquaintance with the duke, you see, and I knew—”
Ethan pivoted back around. “You knew he would not wed you.”
Her lips formed a wobbly smile. “On the contrary, I am afraid he would have. And I did not wish my disgrace to taint him. So I went off to Italy for my confinement.”
“Already planning to dupe me into believing the child was mine,” Ethan said. “Which is why my signet ring turned missing months ago.”
“Yes, that is so.”
“And the notecard left with Marianne,” he said, “I suppose you had someone else write it?”
“A passenger onboard the ship back to England.” She drew a tenuous breath. “Think ill of me if you must, Ethan. But things have worked out for the best, have t
hey not? You have Jane and Marianne now.”
He should resist that pleading look from his mother. He should not be swayed by the yearning in Jane’s eyes. Yet in the midst of his confusion and pain, he could not deny the strength of his attachment to Jane and Marianne. It was both tender and fierce, something deep and rich, so personal and private he felt panicked at the thought of voicing it to anyone.
“Certainly I’m not displeased with my wife and daughter,” he hedged. “But you ought to have told us the truth sooner.”
Jane appeared disappointed by his words. She lowered her eyes and looked at Lady Rosalind. “And I believe,” she said firmly, “that when he has time to reflect on it, Ethan will be glad to know that Marianne is the child of his friend. And yours, too.”
“Thank you,” Rosalind whispered. “Please, I must beg one favor from you both. That you will mention none of this to the duke.”
“Of course not,” Jane vowed. “There is no need for anyone else to know.”
She shot a glower at Ethan, her expression typically zealous, and in the midst of his raw emotions, he felt a tug of gentle amusement.
Biting back a smile, he inclined his head in a nod. “Jane and I shall raise Marianne as our own. Far be it from me to betray a lady’s secret.”
* * *
On the front drive, Jane stood with Ethan and said their good-byes to the Duke and Duchess of Kellisham. Ethan held Marianne for Rosalind’s kiss; then he caught his mother in a swift embrace, pressing his lips to her brow. The newlyweds climbed into the open landau. Rosalind touched her gloved fingers to her mouth and blew a kiss before bending her head to her husband. The white feathers on her modish turban fluttered in the evening breeze as the carriage started down the curved drive.
Awash in wistfulness, Jane turned with Ethan and walked back up the marble steps and into the house, where Gianetta stood waiting. Jane’s heart melted as he kissed the baby, then handed her to the dark-haired nursemaid. Gianetta cuddled Marianne to her ample bosom and crooned softly in Italian, heading for the staircase.
Jane and Ethan followed more slowly. The past two eventful days had taken a toll on her, and Jane felt a need to be alone with him, to settle her place in his affections once and for all. Last night, after the startling revelation from his mother, he had held Jane for too brief a moment. Then he had muttered an excuse about both of them needing rest, and he had vanished into his own chambers.
It was plain he didn’t wish to talk about Captain Randall and his mother. Why could he pour out his emotions on paper but not share them with her?
“It was a beautiful wedding, was it not?” she said as they walked up the grand staircase. “I’m so glad your mother is happy at last.”
“She will adore being a duchess. For one thing, it sounds much younger than dowager.”
His cutting quip disturbed Jane. “But that isn’t why she married the duke. They truly love each other. Really, Ethan, you don’t credit your mother with any goodness at all.”
“She does have a way of turning events to her own advantage,” he said lightly. “You cannot deny that.”
“Perhaps so, yet she means well. She brought us together. And she gave us Marianne. Were it not for her, I would still be living in a cottage in Wessex.”
“A sour old spinster.” As they started down the deserted passageway to their chambers, Ethan slid his arm around her waist and nuzzled her hair. “Instead of a lusty young wife.”
In spite of her troubled spirit, Jane felt a thrill of desire, along with a giddy realization. She truly had blossomed into a confident, beautiful woman, the woman she had always dreamed of becoming. She was Ethan’s wife now, and awareness of him coursed through her, his masculine scent, the firm pressure of his muscled arm, the heat of his breath against her temple. But she fought to master the passion inside herself, wanting some answers from him first.
His bedchamber was quiet and empty, the draperies already drawn against the night and a fire burning low on the grate. Now that the guests were gone, the servants would be at their celebration downstairs. Ethan lit a candle at the hearth and carried it to the bedside table. The golden light created an intimate bower, a scene made for seduction. Though her body yearned for his touch, her mind and her heart craved to know his thoughts, his feelings.
When he reached for her, she put her hands against his chest to stop him. She could feel his heart beating against her palm. “Ethan, you knew about your mother’s affair with Captain Randall, didn’t you? Did you quarrel with him?”
He gave her a moody look, then shrugged. “What matter is it now? It’s over with and done.” Bending his head, he brushed his lips over hers.
She controlled a delicious shiver. “Please … I want to understand what happened back then. You were grieving when you wrote that poem, and I think … I think you were angry at yourself. Is that true?”
A muscle worked in his jaw. “Leave it alone, Jane.”
“I can’t. Captain Randall fathered Marianne. I want to know more about him. You knew him best.”
“We drank and gambled and chased women. Two shallow rakes out for a fine time.”
His flippancy hid his true feelings, she was sure of it. She shook her head in frustration. “There is no shame in admitting you cared deeply for his friendship. Nor in being glad that Marianne is a part of him.”
“Quite so. Now, come to bed.”
Ethan pulled Jane to him and brought his lips down on hers. She knew he was placating her, intent on distracting her, but for a moment his expert kiss proved too tempting to resist. She looped her arms around his neck and gave herself up to the physical, to the taste and scent and touch that stirred her, to the feelings that arose from her unguarded depths.
She arched her body, wanting to be one with him. “I love you, Ethan. I love you so.”
He said nothing, only continued his tender assault, moving his warm lips to her throat, his hands reaching for the buttons at the back of her gown. His silence broke through the sensual haze surrounding her. She took a shaky breath, fighting the uncertainty that ached within her.
She willed herself to voice the most important question of all. Taking his face in her palms, she made him look at her. “Ethan … do you love me?”
His gaze was dark, unfathomable. Making an impatient sound in his throat, he glanced away, then returned his eyes to her. His hands moved up and down her sides, brushing her breasts with rousing urgency. “I love what you do to me. I love to make love with you.”
At one time, his answer would have exhilarated her. But not tonight. Heartsore, she pulled out of his arms and stepped back. “I need more than charm and wit from you. Don’t you see, Ethan? I need to know I’m loved in return.”
“Jane,” he said in a gently indulgent tone. “We get along better than most married couples. We enjoy each other’s company. That is all that matters.”
“Not to me,” she whispered. “I want us to share what’s in our hearts. I want you to talk to me as you did that night in the tower, when you told me about your father.”
He stared at her, then swung away and thrust his hand through his hair. “You ask a lot, Jane. You expect me to change who I am.”
“No. I just want you to show me who you are.”
He didn’t answer, and his silence was an answer. He would not allow her to breach the wall around him, not even now, after all the anguish they’d endured over Marianne.
Jane closed her eyes and tried to think beyond her pain. She needed to get away, to be alone, to return to the place that felt safe and familiar. “The country,” she murmured. “Tomorrow I shall take Marianne to Wessex.”
He turned on his heel and gazed sharply at her. “You’re leaving me?”
For a moment she thought panic flashed in his eyes. Was it she that he would miss … or the baby? “I wish to go home for a while. To think about us … and our marriage.”
Then before she could give in to her weakness for him, she turned her back on him and fled into
her chamber.
Chapter 26
Pausing before the whitewashed door, Jane contemplated the stone cottage that had been her home for twenty-six years.
Marianne lay snugly in a sling secured at Jane’s neck and waist, in the manner the local women sometimes carried their babies as they went about their work. But Jane rather doubted those infants had been nestled in a fancy blue shawl from one of London’s finest shops.
She looked down at Marianne and smiled. “Do you remember this doorstep, little angel?”
Her daughter looked around with bright, curious eyes. Then she thrust out a chubby hand to bat at the fringe on the scarf.
Jane laughed. “Silly girl. This is very special place. It’s where you first came into my life.”
Now that she was here, she was glad she’d walked the three miles across the downs. The breeze had invigorated her, blowing away the cobwebs of sadness. In the past fortnight, she had spent all her time at Ethan’s house—her home now. Initially, she had thought to stay at the cottage, but the moment she had stepped into his large foyer with its graceful staircase and spacious rooms, she had felt an urgency to settle there, to fit into her new life as Countess of Chasebourne.
So she had explored every nook and cranny from the attic to the stables, from the ballroom to the kitchen. And in the process, she had gleaned more about Ethan, the books he liked to read, the places where the housekeeper said he liked to sit, even learning how to make his favorite cherry pudding. She had spent a long time contemplating the portrait of his father in the picture gallery, wondering how a man could have tossed his son’s poem into a fire. And reflecting on how that cruelty had shaped Ethan.
But now she felt a lightness inside herself, a sense of homecoming. She was glad Aunt Willy had shooed her out the door, asking her to fetch a favorite sewing thimble the older woman had forgotten on her dressing table. Wilhelmina had been unusually vehement that she required the thimble as soon as possible. And so Jane had set off.
