by The Rogue
Ethan folded his arms defensively. “Well, I . . . I put a great deal of effort into being charming . . .”
Jane tilted her head. “And less into resisting the impulse to cheat?”
“What? No, I mean—Damn it, you are twisting my words about!”
Jane nodded. “I am. I don’t know why. You seem to bring out the devil in me.”
Ethan laughed out loud, a swift bark of surprise. “You and the devil have not the slightest acquaintance, I’m sure.”
“Why not? Did you not earlier accuse me of lying?”
“That wasn’t lying. That was a mere sin of omission.” He grinned at her and she couldn’t help but smile back.
Then Lady Jane folded her arms and narrowed her eyes. “Why didn’t you talk to me during dinner? It was very rude of you to ignore me.”
Ethan couldn’t answer that one, since he hadn’t ignored her at all. He’d been exquisitely aware of her every movement, her every breath—especially the way said breaths caused her bodice to tighten over her succulent breasts.
He abruptly wished he could smack himself on the head. How could he be so entranced by the mere act of inhaling and exhaling? It was only breathing, for pity’s sake! Yet somehow when she did it, he was captivated.
Jane took a deep breath, then halted when Mr. Damont let out a heartfelt moan. “What is it? Are you ill?”
“Yes,” he said faintly. “I am evidently a very sick man.”
She leaned closer and peered into his face. His eyes widened in something that might almost be called fear, then shut tightly.
“Only breathing, only breathing . . .” he seemed to be muttering over and over. He backed away, still blind. Jane grabbed his arm before he could collide with a marble-topped hall table that contained a fine Chinese vase she was fairly sure was older than England itself. She gave Mr. Damont a sturdy yank to pull him back from danger.
He stumbled, coming up against her, chest to breast. Jane froze in surprise at first, then forced herself to stand still. For some reason, she found herself quite desperate to get Mr. Damont to truly look at her, the way he had outside. Perhaps being entirely without propriety would get his attention.
He was holding himself quite immobile as well. Then slowly, with an air of quiet purpose, he inhaled deeply. The act brought his hard chest more firmly against her. With a mixture of shame and exhilaration, Jane felt her nipples harden within her bodice. Could he feel it?
His gaze, which had shot off to one side when they impacted, slid slowly back down to where their bodies met. Dizzy with her own lack of breath, Jane inhaled as well.
Ethan’s mind went entirely blank when he saw her creamy breasts swell against his chest. Then the blood rushed from his brain completely, apparently needed by other portions of his anatomy as he felt the jewel points of her nipples boring through his waistcoat. One would have thought the layers of fine silk and linen would have fended her arousal off, but no. The fact was undeniable.
Lady Jane Pennington possessed a burning desire for him, Ethan Damont.
Bloody hell. With a graceless nod and an unintelligible mumble, Ethan ran for the card room where the other gentlemen waited.
There was safety in numbers, after all. Ethan was feeling the need for a bit of safety from the audacious Lady Jane Pennington.
He’d wriggle his way out of this “mission” later.
Jane knew her uncle would be occupied with his card game after supper. All the men had left and the women—mostly Lady Maywell and the Mob, since inviting women to supper would only defeat the purpose—had retired to the drawing room and were listening to each other play and sing, or perhaps playing a few hands of cards themselves.
Jane begged off, claiming the headache—which wasn’t far from the truth. Something was pounding indeed.
Mr. Damont had run from her as if she’d suddenly sprouted horns, leaving her standing oddly bereft and slightly chilled in the hall.
What a strange, tense moment that had been. She’d never been so close to a man, standing chest to breast that way . . .
She pressed a hand to her flushed face. She should be very much shamed by her own behavior. She wasn’t. Stimulated, perhaps, and a good bit disturbed, but there didn’t seem be a bit of shame in the mix. It seemed she had little of that organ left.
Her obvious flush helped her case, fortunately. Her harried aunt only nodded assent, looking slightly envious as she did so. Jane tried to cover her story as well as possible when she went to her room, even by sending the maid for a cool cloth and then telling her she didn’t want to be disturbed.
She mussed the bed artistically and even donned her own night rail and wrapper, so that if she was caught she could say she was looking for something to read herself to sleep.
Then, when she was sure that the entire household was occupied elsewhere, Jane made her way to the seldom-used wing of the house. The room where she’d seen the glimmer of candlelight was here.
One by one, she entered each south-facing room and counted the windows. This wing was not kept well heated and Jane was glad for her thick brocade wrapper. The first room was an unused chamber that looked as though it had been meant for a music room. The second was smaller and more charming, reminding Jane of her mother’s morning room where her mother had done the menus and her correspondence. Each of these had two tall windows to the south, so the next room must be the one, just as she’d thought.
The door to the next room was locked. Jane pondered the lock for a long moment. She’d heard of picking a lock with a hairpin, but that was a skill she’d never acquired.
Lady Maywell kept a key ring, as did the housekeeper and the butler. Jane dared not venture belowstairs for fear of being caught far out of her place, but Lady Maywell’s bedchamber was not far from her own. Padding as swiftly and silently through the halls as she could, Jane paused outside her aunt’s door. If her aunt’s maid was present, Jane would have to come up with some pretense for entering, a pretense that might come unraveled later.
Still, faint heart never won piddle-squat. Taking a deep breath, Jane pressed open her aunt’s door.
There was no one within. If she hurried, she ought to be able to use the key and get the key ring back to her aunt before anyone saw it was missing.
Jane turned and left the room, forcing herself to walk sedately, and perhaps even a bit weakly, until she reached a hall where she knew no one would be about. Then she ran, her slippers making a sound like bird wings on the runner.
Jane hurriedly tried the first five keys at random, until her nervous fingers dropped the ring to the carpet and caused her to lose all track of what she had tried.
“Oh, horse apples!” she hissed to herself. Then she forced herself to slow her frenzy. Methodically using one key, then the next, then the next, she worked her way around the key ring until only two remained.
The second-to-last key slid easily into the keyhole and she heard the tumblers within give a well-oiled turn. The door was open.
Quickly she picked up her candle and slipped within.
Lord Maywell’s house was very fine, although Ethan had detected a bit of crumbling about the edges, but one could tell that it was in his lordship’s card room where truly no expense was spared. The fine plush chairs, the deep emerald felt on the card table—even the chandelier was one especially commissioned to shine downward onto the cards without creating a glare for the players. Ethan knew this because he’d fancied installing one just like it someday.
It was clear that his lordship took his card playing most seriously.
Ethan seated himself at the remaining empty chair with a nod of apology to Lord Maywell. “I beg your pardon, my lord.”
Maywell stared at him for a moment, obviously waiting for an explanation, but Ethan had none to give. He could hardly tell the man he’d been rubbing body parts with Lady Jane, could he?
The cards were dealt and Ethan began to get down to the business of playing. He’d no backup cards on him tonight, for he’
d sworn he wasn’t coming here. He was reduced to using the basics—observation, distraction, bluff—to create just the right environment for Lord Maywell to begin to win.
Surely if his lordship beat Ethan Damont at cards, he’d lose interest in extending any more such invitations. Without such invitations, the Liar’s Club couldn’t very well expect Ethan to continue with this madness?
Except Maywell wasn’t winning.
Ethan watched the cards and the other players carefully. The fellows at the table were all cut from the same cloth. They played with careless panache, the way gentlemen were supposed to play. One didn’t quibble over the loss of a few or twenty pounds at the tables. To even consider such a trivial loss would imply that one wasn’t entirely flush—a deadly fate in Society.
No, it couldn’t be that one of them was interfering with his control of the game. That only left himself—and while his heart wasn’t truly into it, he was still capable of manipulating such an easy table—and Lord Maywell. Finally, Ethan gave in and allowed his lordship to lose. As the pot was gathered, the vowels totaled, and the cards shuffled, Ethan sat back and contemplated Lord Maywell through the wafting tobacco smoke.
Maywell was contemplating him right back.
Well, this wasn’t going quite as planned. Ethan would have to come up with another way to never be invited back. “Your niece seems a fine young lady,” he said conversationally.
Maywell nodded. “We’ve grown very fond of Jane,” he said tonelessly.
Ethan raised a brow. “Grown? Were you not fond of her before?”
The other blokes froze at that impertinence, sliding their wary gaze between Ethan and Maywell, who both sat cool and relaxed, leaning back in their chairs in an open manner.
Maywell only grunted. “Never knew her before this Season. She’s my wife’s sister’s daughter. They’d not talked for years. Then one day here comes Jane with a carriage full of trunks, to stay with us for the summer.”
Ethan could tell the others were fascinated with any tidbit about Jane. That bothered him a bit. He ignored it. “That must be very nice for you all,” he said, in a voice implying he could not care less. “She’s not much to look at though, is she?”
The others began to protest avidly. Lady Jane was the loveliest, brightest, most delightful—blah, blah, blah. None of them had actually spoken to the acerbic, opinionated Jane, that was obvious. For a moment, Ethan almost felt sorry for the girl. He knew what it was like to walk around with a sticky label on one’s forehead, telling the world in precisely which slot they were to fit one. Of course, Lady Jane’s slot was velvet-lined and diamond-studded, so Ethan didn’t bother feeling sorry for long.
Maywell didn’t change expression. “We’ve had no complaints,” he said calmly.
Ethan shrugged carelessly. “It matters not a jot to me, of course.”
One of the others laughed disbelievingly at that. “Well, of course it wouldn’t, Damont! I mean, really!”
Ethan slid an even glance the speaker’s way. “Right. Thank you so much for reminding me.”
“No thanks needed, old man,” the speaker said earnestly.
Ethan was barely able to refrain from rolling his eyes. Maywell only looked amused. “What good company we have tonight,” he said in a lazily jolly tone.
The other blokes—Ethan was just going to think of them as the Suitors from now on—the Suitors all looked very pleased with themselves. Ethan hoped Jane did pick one of these idiots. He’d like to watch her trample such a husband all the rest of their days.
Except that she really was too good for this lot. Even with her odd ways and cruel reputation, Lady Jane Pennington was of a higher order altogether. These half-wits hadn’t a chance in hell of winning such a prize.
Maywell didn’t think so either, Ethan could tell. Why did his lordship surround himself with such trivial young men? Didn’t the fellow have anyone his own size to pick on?
Ah, yes. Enter himself.
The discussion turned political. Only Lord Maywell himself kept silent on the subject, surprisingly.
All Ethan had to do was to endure the rest of this evening, then he could go back to the Liars and tell them they were wrong about Lord Harold Maywell.
But what if they aren’t?
Well, that wasn’t his headache, was it? If the Liars wanted to believe the word of a halfhearted gambler they’d indentured into their little ring, then that was their complaint, wasn’t it? After all, they were idiots to be trusting someone like him—he was a cheat, for God’s sake!
Can you really let Maywell go free without knowing for sure?
“Just watch me,” Ethan muttered under his breath.
“What was that, Damont?” Maywell blew out a smoke ring.
Ethan patted his pockets idly and took out one of his own special cheroots. One of the Suitors had evidently heard of this particular habit of Ethan’s, for he protested immediately. “Not that, Damont, I beg of you!”
Ethan blinked innocently. “I say, do you blokes object if I smoke this in here?”
The Suitors objected. Strenuously. Ethan didn’t blame them, for his cheroots were the foulest creations under the sun. It was a tobacco blend of his own invention, one he kept for just such occasions.
He had yet to meet another player who could bear the smell of it, and pulling one from his jacket pocket never failed to elicit a unanimous call for a break and a polite request that Ethan take himself and his cheroot elsewhere. Ethan usually only used it when he thought he might be losing. It gave him a chance to replace any necessary toys of the trade, not to mention the chance to sneak a peek at his fellow players’ cards when leaving and reentering the room.
Ethan bowed to the other players. “My lord, sirs—if you gentlemen will excuse me for a moment?”
Maywell narrowed his eyes, but nodded shortly. The man obviously disliked any interruption of his gaming.
“Don’t get lost this time, Damont,” Lord Maywell growled around his cheroot. “I’ll be wanting to win a bit of that back.”
Ethan was only winning because Maywell was arranging it, but still Ethan delivered a fairly respectful nod. He couldn’t toady very well, but that only seemed to make Maywell regard him all the more highly.
Once outside on the terrace, Ethan drew out his cheroot again and lit it, drawing only lightly on the bitter smoke. He needed to make this last, by God. He needed time to think.
As he pondered his lordship’s behavior, Ethan narrowed his eyes against his own smoke. God, these things were foul.
Perhaps it was not so surprising . . . if his lordship was conducting some sort of test.
“Charm him,” the Liars had said. “Get him to let you in.”
It was a gamble, trying to make a guess as to what Lord Maywell wanted to hear. Choose rightly, and he’d find himself drawn into his worst nightmare—responsibility. Chose wrongly, and he wouldn’t be invited back.
Ethan grinned. Perhaps it was not such a gamble after all.
As he turned to put his cheroot out with a sense of olfactory relief, Ethan happened to glance idly up at the opposite wing of the house, the one that Maywell had mentioned was rarely used.
A candle flickered in one window.
Chapter Eight
Jane was frustrated. There was nothing of interest in the tiny room. It was obviously meant for linen storage, but the shelves were nearly bare and the built-in drawers were empty.
There was a tiny hearth with a kettle hook jutting out from one side, so that one could swing a kettle over the coals to heat. Perhaps it was a sort of staging area for tea trays and such?
All was empty now. So what had someone been doing in here, skulking during the ball?
From the unswept floor, something tiny gleamed in the candlelight. Jane knelt to pick it up, rolling it in her fingers close to the light of her candle.
It was nothing but a shimmering clear glass bead, the tiny sort that was sewn onto ladies’ gowns. Well, this house was full of ladies, so t
hat wasn’t much of a clue. This could have landed in here months ago.
Abruptly Jane realized she’d been in here long enough. She covered the candle with her hand as she moved past the bare uncovered window on her way to the door. Her eye was caught by a figure standing out in the lawn, dimly visible by the light of the house behind him.
It was him, Ethan Damont, renowned gambler and rogue, midnight rescuer, and generally delectable individual—and he was gazing directly up at her with his arms folded disapprovingly.
Jane stepped into the library and carefully closed the door behind her. Mr. Damont stood staring at the cold hearth with his back to her, a looming shadow against the candelabra he’d lit. With her back to the door and her hand still on the knob, she waited.
“Lady Jane Pennington—one can find her in the oddest places,” Mr. Damont said without turning.
Jane took a breath. “Yes, well, I do live in this house.”
He turned and grinned at her with his hands stuffed in his pockets. “So what is it you were doing in the empty wing—” He took in her attire and raised an eyebrow. “In your wrapper, yet?”
“You look worried, Mr. Damont,” Jane said. “Is that a problem?”
“Damn it, it is if anyone finds us together and you know it!”
Jane nearly laughed at his discomfort. “Are you a prude, Mr. Damont?”
With a flash of annoyance in his eyes, he folded his arms. “More so than you, apparently. Although I ought not to be surprised, I suppose.”
She stiffened. “Oh, really? Why is that?”
“Why? Your penchant for high places, I suppose. Not to mention states of undress.”
She blushed and looked away. “You may remember the occasion, Mr. Damont, but it is indelicate of you to remind me of it.”
“Indelicate?” Ethan thought a moment. “Yes, I do think that is one of my attributes.”
