by Jill Gregory
She’s a thief. A scam artist. You never know when she’s acting, when she’s got a plan spinning beneath that gorgeous exterior. She’s already picked your pocket twice. Because of her you landed in jail, and needed Latherby to get you out. She deserves neither sympathy nor admiration. Treat her like you would a rattler.
“You’d better pull it off,” he told her curtly, and swung away from her with an easy motion. But not before she saw the coldness in his eyes. He stalked to the door that led to his own quarters and left her alone without another word.
Josie couldn’t sleep for quite some time.
The sheets were heavenly soft, the bed more comfortable than any she’d ever known. A light breeze sighed at the windows. And shadows danced upon the high-crowned ceiling of the airy room. But it was well past midnight when she was finally able to tame the restlessness inside her, and drift off. And then she dreamed.
She dreamed that Ethan Savage came into her room. Quietly. He came through the sitting room, from his own adjoining chamber. He wore a burgundy dressing gown, partially open to reveal a broad expanse of dark chest. He approached through the deep, silent darkness and stood over her bed.
In her dream she struggled onto her elbows, watching him, too stunned to scream, too overcome by the dark beauty of him to do anything but stare openmouthed, her heart leaping into her throat. And then she saw the rock-hard glint of his eyes as starlight beamed in the windows, saw the thick, curly black hairs on his chest, the slight mocking lift of his eyebrows, and she knew suddenly that this was no dream. He was here, looming over her bed, advancing upon her with a sudden breathtaking swiftness.
“Don’t scream, damn you,” he said irritably, clamping a hand over her mouth so that she could not possibly scream, could not even whisper. He climbed into bed with her, his hand still over her mouth. The bed sagged beneath the weight of him, and a strange fear and even stranger excitement charged through her.
“It’s not what you think, bride,” he said roughly, and to her amazement, released her. He threw himself down then, his head hitting the big fluffy pillow beside her. He was no longer even looking at her. He was staring at the ceiling, as she had done for so long before she’d managed to find sleep.
“This is a necessary evil,” he muttered softly.
What did that mean? Was he going back on his word? Had he intended to come in and rape her while she slept?
She jumped up as if she’d been stung by a hornet, and flew out of bed. She stood just out of his reach, gaping down at him in fear. “You are plain loco,” she whispered, not knowing whether to run fleeing down the hall, screaming to wake the dead—or to hit him over the head with a candlestick or the rose vase before he could seize her again. “I won’t have this. I won’t! Get out of my room!”
“Not until I’ve done what I came to do.”
“We had a bargain.”
He sat up, turned, punched the pillow he’d just been lying on, and tugged the tucked-in blankets out from beneath the bed. “We still do,” he told Josie as she stood there in her nightgown, barefoot, shivering, her hair spilling like liquid bronze down her back.
“I only came here to mess up your damned bed. So that in the morning, when the maid comes in to clean the room, she’ll think we spent the night as a proper husband and wife should have spent the night.” He grinned wickedly at the girl staring at him in amazement. “Together,” he added in a sardonic tone.
“Oh.” It seemed a stupid, pitiful thing to say. She realized, now that the fog of fear and confusion had lifted, that he was right, of course. It would look quite strange to a servant if in the morning the master and his new bride had both been seen to have slept alone in their separate beds, if those beds were neat and tidy, the covers on the opposite side of the bed undisturbed, no articles of clothing strewn about, no sign of one or the other in any room but their own.
“Well, all right,” she said cautiously, still eyeing him with suspicion, “but why didn’t you think of this earlier?”
“Because I thought of it now. Wait a minute.” He rose from the bed with catlike grace and crossed to the chair where she had neatly draped the lilac wrapper. He tossed it in a heap on the floor.
“And a pillow,” he muttered. Lifting one from the bed, he sent it, too, sailing to the floor.
“That’s enough.” Josie wrapped her arms around herself, feeling quite breathless from the cold. She was about to yank up one of the blankets to cover herself when Ethan Savage turned to her and something about his intent stare kept her rooted to the spot. His gaze was ruthless, all-seeing. There was a considering hunger in it, a hunger that made her all too intensely aware of her own scantily clad body. She gave a tiny gasp, and quick heat raced through her. And with it came a stab of fear.
She felt the sheer silken nightgown clinging to her body almost like a second skin. The cold air caressed her bare arms, shivered across her breasts, rousing her nipples to frozen peaks. Danger hung in the air, a danger she could sense as a mouse senses a hawk about to swoop, a danger that left her throat dry and her knees weak, yet she commanded herself to act, to do something before it was too late.
But even as she moved, grabbing up the blanket to wrap it around her, Ethan moved faster, and tore it from her hands.
“One more thing. The pièce de résistance.” He reached up and fisted the front of her nightgown, his fingers crumpling the smooth satin ribbons into twisted shreds. As Josie gasped in shock, he ripped the gown apart.
She screamed, and the sound rang through the room louder than a gong. And—she was sure—echoed up and down all the corridors of the house.
She and Ethan gaped at each other. Then he gripped her arms and stared into her shock-darkened eyes, overcome with incredulous fury.
“What the hell did you do that for?”
“What the hell did you do that for?” she countered furiously.
His breath was warm on her face, his mouth taut. “I figured a ripped gown would be the most convincing evidence of all. What the hell did you think I was doing?”
“Let me go.”
“So you can scream again? No way, sweetheart.”
“I won’t scream, but... don’t look at me. Don’t look at me, damn you.” The gown was falling down around her bare arms and her breasts spilled impudently out of the torn fabric. Ethan told himself it was only pure male interest that made him want to look, but deep inside he knew it was more than that.
The sight of her, chestnut hair rioting about her shoulders, skin smooth and pale as ice and bared to his view, eyes more vivid than wild violets, burned into him, branded him. She was stunning. Warm and female and furious... and sexy as hell.
Don’t look.
He wanted to do a hell of a lot more than look. He wanted to scoop her close and feel those lovely firm breasts pressed against him, to rip the rest of the nightgown away so he could explore them with his hands, rub the nipples between his fingers, scrape them ever so lightly between the edges of his teeth. He wanted the silk of her hair to glide against his skin, the feel of her lips to make him forget how much it hurt to be back in this house.
He wanted to bury himself in her. To watch those violet eyes darken and go wide, wider, to hear her breath rasp in her throat with a woman’s desire.
But it was clear she wanted none of these things, or if she did, she was a damned good actress. She ripped the blanket from him, flung it around her like a regal cape, and whispered angrily, “Get out.”
“Someone might come to investigate that scream. If they do, I’d better be here.”
“Oh no you don’t. Get—”
“Quiet!”
He seized her, blanket and all, and held her still, listening. There were no footsteps. Only silence. A deep black, echoing silence that boomed in her ears louder than a tree crashing to earth.
“Luck must be with us,” Ethan mused.
She wondered if he had any idea how hard he was holding her, how intoxicating it felt to be pinioned so hard and so cl
ose against his fierce strength.
“If anyone heard you scream, they must think it’s from the throes of passion,” he continued, his breath rustling her hair. He shifted his grip slightly, nestling her more comfortably against him. “Unless Latherby heard,” he went on softly. He sounded almost amused now. “His room is just around the corner. He’s probably concluded that I’ve murdered you.”
“I’m going to murder you if you come into my room like this again,” Josie managed to whisper weakly. Still locked against him, still weak in the knees, she struggled for control of her own body and emotions.
Ethan Savage gave a low laugh.
How intimate and treacherously pleasurable this felt, cuddled in the blanket, held against him so tight, she could scarcely breathe. His chin and jaw were shadowed with dark stubble that only enhanced his rough, vivid handsomeness. His chest felt rock hard and oddly comforting. But it was the unguarded expression in his eyes that pierced the armor of her fear and distrust. He looked, for the moment, almost like a small boy trying to get away with a wild adventure, loving the danger of it, laughing at the possibility of getting caught. And at that moment she saw the boy he must have been once—wild, full of energy, full of mischief, and at the same time, all alone in this great house, except for the servants.
The energy was still there, pumping through him, fierce and exciting, and so was the mischief—and she saw, studying the granite lines of his impossibly handsome face, so was the loneliness. It was etched in those unfathomable eyes, carved in the harsh lines of a mouth that seemed to have forgotten the ease of open laughter. “What are you staring at?” he asked suddenly, scowling down at her, and once again a lock of his hair, which had tumbled across his eyes, tempted her. She clenched her hands around the blanket that concealed her nakedness, refusing the impulse to brush the dark lock back and let it slide through her fingers.
“I was thinking that it’s been a long time and no one’s come to check on me.” Josie felt both hot and cold, shaky and strong. Something had happened just now, when she’d watched Ethan. She was no longer frightened, no longer alarmed by the warm, strong nearness of him.
“I think,” she said softly, as some new emotion trembled uncertainly inside her, “that we’re safe.”
“Safe?” He released her so suddenly, she nearly dropped the blanket, then scrunched it tight again. He deliberately took two steps back. “We won’t be safe until you’ve passed inspection by Grismore and all of London society. There’s a long way to go yet, sweetheart.”
“Don’t worry.” Why did she suddenly want to reassure him, to ease the lines of tension around his eyes? “I can pull this off.”
How coolly he looked at her. A muscle jumped in his jaw. “One lie, a dozen, a hundred, it’s all easy for you, right?” he asked sarcastically.
She shook her head, wishing he didn’t always think the worst of her. “I didn’t say it would be easy.”
He grunted something and strode to the door. “There may be visitors tomorrow.” He paused and glanced at her over his shoulder. “The news will get around fast that we’re here. You’d better get some sleep if you want to be on your toes when the neighbors show up to inspect the new Countess of Stonecliff.”
“I was sleeping,” she reminded him softly. “Before you woke me.”
“Then go back to sleep. I won’t be returning. Your virtue is entirely safe.” He said it dryly, with veiled contempt, and the door closed behind him before Josie could think of anything to reply.
Still clutching the blanket to her, she slipped back into the bed. And lay there between cool sheets, trembling. But not from cold, and not from fear.
From a nameless emotion that tugged at her insides until she felt raw and broken, that stirred her with a yearning so sweet, it was unbearably painful.
No, it can’t be, she whispered to herself, over and over again. It can’t be that I’m beginning to care for him. Not for Ethan Savage.
But her heart whispered back that she was.
“I’m doomed,” Josie said to herself, tossing and turning in the bed. Tears welled in her eyes. “Doomed to misery, having such thoughts, such feelings for a man who hates me. Next thing, I’ll be falling hopelessly in love with him!”
The thought had her bolting upright in alarm.
“No,” she told herself, staring wide-eyed into the cool rose-scented darkness, “No. It won’t come to that. Never.”
But she couldn’t be sure—the way she felt right now, she couldn’t be sure of anything.
Her luck hadn’t changed. It would never change. It just kept getting worse.
Ten
Morning dawned rosily at Stonecliff Park. Sunshine flooded the dining room and glistened on the immaculately polished silver platters, the sideboard, the frames of the paintings. It glowed on the chestnut curls of the new countess as she sat alone at the long table, slowly chewing her bread and butter, and taking absent sips from her china coffee cup.
She felt wretched. The poor night’s sleep had left puffs beneath her eyes, and her brain felt as if it had been buried in gritty desert sand. Simple Josie Cooper Barker felt like an imposter in the elegant teal silk morning gown Devon had laid out for her. Before, she’d owned one gown—one simple gingham gown. Now her closet was filled with scads of gowns—morning gowns, walking gowns, tea gowns, traveling gowns, evening gowns. They were made of lace, of silk, of velvet, of muslin and satin and tulle.
In the chest of drawers were piles of gloves, fans, handkerchiefs, stockings, petticoats. All purchased by Mr. Latherby in New York. All belonging to this phantom countess, this creature married to the Earl of Stonecliff.
And somehow, somehow, she had to convince everyone she was to meet in the coming days and weeks and months that she was that creature, that lady, that elegant, well-bred, and proper bride.
And no longer only for her own sake. Something had changed last night. Perhaps everything had changed. Now she thought not only of herself, of her goals and needs, of the bargain she must keep.
She thought of Ethan Savage. Of the duty he felt toward this house and those who inhabited it, a duty toward his heritage that seemed to resonate deeply even though there was no love lost between him and the father who had left all of this to him.
She didn’t know the reasons, the whys or who’s, she only knew that it was important to him—important enough to bring him back to England despite his misgivings, to compel him to take his place in this house and in London society, though from what she’d observed he would much rather be in a saloon in Abilene up to his elbows in smoke and whiskey and cards.
“This is dreadful, Lady Stonecliff, just dreadful.” Mr. Latherby blew into the library in a feverish rush, his spectacles sliding down his nose in his agitation. “Callers. Already. And we haven’t had a moment to review. And I saw his lordship ride out not a quarter of an hour ago. He’ll be gone for some time and we—you must deal with them all alone!”
He finished just as Perkins appeared in the doorway. “My lady, Mr. Oliver Winthrop has called to pay his respects.”
“Who?” Josie wrinkled her nose. The name sounded familiar. “Who the hell...” she mused, then gasped as Lucas Latherby gave her elbow a vicious pinch. “I mean, how delightful. Send him... show him in.”
Apoplectic rolling of the eyes from Mr. Latherby had her amending quickly, “To the morning room,” remembering at the last moment that this is where the lady of the house customarily received her early visitors.
“Well, I’m sorry,” she told Latherby crossly, the moment the butler had departed. “But he took me by surprise, and as you said, there was no time to review—” She broke off, suddenly recalling where she had heard the name before. Winthrop was the awful relative who would inherit Stonecliff Park if Ethan Savage did not meet the terms of the will. She disliked him already.
“Come on, guess we can’t keep him waiting,” she muttered, and started toward the door, but Latherby let out a smothered oath.
“No, no, no
! Josephine—Lady Stonecliff—how many times must I tell you it’s unladylike to careen across a room like... like some kind of racehorse headed to the finish line.”
Josie stopped short, cursing her own carelessness. He was right. Slow down, Jo. Think before you speak, move with grace, keep your fingers from fidgeting, don’t shuffle your feet, don’t laugh too loud, don’t plop into a chair, don’t stare at people, cover your mouth when you yawn.
Reciting this litany mentally, she forced herself to walk with careful dignity through the hall. Only then did she remember that she didn’t know which of the numerous doors led to the morning room. Panic surged through her, faltering her steps, but even as she half turned to confess her ignorance to Mr. Latherby, she saw Perkins, waiting patiently to open the door for her.
“Thank you, Perkins,” she murmured.
“You’re welcome, my lady.”
So far, so good. Her heart pounding, she passed into the morning room, and there, in a wide sunlit parlor fronting the gardens, she found a rotund little man with a high forehead, smooth baby-pink cheeks, and little milky blue eyes that for some reason made Josie think of a pig.
He had been pacing back and forth before the mantel. But he froze when she entered the room, and she saw his hands tighten on his ebony-handled walking stick. He wore jaunty striped trousers and a black-braided sack coat. His dark brown hair was parted down the middle and flattened on top. It shone with a thick layer of Macassar oil.
“Good morning,” Josie said politely, not at all liking the way his little pig’s eyes bulged out as they fastened on her. “You are my husband’s cousin, I believe. I am...” She paused, suddenly realizing she didn’t know quite how to introduce herself. I am Lady Josephine? Countess Josephine? Call me Josie? Lady Savage? All Latherby had told her about rank and nobility and titles flew out of her head, and she repeated blankly, “I am. . .” then gulped and said, “very happy to make your acquaintance.”