by Mia Marlowe
“A proposal of marriage is a special occasion, she said.” Bottlesby popped his knuckles nervously. “Lady Sybil told Agnes she wished to make the most of it.”
“Which she has obviously done.” Roskin leaned out the open window and peered down again. A gnarly oak with sturdy limbs near the casements had provided an admirable ladder. Fresh footprints marred the snow at the base of the tree's trunk, then dotted the white lawn in a beeline to the busy St. James Street. Lady Sybil could have hailed a hansom and might be anywhere by now.
Boil the wallaby stew! That passage to Australia was looking more certain by the minute.
“She left the betrothal portrait,” Bottlesby said, waving a hand toward the shrouded canvas on an easel in the corner. “We may be getting ahead of ourselves here. Perhaps this is just a bit of high spirits, what? Lady Sybil must mean to return in time for the ball. Perhaps Jane won't actually be needed.”
Roskin eyed the covered canvas. No one had seen the portrait on which Giovanni Brunello had labored in secret for the past six months.
“Art,” the Italian master had declared with much r-rolling, “must bloom in seclusion before it is thrust into the cold light of the oh-so-critical world's eyes.”
Six months. Personally, Mr. Roskin was impressed that the smooth-talking foreigner had managed to make Lady Sybil sit still that long.
He strode to the canvas and pulled off the sheeting.
Bottlesby and the two maids gasped.
The rendering was a perfect likeness of Lord Somerville's daughter, and if Roskin weren't so upset he'd have to admit it was also a dead ringer for the scullery maid. Chestnut hair framed her oval face in soft curls. Brunello had captured Sybil's laughing hazel eyes, and a sly grin tugged at her too-thin-for-fashion lips. There was no hint of artistic flattery in the representation of her features. Which meant Lady Sybil must also possess carnation-sized breasts with pert pink nipples, a slightly rounded belly and a tuft of curling dark hair at the juncture of her long legs.
“Oh, dear. Oh, dear,” Bottlesby chanted.
That was not the first sentiment that sprang to Roskin's mind, but he bit his lip to keep the expletive from spewing out.
At least Australia's supposed to be warm this time of year.
There was a cream-colored envelope on the ledge of the easel.
Roskin ripped it open and read the missive silently. Bottlesby continued to murmur, “Oh, dear. Oh, dear.”
Roskin’s neck heated. By now it must be the same shade of scarlet as the sealing wax the blasted girl had used on the letter.
“It's official. She's run off with Brunello,” Roskin said.
Bottlesby turned to go. “I'll form a search party.”
Roskin caught him by the arm. “You'll do no such thing. We have no idea where to look, and we must proceed with discretion. If we raise a hue and cry, it will make no difference, even if we should find her in time. The damage will already be done in the minds of the ton.”
“Oh, yes, quite. I take your meaning, sir.”
Bottlesby bobbed his head like a sparrow, but truly, he had no idea. Scandal might be weathered if one were well connected, which Lord Somerville was. Or well moneyed, which he was not. But worse than scandal, the impending betrothal would certainly be called off. If that happened, Lord Somerville faced financial ruin.
And Humphrey Roskin would face ruin of his own.
It should have been so easy. When Lord Somerville had introduced him to Lady Sybil, Roskin had been quick to name her a marketable asset.
He revised his assessment in short order.
Lady Sybil might be fine to look upon, but her acerbic tongue and mettlesome temper quickly overbalanced her attributes. She belonged on the London stage, not before a gentleman's hearth.
Yet Roskin had managed to wangle a match for her with Viscount Eddleton. A wealthy young gentleman with excellent prospects, since his uncle, the Duke of Pemworthy, was languishing in the last stages of consumption and had no son to inherit his title. Eddleton might be called "His Grace" before the next Season was out.
Arranging the match would smooth over Lord Somerville's suspicions and secure his enduring goodwill.
And his daughter's enduring wrath. Sybil despised having her fiancé chosen for her.
“We haven't much time.” Roskin dragged a hand over his face, causing his jowls to droop more than usual. Lord Somerville was driving in from his country house to escort his daughter to the annual Christmas Ball hosted by the Marquess and Marchioness Hartwell. There'd be hell to pay when he discovered Roskin hadn't been able to keep Sybil from folly. “If the lady doesn't appear at Lord Hartwell's ball, she may as well not ever show her face in London society again.”
“Then Lady Sybil must attend,” the scullery maid declared. “I assume you wish me to go in her place.”
“Splendid,” Mr. Bottlesby said, a tight-lipped smile slicing his face like a spade mark across a potato. “Now it's only for tonight, you understand.”
Roskin's head jerked at that. “Maybe not. Who knows when we'll find the real Lady Sybil? This pretty deception may stretch into weeks.”
Or months. Or years. If Sybil really wanted to run off with her artistic lover to Italy or some other outlandish place, they might never find her.
And good riddance!
“You'll have to accept Lord Eddleton's suit,” Roskin said. “He's planning to propose to Lady Sybil tonight.”
The girl went pale as chalk. “I thought I'd only have to dance a few sets and make small talk. Then maybe plead a headache and leave early. I couldn't possibly fool Lady Sybil's fiancé.”
“I don't see why not. They've never even spoken. This is an arranged match,” Roskin explained. His arranged match, and no one, least of all a scullery maid, was going to muck things up. “The paperwork's been drawn up. The proposal is merely for form's sake.”
“Still, a woman wants to accept her own proposal of marriage,” Jane said. “I don't think—”
“We don't need you to think. Good God! It's a woman's featherheaded thinking that's got us into this mess!” Roskin said, mentally cursing the absent Sybil. “You only need do as you're told.”
Jane stood straighter and looked him squarely in the eye.
Blast and damn! She did favor Lady Sybil out of all knowing. The resemblance was uncanny.
“No.” Her voice was quiet but firm.
“No?” Roskin's brows shot skyward.
“No,” she repeated, louder this time.
“If you don't do as I say, then I will make it my business to see that a certain head groom celebrates Christmas by losing his position.” Jane Tate's face crumpled. The barb hit home, but Roskin might as well drive the nail in deeper. He glanced at the upstairs maid for confirmation. “MacGarrett's the name you mentioned, wasn't it? Ian Michael MacGarrett?”
Agnes nodded miserably.
“In his lordship's absence, I have the authority to release him from service without delay,” Roskin threatened. “And without character.”
A working man with no reference was branded a thief or a layabout in the minds of possible employers. MacGarrett wouldn't find a position anywhere in the city. Not a reputable position anyway. A man might turn to anything if his stomach knocked against his backbone long enough.
“Well, girl, what's it to be?” Roskin demanded.
Jane's eyes blazed at him. “I'll do it. What choice do I have?”
“None at all,” Roskin admitted. “See to it, then. You, girl.” He pointed to Agnes. “Step lively and do what you can to turn this sow's ear into a silk purse.”
He strode toward the door with Bottlesby dogging his steps like a Lancashire heeler after a ram. When he stopped suddenly, the butler hastily stepped back to keep from running into him.
“The only ones who know of this are we four in this room,” Roskin said. “If the particulars of this little deception come to light, I shall know whom to blame. And whom to punish.”
The door banged shu
t behind them.
“I think this will do, don't you?” Bottlesby said.
“Possibly. Flashes of genius strike the most unexpected of noggins. At least, we'll know tonight whether your scheme will work,” Roskin growled. He really didn't want to have to develop a taste for boiled kangaroo.
Chapter Three
“As soon as Mr. Bottlesby and that odious Mr. Roskin left Lady Sybil's chamber, Jane rounded on Agnes.
Trust me, Janie. I'm your friend, Janie. The day I peach on you is the day the sun won't rise.” Jane singsonged an imitation of Agnes, her voice rising in pitch and quivering with fury. “How could you?”
Agnes dabbed her eyes with the corner of her apron. “How could I not? They blamed me for her ladyship running off. As if I could stop her from doing anything she jolly well pleased! But they were going to give me the sack anyway and at Christmastime, to boot! A manger might be well and good for the Lord Jesus, but I don't relish bedding down in one myself. Your secret was the only thing I could think of to save my skin.”
Agnes sobbed in misery. Jane's anger sputtered out when her friend's slim shoulders began to shake. She put her arms around Agnes to comfort her.
“There, now. Don't take on so. I'm not going to sack you.”
The waterworks dried up instantly.
Jane chuckled. “Agnes, you put the players on the Drury Lane to shame.”
The lady's maid grinned impishly and shrugged. “A girl has to use what the Good Lord gave her, don't she? You forgive me, Janie?”
Jane rolled her eyes. She might be exasperated by Agnes from time to time, but she could never stay mad at her for longer than a gnat's breath.
“Now, we need to figure out what to do next,” Agnes began.
"No, I need to figure out what to do next, and I've had more than enough help from you today.” Jane paced the sumptuous room. “What would Lady Sybil do?”
“That's easy.” Agnes struck the same quasi-classical stance as Lady Sybil in her scandalous portrait. “Pose in the altogether like a light-heeled trollop for some foreign devil and then run off with him at a time most inconvenient for the rest of us.”
“That's not very helpful.” Jane slanted a sidelong look at Agnes.
“It certainly weren't,” Agnes agreed, misunderstanding her completely. “Folk of quality have no consideration at all for them what work for a living, do they?”
Jane sighed. “No, they don't. Well, this Lady Sybil may as well follow suit. I'm going to have a bath,” she decided.
“But I've already drawn a bath for her ladyship today,” Agnes complained.
“Lady Sybil is feeling eccentric and wants another one,” Jane said.
“Well, I suppose you will need one before the ball,” Agnes admitted with a frown. A bath was the most back-breaking chore for an upstairs maid. “Come, then. You can help me haul out the cold water.”
Jane laughed. “You seem to forget that you promoted me to Lady Sybil. I can't be seen doing anything that she wouldn't do at the ball tonight, so I may as well start right now.” She flopped onto the bed and lay back on the cool, rumpled sheets. “It's terribly chilly in here, Agnes. Close the window and lay a small fire, there's a good girl. Wouldn't want to catch my death taking a bath in a cold room.”
Agnes stared at her as if she'd suddenly sprouted another head. Then, grumbling under her breath, she did as Jane bid. After she dipped out the first bucket of icy water, she bobbed a mock curtsey to Jane.
“Will there be anything else, milady?” she sneered.
“As a matter of fact, there will.” Jane propped herself up on her elbows and grinned wickedly at her friend. “Cook sent me after the eggs, but no one's seen hide nor hair of me since I came back into the house with you. While Lady Sybil's having her second bath, be a love and fetch the eggs in my place, won't you? Cook is making meringue for dessert today. I'd hate to miss it.”
Agnes glared at her.
“You know, you might be able to reheat the bathwater with the steam leaking from your ears,” Jane said with a suppressed giggle.
“Now you've gone and made me miss the real Lady Sybil,” Agnes said as she turned to go.
“Agnes, wait,” Jane called after her. “This is serious. You have to treat me exactly as you would the real one. Even when it's just the two of us. This house has its own eyes and ears. You've told me that often enough. If we can't make the house staff believe I'm her ladyship, this will never work and Mr. Roskin will see you get your chance at that manger bed yet.”
And Ian Michael will be dismissed without character.
Agnes studied the paisley carpet for a moment. “You're right.”
“Thank you.”
Agnes shook her head with a smirk. “Keep saying things like that and no one will take you for her ladyship.”
Jane looked down her nose at her friend and waggled her fingers in a dismissive gesture. “Off you go then, girl.”
“Better. Still a little too friendly-like, but you'll do. We'll work on it when I get back. Strip out of those clothes and put on one of milady's shifts. I should be able to get some help hauling the water, please God. If Lady Sybil's seen lounging abed still, no one will think a thing of it.”
“Really?”
“Some days, she don't rise till three or four of an afternoon.”
Jane's day began before the sun showed its face in the tiny window of her attic cell. She settled back into the fine linens. “I think I'm going to enjoy being Sybil.”
“Just don't get too used to it. Bad pennies always turn back up. And as pennies go, the real Lady Sybil's the baddest.”
After Agnes left, Jane stared up into the festooned silk draperies hovering over the bed. In her garret room, there were bare rafters above her little straw-tick. Jane wondered how many times she could roll over in this luxurious bower before she tumbled out.
Five was the lucky number.
Jane undressed, stashing her threadbare clothing in the bottom of the wardrobe, neatly folded under Lady Sybil's riding boots. Then she found the drawer that held her half sister's unmentionables.
Half sister. Funny how she'd never thought of Lady Sybil in such familiar terms before.
Must come from rifling through someone's undies, Jane reasoned as she ran a finger along the lace trim at the neck of the fine lawn garment. And planning to wear them.
Even after Jane donned the shift, the drawer was still full. Sybil had left with nothing but the clothes on her back.
Surrounded by excess, servants at her beck and call, a doting father, a grand match in the offing—what on earth had possessed Lady Sybil? Why would anyone in her right mind run from such a life?
And where is Lady Sybil now?
Sybil arched her back and grasped the rungs of the iron headboard to steady herself. A large lump moved under the thin quilt and settled between her legs. With very little prodding, she raised her knees and spread them wide.
“Che bella bambina,” came a muffled voice, desire-roughened and throaty. “Mi piace il tuo culo?”
“English, Giovanni,” Sybil reminded him with a sigh. “Otherwise you may as well talk to the washstand. What did you just say?”
Her lover's linguistic abilities were sadly lacking sometimes.
But his tongue more than makes up for it, Sybil decided. She gasped as shivers of pleasure licked her thighs.
He worked his way up her body, bypassing the part of her that most longed for his touch—the wretch! Giovanni dipped his tongue into her navel for a quick tease and then poked his head from under the covers between her breasts. He nipped each one gently and then turned his blinding smile on her.
“Mi piace il tuo culo, little one.” Giovanni took a pink nipple between his teeth and bit down hard enough to make her squirm. “How you say... ‘I like your bum?’”
Sybil smiled and reached under the covers to palm his firm buttocks. Perhaps she should try to learn his tongue. If they were going to live in Italy, she'd need to speak the language. �
�Mi piace il..."
“Il tuo culo?” he prompted.
“Mi piace il tuo culo, too!” she said with triumph.
“Bene, very good. You are learning.”
“But I can't imagine that phrase will be particularly useful in polite conversation. Not in Milan, at least.”
“It had better not.” His brows lowered slightly.
“Maybe Venice,” she teased.
His dark scowl would have terrified a lesser woman along with most men. Sybil merely laughed.
“Only with you, Giovanni,” she said, as she pushed a lock of hair behind his ear. “Yours is the only culo I piace.”
His satisfied laugh resonated through her body as well. “Eccellente, il mio cuore.” He pressed his lips to her breastbone in a soft kiss. “My heart.”
He raised himself on his elbows and looked down at her, his artist's eyes taking in every line and plane, highlight and shadow of her body. She was used to his scrutiny and she welcomed it. After sitting for the painting, she'd grown to love his hot gaze on her skin. Giovanni made her feel tinglingly alive. None of her pale English suitors had managed that, despite all their fine words and fair manners.
Giovanni was probably ten years or more her senior. His raven hair was shot with a few silver threads, his dark eyes touched at the edges with a fine line or two. Determined trenches ran from the corners of his mouth to his hawkish nose. His cheeks and chin were darkened by the shadow of a beard. Sybil ran her fingertips along the prickly jawline, remembering how delightfully wicked it had felt rubbing along the skin of her inner thighs.
Giovanni had a fascinating face. A mercurial face. A passionate face.
And one Sybil had decided she couldn't live without.
Now there was a hint of puzzlement playing on his features. He cocked his head at her.
“What is it?” she asked.
“I told you I am a man of no property, but—”
“Yes, that may be, but you are a man of amazing talent,” she said, rocking her pelvis into him. Why did he insist on dwelling on the difference in their stations? It made no difference to her that she was a lady and he a commoner. The man was as well-hung as her father's Thoroughbred stallion and he was rock hard yet again. “You're even a fair-to-middling painter.”