by Mia Marlowe
Anger burned in his chest. “And ye think I'm not man enough to take care of meself?”
“No, Ian, it's not like that—”
“Then what is it like?” She didn't trust him to fend for his own neck, let alone hers. “By heaven, woman, ye've no faith in me at all.”
And maybe she was right. He ground his teeth together, lifted her off his lap and across the narrow space to the opposite seat. The carriage made a sharp turn and began to slow. Ian caught a glimpse of Hartwell House at the end of the block, every window ablaze with light. Lady Sybil's future husband waited inside that festive manor.
Maybe his Lady Jane's future husband.
“Happy Christmas, love,” Ian said as he swung open the carriage door. “Do what ye think ye must, but I'll be leaving Somerville House after the first of the year.”
“Ian, wait.”
“I'm not a man to be hiding behind a woman's skirts.” In truth, he couldn't bear the thought of tending the stable while Jane slipped deeper into her role as Sybil, spiraling farther and farther out of his reach. “I wish ye well of your choice, Janie.”
Ian Michael vaulted out the open door and trotted alongside the slowing carriage. He hauled himself up beside Edward on the rear rail as the brougham came to a halt before the columned, arched front of Lord Hartwell's imposing edifice.
Edward hopped down and opened the carriage door with a flourish. He extended his hand to help her alight and Jane emerged from the enclosed carriage. From her graceful movement to her elegant costume, her transformation into Lady Sybil was flawless.
Only Ian noticed that her expression was strained and the tip of her nose was redder than the cold should have made it. She was fighting back tears.
Keep fighting, Jane, he thought fiercely. If he saw a tear fall, he'd disgrace them both by swooping her up and carrying her away.
Instead he fell into step with Edward behind her as she walked up to the tall double doors. Liveried porters swung them open at her approach, and light and heat spilled out into the frosty air. Strains of a string quartet pierced the night.
The massive doors thudded closed behind her, swallowing Jane up and shutting Ian out.
Ian cleared his throat before he trusted his voice. “Now what do we do?” he asked Edward. Normally his work ended once the horses left his master's stable.
“Now's when we nip round to the kitchen. There'll be food and drink aplenty on a night like this.” Edward nudged him with a sharp elbow. “Bound to be a comely maid or two hereabouts, if you can catch one what ain't busy serving at table.”
Ian's gaze shot back to the closed doors.
His Jane belonged to the glittering world behind them now. And she was as far above the likes of a stable hand, or even a Man-of-All-Work, as the waxing moon over his head.
Chapter Seven
Ian dogged Edward around the massive residence, past spots where long shafts of light spilled onto sparkling snow. They passed a spreading oak with a heavy branch stretching near one of the tall windows on the upper story. Before he thought better of it, Ian put his foot in a low crotch of the tree and shimmied up the rest of the way to peer through the wavy glass at the revelry inside.
“What are you doing?” Edward said, hugging himself and hopping from one foot to the other against the cold. “If you're caught playing peep-Tom, we'll both be in for it.”
“No one's looking this way. I'll only be a moment. Just remember that tin of tobacco I promised ye.” Ian leaned in to improve his view.
The dancing had begun, stately and elegant. The fine ladies and gentlemen moved through the prescribed steps with grace and refinement. Along one greenery-festooned wall, seated matrons gossiped behind their fans. A few young bucks were gathered around a steaming wassail bowl, sipping from silver cups and eyeing the row of wallflowers in speculation. One of them screwed up his courage and approached a slender miss in a pink gown so pale it seemed only a ghost of the color.
In stark contrast, Janie was a splash of red silk, making a dipping curtsey to a man and woman Ian decided must be the host and hostess of the affair, the Marquess and Marchioness of Hartwell.
“What do you see?”
Ian couldn't very well admit he was watching Jane. “I think I see Lord and Lady Hartwell.”
“Good man, that. So they say.”
“Aye,” Ian agreed as he took the marquess's measure. Robert Braithwaite, Lord Hartwell, was a tall man, powerfully built, his dark hair shot with silver. “He wants to put an end to child labor, ye know.”
Ian had read some of his lordship's impassioned speeches on the subject in the tabloids. A formidable man with a good heart, despite his lack of understanding, he decided.
“Mayhap someone should remind his lordship that poor families will be even poorer for the lack of their children's wages,” Edward pointed out with practicality.
Ian nodded. He couldn't remember a time when he hadn't worked, mucking stables or polishing saddles for one fine lord or another.
“The poor work, and the rich play,” Edward said, blowing on his hands to warm them. “It's the way of the world.”
The marchioness was leaning forward to kiss both of his Janie's cheeks in greeting now. The smiling lady had no idea she was welcoming a scullery maid, someone who would normally be beneath her touch, to her grand fete.
Ian had advanced himself through hard labor. He'd struggled to learn to read in the hope of a better life. The position waiting for him in Wiltshire was as high as he could aspire. Being Man-of-All-Work was heavy responsibility, to be sure, but it came with a decent salary and a private cottage. It was every workingman's dream.
But Janie could dream higher. She could be a lady in truth. She was smiling and nodding to the marchioness now. Jane fit seamlessly into the picture of elegance.
He was right to let her go.
A stiff wind whistled past.
“Come on, man,” Edward urged. “There's Christmas pudding waiting, I shouldn't wonder.”
Bitter cold settled on Ian's heart. He swung himself down from the branch, dropped into the snow, and trudged after the other footman. As they neared the corner of Hartwell House, Edward raised a hand to signal a halt.
“What—”
“Shh!” Edward hissed, and pointed toward one of the porticoes opening onto Lord Hartwell's frozen garden. There in the shadows, Ian could make out the forms of a man and a woman. The woman was pinned against the gray stone, her skirt hiked to her waist while the man pumped vigorously against her. The woman moaned.
Ian started forward, thinking the cad was using her against her will, but Edward stopped him with an arm across his chest. “It's all right. Give 'em a moment. Won't be long now. Not in this weather.”
The man stiffened with a groan and the woman gasped in pleasure. Feigned or real, Ian couldn't tell, but it was obvious the woman was a willing party to this cold tryst.
The man stepped back, and moonlight struck them full on. The woman was wearing a mobcap and apron, but the man was a dandy with a high collar, mutton-sleeved jacket and slim dark trousers.
“He's decked out like a lord,” Ian whispered.
“That's because he is,” Edward whispered back.
The man tucked himself back into his trousers, without so much as a glance at his partner.
The woman leaned toward him. “Oh, I never dreamed it’d be so grand with a titled gent.” She giggled. “Just imagine. Me, taking a tumble with a viscount.”
“Yes, well, don't allow yourself to become accustomed to the idea,” the man said coldly. “It was not so grand an occasion from this end. Rather ordinary, actually.”
He turned on his heel and strode away, leaving the woman gaping after him. Then she loosed a sob, covered her mouth with her hand and broke into a stumbling run toward the scullery door.
“Right-o,” Edward said, as if this sort of thing were hardly surprising. “Now for the kitchen.”
Anger burned in Ian's belly. It was bad enough the rich h
ad all the good food and drink and fine things. Did they have to despoil the help as well? “Who is that gobble-cock?”
“That,” Edward said with a shrug, “is the Lady Sybil's future husband, Lord Eddleton.”
“The devil ye say!”
“Almost, according to the rumors.” Edward crunched through the snow toward the fragrant kitchen door. “But he’s a well-connected devil by all accounts, and that, my young friend, covers a multitude of sins.” Edward sniffed the air. “I think I smell beef. Can't remember the last time I wrapped my choppers around a good brisket. We'll make out like a pair o' brigands tonight.”
Edward slapped Ian on the back companionably and strode forward. When Ian didn't follow, he stopped and looked back. “Coming?”
“Go ye ahead,” Ian said. “I'll be along.”
“More beef for me then.” Edward shrugged and followed his nose toward the source of the delightful smell.
Ian tromped back around the corner and climbed the oak to peer through the window of the ballroom once more. After a few moments, he found Jane. And in another heartbeat or two, so did Viscount Eddleton.
That worthless piece of dung was fawning over his Janie's white-gloved hand.
Perhaps there was more to life than the promise of a full belly. Mayhap Jane would put more stock in a true heart than a title. And a true heart, Ian was confident, he could offer in abundance. All he wanted in this life was his Janie. If Eddleton had been a decent sort, Ian would have let her go, figuring it would be for the best. But Eddleton wasn't, and that settled the matter. Ian decided to press his suit
If she rejected him, well, he'd deal with that if he had to. Though he didn't intend to go down without a fight.
“No thank ye, Edward,” he muttered. “Enjoy your beef. I'd rather make out like a lord than a brigand this night.” He narrowed his gaze at Eddleton's poker-stiff back. “Though I may have to turn brigand to do it.”
“Lady Sybil, I presume,” the blond, cherub-faced gentleman said with a slight bow. When Jane extended a hand, he straightened to his full height, which was about half a head taller than she. He favored her with a dazzling smile and lifted her knuckles to his lips. “Enchante, mademoiselle. Vous etes plus jolie que je me suis attendu.”
Blast! Why hadn't Sybil ever skipped out of her French lessons? Well, whatever the man had said sounded perfectly delightful, so she smiled at him while she tugged her hand free. “Likewise, I'm sure.”
“So I'm prettier than you expected, too! How droll. No one warned me of your wit.” He laughed and clicked his heels together. “From the furrow on your lovely brow, I can tell you don't know who I am. I don't see Lord Somerville anywhere to do the honors, so allow me to introduce myself. Viscount Eddleton, at your service.” Then he relaxed his rigid posture and leaned toward her conspiratorially. “But by the end of the evening, I hope you'll be calling me George.”
Jane's belly roiled. So this was the stranger whose proposal she'd have to accept before the end of the ball. Though the marriage agreement was all but signed, his manner was so forward, so blatantly confident, Jane was irritated on Sybil's behalf. Even an arranged bride deserved a little courtship.
What would Lady Sybil do?
“Perhaps, milord, I'll find another name for you.” Jane arched one brow in perfect imitation of the knowing expression on Lady Sybil's nude portrait. “But it may not be George.”
That knocked the smugness off his face. It would do the man good to have to work a bit for this engagement. He cocked his head at her, clearly reassessing.
“Lovely, but stubborn,” he said. “My informant wasn't all wrong then. I was warned of your temperament.”
Jane flipped open her gilded fan and fluttered it before her. It was a small shield, but it was all she had. “You have me at a disadvantage, sir, if you have been spying on me.”
“Spying on you? What a charming notion!”
Jane didn't have much experience with men, but she recognized a rakish grin when she saw one.
“I'm curious, milady. What sort of activities of yours do you think I'd most enjoy from a clandestine vantage point?”
“I think perhaps a view of me walking away.” She turned and glided from him.
He caught up with her in short order. “Please, I meant no harm. Surely a jest between those whom the fates have thrown together is no cause for offense.”
Jane kept walking as the string ensemble began the stately, somber tones of a quadrille.
“I fear we've started on the wrong foot,” Eddleton said, clearly dismayed. “Allow me to make amends. May I have this dance?”
“If you tend to start on the wrong foot, do you think dancing the wisest course?”
He chuckled, nervously this time. “Touché, mademoiselle. Once again, I am wounded.”
“Rest easy, sir. It doesn't appear mortal.”
“You think not?” He splayed a hand over his chest, careful not to crush his cravat's waterfall. “Cupid's dart carries quite a sting.”
“So you are well acquainted with the boy with the arrows?”
“I would have thought so,” he admitted. “Before I met you. Now I see that my other amours were mere flesh wounds. You, mademoiselle, fairly pierce my heart.”
What a bag of moonshine!' Jane narrowly resisted rolling her eyes. For whatever reason, it was obvious Lord Eddleton wanted the betrothal to go forward. Wanted it quite desperately if he resorted to such overblown declarations within a minute of their meeting.
Well, accepting Lord Eddleton's proposal was why she was here. But if she could start the relationship between Lady Sybil and her betrothed on a more equal footing she would consider that her gift to her half sister. She rested her palm on his offered arm.
“By all means, if indeed the fates have thrown us together, we should dance,” she said, tossing his words back at him. “Let us see if at least our feet can find an accord.”
Jane and Viscount Eddleton formed up with another couple for the quadrille. She caught a fleeting reflection of herself in the dark windows, her scarlet gown wavering in the soft light. She didn't recognize the stranger who stared back at her.
How long could she keep up this charade without losing herself?
Bless Agnes for making me learn to dance, she thought as she answered the viscount's bow with a deep curtsey. Dancing was a welcome respite. Since the quadrille involved another couple, no one spoke. Lord Eddleton was on his best behavior, smiling politely and executing the dance with grace.
Jane moved through the prescribed turns and steps, surprised by how easily she was accepted as Lady Sybil. She'd been both disappointed and relieved when Lord Somerville failed to arrive in time to escort her to Lord Hartwell's ball. Surely he'd have been difficult to fool. Once here, she had expected to have to bluff her way through a dozen conversations with Sybil's friends, but other than the marchioness, no one had greeted her with more than a slight nod.
Could Sybil really have so few friends?
They reached the last turn in the quadrille and Lord Eddleton escorted her from the floor.
“I'm sure your dance card will fill quickly, my dear,” he said, reaching for the gilt booklet that dangled from one of her wrists. “I'll not presume upon your company, but I'll pencil myself in for the last dance. After all, we do have business to conclude this evening.”
Business! Was that what he thought of his coming betrothal? If she were acting as herself instead of Sybil, she'd have put a knee to his groin right there.
Lord Eddleton scribbled his name and then handed the dance card back. His gaze focused on something over her right shoulder. She could have sworn he blanched whiter than a toad's belly.
“Right, then,” he said. “I'll see you soon. Have a lovely evening.”
He rushed his obeisance over her hand and then practically ran from her, glancing back over his shoulder. Jane turned slowly, to see if she could determine the reason for her soon-to-be-betrothed's quick departure, but she could spot no danger. The
re was only a small woman in a canary yellow ball gown. The lady didn't appear at all threatening, but her sharp eyes did seem to be marking Eddleton's progress across the crowded ballroom.
Jane didn't have time to puzzle over why the viscount had fled like a harried fox. Or why the lady in yellow trailed him like a hound on the scent. True to Eddleton's prediction, Jane's dance card filled quickly. Lady Sybil obviously didn't have many female friends, but she was undeniably popular with the men in attendance.
Sybil's cunning embroidered slippers might have been all the crack for fashion, but Jane's feet ached by the time the musicians laid aside their bows for a short break. The quartet of matrons playing whist at a table in the corner gave her directions to the ladies' retiring room and she started toward one of the doors that led away from the ballroom. She hoped with her whole heart that real ladies were sensible enough to take off their pinching slippers for a good foot rub.
She somehow doubted it
But before she made good her escape, she noticed someone lounging by the doorway who made her forget she even possessed feet.
He was leaning against the thick mahogany panels, his manner completely at ease. But his dark eyes watched her with the intensity of a cat before a mouse hole.
His slim dark trousers, gray cutaway jacket, and waistcoat embroidered with silver threads looked like they'd leapt from a fashion plate. Barring the indifferently tied cravat tumbling from his high collar, he was as well turned out as the marquess himself.
He smiled slowly at Jane. As she walked toward him, his crooked grin fisted her heart. She tamped down the flutter in her belly.
“Ian Michael MacGarrett,” she hissed. “What do you think you're doing here?”
Chapter Eight
“For a bright girl, Janie, ye're a bit daft this evening. It's plain as the nose on your face what I'm doing here. I'm looking at ye, of course.” Ian's hot gaze traveled down her form and back to meet her eyes again. “Ye're well worth looking at, lassie, all flushed and rosy. Ye should wear red all the time.”