Too Wicked to Love

by Olivia Drake

  “Hush,” Jane snapped, as if she feared just that. “My cook found one prospect. But she was unsuitable, and I refuse to foster Marianne, anyway.”

  “Good God,” he exploded. “Will you let her starve, then? She doesn’t belong to you.”

  He immediately regretted his harshness. Jane’s lower lip trembled, and for a moment she looked as vulnerable as the baby. Out of the blue, he wondered if she had ever wanted to marry and bear children of her own. Strange to think of tart-tongued Jane as a woman with feelings and desires outside of her dusty books. But his untimely flash of compassion vanished the instant she opened her mouth.

  “She isn’t yours, either, by your own admission,” she stated. “So you should sign that paper. And for now, you may hand her back and go on your merry way.”

  Skirt swishing, she advanced on him. Perversely, he kept Marianne snug against him. “This morning, you were certain she was mine. So certain you couldn’t wait to tell me.”

  He relished seeing the pink color leap into her cheeks. So the bold Miss Mayhew could blush, after all. “I changed my mind,” she said, her gaze disapproving. “Marianne doesn’t belong with a dissolute rake like you. I won’t have her corrupted by your wicked ways.”

  “Never fear, then. I corrupt only females over the age of eighteen.”

  Those gray-blue irises widened, and her cheeks deepened to a rosy hue. The sight intrigued him. Had she ever experienced sexual desire? Did she ever lie in the darkness of her own bed and long to be seduced?

  Not Jane. She was too stridently opinionated to yield to any man.

  “If I may suggest a solution,” Lady Rosalind said. “While wintering in Italy, I found a maid who has the most cunning skill at hairdressing.” She primped at her reflection in a shiny tin platter standing on the sideboard. “No one in all the Continent can match Gianetta’s ability to fashion the perfect ringlets, or to choose the perfect bonnet for the occasion. And her talent at sewing, why it is unparalleled—”

  “What is your point, Mother?” Ethan broke in, his patience thinned by Marianne’s incessant wailing. He walked up and down in a vain, instinctive effort to calm her.

  “If you would kindly refrain from interrupting, I shall explain. There was one condition to my employing Gianetta. She has a daughter of eighteen months whom she refused to leave behind. If she weans the child, perhaps Gianetta is capable of nursing Marianne.”

  “Where is she?”

  “Why, she’s unpacking my trunks at Chasebourne Manor. But I warn you, I shall still require her services as a lady’s maid.”

  “If she can feed Marianne,” he said grimly, striding toward the door, “I’ll reward her so handsomely she’ll never want to leave your employ.”

  * * *

  The haunting notes of a lullaby drifted through the boudoir.

  Though adept at ancient Greek, Latin, Gaelic, and more obscure old languages, Jane had never studied Italian and she didn’t understand the words of the song. But she did comprehend the smacking sounds of contentment made by a suckling baby.

  In a pink-striped wing chair by the hearth sat Gianetta with her bodice drawn down, Marianne held to her plump breast. The voluptuous, dark-haired girl had taken instantly to the baby, crooning in rapid Italian, fussing over her with the instincts of a mother. What a blessing it had been when Marianne had stopped crying.

  What a relief to know that she would not starve.

  Jane knew she ought to leave the pair in privacy, as Lady Rosalind and Ethan had done. Yet she lingered, unable to shake the irrational fear that letting Marianne out of her sight would be the next step to losing her.

  Anxious at the thought, Jane put her hand to her throat, where she could feel the oval lump of the locket hidden beneath her high neckline. The keepsake was all she had left of her own mother. Inside nestled a finely detailed miniature of the lovely, dark-haired lady who had died at Jane’s birth. Had she ever come here to visit all those years ago? She had been Lady Rosalind’s good friend.

  Her godmother’s boudoir was a long, elegant room lined with armoires and clothes presses and gilt-framed mirrors. A pattern of roses and vines trailed over the plush carpet. Painted cherubs cavorted on the high ceiling, lit by the late afternoon light. The rich scents of perfume and powder drifted through the air.

  In the elaborate setting, Jane felt appropriately awestruck. Her own room at home was a utilitarian chamber with a plain wooden bedstead, a writing desk, and wall hooks for her three gowns—one for church, one for housecleaning, and one for visiting, which she wore now. All three were black in deference to her father’s death the previous year. The monotony of her garb had never bothered Jane until today.

  Today, she stared in fascination at the pink-ribboned corset lying in the opened traveling trunk. She felt the shocking urge to try on a pair of sinfully sheer stockings, along with a wispy chemise. Just once, she would like to feel the softness of silk against her skin, the pleasure of wearing a slim-fitting gown instead of the practical garments sewn by her aunt. But such fripperies as these were suitable only for fashionable women like Lady Rosalind.

  Women like the blonde who had shared Ethan’s bed. Women who flirted and teased, who danced at ton balls, and wintered on the Continent. Women who bore illegitimate babies and left them for others to raise.

  Miss Jane Mayhew always slept alone, had tended her ailing father while other girls went off to London for their first Season, and had never once left the desolate downs of Wessex. It was only fitting that she wear sensible, durable undergarments of bleached linen. Only reasonable that she take charge of an infant no one wanted.

  “Mees?”

  Jane started, realizing that Gianetta was motioning to her. She had ceased nursing and held the baby to her now-closed bodice. As Jane walked closer, the foreign woman pressed her finger to her lips.

  Miracle of miracles, Marianne had fallen asleep. A droplet of milk glistened at the corner of her mouth. Her tiny hand was splayed over the mound of Gianetta’s bosom as if to jealously guard her milk supply.

  Reaching down, Jane gathered the baby into her arms. Marianne stirred slightly and sighed in her sleep. A rush of tenderness inundated Jane. How amazing that she could care so deeply for a child she had never known existed before this morning. She had been dressed for her customary early morning hike across the downs when she opened the door and practically stumbled over the basket.

  For a moment she had believed the infant an exquisite porcelain doll, her tiny features rendered with beautiful precision, from the fine eyelashes to the sweetly bowed lips. Then Jane had reverently touched the warm, smooth skin, and she had thought the baby a gift from heaven, the child she had always longed for in her most secret dreams.…

  But now a jarring realization destroyed her fantasy. Marianne couldn’t live in Mayhew Cottage, as Jane had envisioned. Not while the baby’s food supply resided in Ethan’s household.

  The full impact of that dilemma shook Jane. What would happen when Lady Rosalind returned to London? Certainly she wouldn’t rusticate long in the wilds of Wessex while the Season was in full swing. And Jane very much doubted Ethan’s mother would agree to leave behind her treasured maid. Jane might have to say good-bye to Marianne.

  Her arms tightened around the baby. She mustn’t let herself worry about that—yet. Better she should find a cradle and prepare the nursery. She had no right to issue orders in this household, but the unusual circumstances demanded unorthodox action. If she did not firmly establish a place for herself in Marianne’s life, Ethan might well deny her access to the baby.

  The thought chilled Jane. She must not allow Marianne to be raised in this amoral setting, with a father who hosted wild revels and entertained a procession of fallen women in his bed. She couldn’t depend on Lady Rosalind, either, because the countess had a habit of running off to the Continent or getting caught up in her own amusements. Heaven knew, Jane had observed enough of that neglect during Ethan’s childhood.

  It was up to
Jane to be Marianne’s caretaker. And she would begin right now.

  Giving Marianne back to Gianetta, Jane went into the dimly lit bedroom dominated by a canopied bed. The carpet muffled her footsteps.

  She halted abruptly.

  By the outer doorway, Lady Rosalind stood in whispered conversation with her son. It was not a pleasant exchange, judging by the way he furrowed his fingers through his dark hair. Pouting prettily, Lady Rosalind rested her hands on her slender hips. It looked as if she were lecturing him—and he wasn’t cooperating.

  Jane meant to tactfully withdraw. But Lady Rosalind motioned her closer. “You had better tell her, Ethan,” she said in a disapproving tone. “Jane deserves to know what you’ve decided.”

  Jane’s heart skipped a beat. She hastened toward them. “Decided?”

  Ethan regarded her in that faintly superior manner. “I intend to find the baby’s mother. To that purpose, I’m leaving in the morning for London. And I’m taking Marianne with me.”

  Chapter 3

  “You can’t take Marianne away,” Jane said. “I won’t let you.”

  Silhouetted against the bank of windows, she had the air of a warrior queen. Her pose was militant, her shoulders squared and her hands gripped at her sides. In the watery afternoon light her scraped-back brown hair had a coppery tinge at odds with her prim appearance, and Ethan could detect her scent of soap and milk.

  Sour milk.

  He grimaced. “May I remind you, it was your wish that I assume responsibility for the child.”

  “That was before I realized just how unfit a father you would make. It is best that you leave Marianne with me.”

  “And how, pray, will you feed her?” Returning her insult, he lowered his gaze to her bosom, where the ill-fitting, high-necked gown hinted at two milkless bumps. From out of nowhere came the memory of a time long ago, when he had attempted to peer down her dress from the vantage point of a tree limb. He had fallen into a bramble bush instead and spent the rest of the day pulling burrs from his backside. Jane had laughed herself silly.

  She wasn’t laughing now. Crossing her arms over her inadequate breasts, she said, “Gianetta will feed the baby.”

  Lady Rosalind stepped out from behind him. “Oh, dear,” she said. “I’m returning to London, too, and Gianetta simply must go with me. Who else would arrange my hair so cunningly?” She patted her tawny curls.

  Jane’s hope flagged. “But my lady … perhaps Gianetta could remain here. It’s only for a few months, until Marianne is weaned.”

  “That is quite impossible,” Lady Rosalind said gently. “I am sorry.” Turning away, she studied her reflection in a gilt-framed mirror.

  The despair in Jane’s expression stirred a reluctant twinge of conscience in Ethan. Finding a baby must have been the most excitement she’d had in her life since that tree incident when they were twelve. “I’m sorry, too,” he said. “But surely you can see there’s no other way.”

  The glimmer of emotion vanished, leaving a more familiar scorn made plain by her curled lip and elevated chin. She looked down her nose at him. “Yes, there is a way. I shall go to London, too. Someone has to watch the baby.”

  God forbid. The thought of Jane scowling at his table, chiding him for staying out late, was enough to wither a man. “I intend to hire an experienced nursemaid,” he said. “So you may rest assured the baby will have the best of care.”

  Jane took a step closer. “Nevertheless, I am going with you.”

  Deciding a little charm might succeed where harshness had failed, he crossed the bedroom and took her by the elbow, coaxing her toward the outer door. “Come now, Jane. You did a good deed in rescuing Marianne. But you wouldn’t want to uproot yourself, to leave all your books behind, to trade your quiet and orderly life for the sins of the city.”

  She dug her heels into the carpet. “That’s precisely why I need to go—to protect Marianne from your immoral influence.”

  “She will be perfectly safe at all times. I give you my solemn vow. And should I find out she isn’t mine, then certainly you may claim her.”

  Jane uttered an outraged gasp. Pulling out of his grasp, she pivoted to face him. “See? That’s what I mean. You don’t really care about her. If you did, it wouldn’t matter who fathered her.”

  “Sentimental nonsense,” he muttered, his good humor vanishing. “I’ve no obligation to support another man’s bastard.”

  “Which makes me the better guardian. I don’t care whose child she is.”

  “I’ll said I’ll do right by her,” he growled. “If she’s mine.”

  “And if she’s not, will you leave her at an orphanage? Abandon her at a baby farm—”

  A sharp clapping of hands interrupted Jane.

  “Enough quarreling,” Lady Rosalind said, her slim figure framed by the mirror where she’d been primping. “Really, one would think you two were still ten years old. Jane, I do like your idea about accompanying us to London, though. It’s an excellent compromise.”

  Jane’s sulky expression brightened. “Oh, my lady. Thank you.”

  “She’s not coming with us,” Ethan objected.

  “But Jane does have a point. Marianne needs a mother, not just a nursemaid.”

  He focused his dark turmoil on Lady Rosalind. “Curious. The nursemaid arrangement suited me when I was growing up.”

  His mother shrugged one silk-clad shoulder. “That was an entirely different situation. Your dear departed father believed a boy shouldn’t be coddled by his mother. Be that as it may, however, I do have a solution to our present dilemma.”

  Ethan didn’t trust the faint smile that played on her mouth as she glanced from him to Jane. His mother was up to no good; he would wager his fortune on that. “The solution,” he stated, “is that Jane stays here in Wessex. Where she belongs.”

  Lady Rosalind lifted her hand in an airy motion that nullified his order. “Don’t be a bully, Ethan. Jane is my godchild, after all, and I’ve neglected my duty toward her for far too long.” Looking at Jane, she deepened her smile. “So I hereby invite her to London for the Season.”

  * * *

  Her nose pressed to the window, Jane absorbed the sights of the city as the coach advanced through a congestion of carriages and drays. Never in her life had she seen so many buildings crowded together. At Lady Rosalind’s insistence, Gianetta and Marianne traveled in the baggage coach, while Ethan had ridden on ahead, a tall, handsome gentleman on a fine chestnut gelding. He had scarcely spoken a word to Jane since their quarrel, except to examine the notecard left with Marianne and to say flatly that he didn’t recognize the penmanship.

  Jane had glimpsed an unsettling anger in him, far more than one would expect of an irredeemable rake. He resented her interference, that much was clear. And so she had prudently elected to stay out of his path. At least for the moment.

  Now, she occupied herself with viewing London for the first time. She’d had a hazy expectation of rich palaces with half-naked women lounging on the windowsills. However, the southern approach to the city was a warren of narrow alleys and dusty yards, littered with clothing strung out to dry. Children swarmed the byways, dirty and barefoot, their mothers watching from doorways. The tang of coal smoke pervaded the air.

  The coach rattled over a tall bridge spanning the great slate-gray river, and the dilapidated houses gave way to finer neighborhoods. There were an amazing number of people here, too, from street sellers to strolling ladies, ragtag beggars to refined lords. Here at last were the fancy town houses and wide cobbled streets, the elegant shops with bow windows displaying stationery and boots and jewelry.

  “London is so drab compared to Rome,” Lady Rosalind said on a sigh. Wearing a mint-green bonnet that complemented her fair curls, she clasped her small, gloved hands to her traveling cloak. “But no other city in the world can match London for its glorious parties.”

  Aware of staring like a bumpkin, Jane sat back against the crimson velvet cushions. “Is it really true
that people dance till dawn? It seems utterly mad to miss a good night’s sleep.”

  Lady Rosalind laughed. “Ah, just wait until yon waltz in the arms of a man you admire. Then you shall understand.”

  Wistful longing proved stronger than common sense, and Jane pictured herself whirling around a ballroom with Ethan. His grip would be firm and warm, and she would relish his male scent. He would flash his teeth in that easy grin, and she would melt like a smitten girl.…

  “Jane never learned to dance,” Aunt Willy said, adjusting her ruffled spinster’s cap. “And I see no reason why she should start now. Why, she is twenty-six years old and long past the bloom of youth.”

  “Is she?” Lady Rosalind said, smiling thoughtfully. “I wonder.”

  Jane pictured what Lady Rosalind surely saw: a too-tall woman wearing a black merino cape buttoned to the chin and an out-of-fashion black bonnet framing her unremarkable features. She had never felt quite comfortable in social settings. “You can’t really mean to introduce me to society,” she said. “You only said so because you knew how much I wanted to be with Marianne.”

  “Certainly I’m delighted that you adore my granddaughter.” Lady Rosalind’s blue eyes shone bright with gaiety. “But you’ll have your evenings free to attend parties. It’s an experience every young lady should enjoy.”

  “Jane is too sensible for frivolities,” Aunt Willy said. “That is the reason I’ve consented to staying in the same house as his lordship. Jane’s reputation needn’t suffer since she has been long on the shelf. She is no silly young girl.”

  Jane felt a perverse desire to protest, to admit that sometimes she tired of her staid life. What new experiences awaited her in London? Ethan had wanted to keep Jane and the baby in a separate residence, but Lady Rosalind refused to part with her maid, and Gianetta could not be expected to dash back and forth in between feedings. Her mistress might need her to mend a gown or fashion a hairdo.

  “Were it not for her ladyship’s kind patronage,” she reminded her aunt, “we would not have come to London at all.”