Too Wicked to Love

by Olivia Drake

  “Humph.” Aunt Willy took a sip from her silver flask of restorative. “I don’t see why we had to travel all this way on a whim. It disrupts my routine. Already I have pains in my chest from breathing the noxious air.”

  “Do try not to breathe, then,” Lady Rosalind said cheerfully. “Ah, here we are, home at last.”

  The coach rolled to a stop and the footman let down the step. As Jane emerged onto the cobbled drive, she blinked in amazement at the house spread out before her. Now here was a palace—or perhaps a castle. Built of Portland stone, the grand edifice occupied the entire side of a square. At either end rose a turreted tower, and Jane could almost imagine knights and ladies strolling along the battlements. Seldom did she feel dwarfed, but the tall columned portico with its ornate pediment gave her the sense of a mouse approaching the throne room of a king. She had known Ethan was wealthy, but not to such an ostentatious degree.

  “Come inside,” Lady Rosalind invited. When Jane would have waited for the baggage coach, the countess took her by the arm and led her up the broad marble steps and past a blue-liveried footman, who held open the massive door. “Gianetta will bring the baby. Now where is that errant son of mine?”

  A rather severe-looking woman with a hook nose stood waiting inside the hall. “His lordship arrived well over an hour ago, m’lady. Then he set out again in the phaeton not ten minutes past.”

  “Probably gone to his club, the wretch,” Lady Rosalind said, handing her cloak to the footman. “I do hope he returns in time for dinner. Jane, this is Mrs. Crenshaw, our housekeeper. Miss Jane Mayhew will be staying here for the Season. Along with her aunt, Miss Wilhelmina Mayhew.”

  “His lordship mentioned as much.” Mrs. Crenshaw’s keen gray eyes swept over Jane, and Jane sensed that she’d been assessed and compartmentalized, though she wasn’t exactly sure what that appraisal meant. Certainly she had to be very different from the women Ethan usually brought to his house. Or did he entertain his lovers elsewhere?

  Jane compressed her lips. That had better be the case.

  Huffing and puffing, Aunt Willy caught up to them. Her white cap framed her florid cheeks. “Far too many steps you have here. It is all very grand, but most impractical. I shall need a cup of tea to refresh myself.”

  “Then you must allow a footman to escort you. Crenshaw will show Jane to her room.” Lady Rosalind spoke over her shoulder as she glided toward the great curving staircase. “Dinner is at eight. I’ve a special guest coming, so don’t be late.”

  “This way, Miss Mayhew.”

  Mrs. Crenshaw led the way, her footsteps tapping on the black-and-white checkerboard marble of the floor. Trailing her, Jane peered up at the high ceiling, where an enormous crystal chandelier caught the last rays of afternoon light from the beveled fan window over the door. Rainbow prisms scattered along the white walls and created the aura of a fairyland castle.

  Awe tingled through her, though she sternly told herself not to be too impressed by the splendor. Monetary wealth did not define the greatness of a man. Still, she admired the white and gold balustrade, the Grecian plasterwork along the cornices, the wide marble steps. It was a vast difference from her two-story cottage in Wessex, where floor-to-ceiling stacks of books were the primary decoration.

  Upstairs, Mrs. Crenshaw paused at a fork in the passageway and inclined her graying head toward the other direction, where a broad corridor was lit by a window at the far end. “There be the master’s apartments. His lordship doesn’t care for people to wander in this wing. Most especially not in the tower room above his bedchamber.”

  “Why is that?”

  “It is not for me to question his lordship’s orders,” Mrs. Crenshaw said with a sniff. “Suffice to say, he will allow no housemaids or footmen to intrude there. Only myself, once a week, to clean.”

  “What manner of room is it? What does he do there?”

  “Forgive me, but I am not at liberty to say more.” With a twitch of her dark skirt, Mrs. Crenshaw headed into the west wing.

  Jane walked slowly, her curiosity piqued. That tower chamber had to be where he seduced his women. She had read once about an Eastern seraglio, and her mind conjured a room lit by a hundred burning candles, the air heavy with incense, the wide bed draped in silks and pillows. Like a pasha, he would strut into the room, discard his robe, and guide his lover in acts so depraved no moral woman could even imagine them.…

  “Here we are, Miss Mayhew.” The housekeeper stood by an open door, one gaunt arm extended toward the room.

  Blushing at her wayward thoughts, Jane entered a bedchamber decorated in soothing peach and blue. A coal fire crackled on the grate beneath a cream marble chimneypiece. The windows framed a view of the square with its tall green trees, giving the illusion of being in the country. Untying the strings of her bonnet, she took it off and then hesitated, unsure where in this pristine room to deposit her sadly outmoded headgear.

  Mrs. Crenshaw took the bonnet, holding it at arm’s length as she bore it into the dressing room. Upon emerging, she said, “Your trunk should be delivered shortly. I’ll send a maid to unpack for you.”

  “I’m sure I can manage by myself.” Jane couldn’t bear for anyone, not even a servant, to appraise her meager wardrobe. “But please, before you go. Where is Marianne?”

  “Marianne?”

  “The baby.” Jane stopped before adding Lord Chasebourne’s daughter. How had he explained the sudden presence of his natural child?

  Mrs. Crenshaw’s blank face gave no clue to her thoughts. Clearly she was loyal to a fault. “She will be staying in the nursery, directly above here. I must say, it is exceedingly kind of his lordship and his mother to take in the foundling.” Bowing, the housekeeper left the room.

  Jane tore off her cloak and tossed it on the bed. It was exceedingly clever of his lordship to present himself as a benevolent protector. As if anyone would believe such a tall tale about a divorced man and a renowned rakehell.

  Where had he gone so quickly? To seek out the baby’s mother?

  Jane tamped down her impatience. She had intended to accompany him, to judge for herself if he’d found the mother who had abandoned Marianne. Jane didn’t trust him to handle the matter properly. He would likely return the baby without question.

  To the woman who’d left her on a stranger’s doorstep.

  * * *

  Half an hour later, after unpacking and changing into her best black gown, Jane found her way upstairs. She couldn’t rest until she knew Marianne had settled well into her new home. The nursery was a bright, sunny room, complete with miniature table and chairs, a rocking horse, and books lining the walls. A faintly musty scent pervaded the air; clearly no child had occupied these rooms for many years.

  Jane pictured Ethan here, a mischievous boy, prone to playing tricks. At least he’d done so to her. Once he’d hid in an alleyway of the village, stuck his foot out as she walked past, and tripped her so she landed in a mud puddle, her book flying into the rutted road, where it was run over by a farmer’s cart. Although Ethan had rescued the mangled book, presenting it to her with a flourish, he’d had the audacity to laugh.

  Silly of her to remember that now. She had no interest in Ethan, only his child.

  Hearing voices, she hastened through another doorway and found herself in a bedchamber with cheerful, yellow-striped wallpaper. Two strapping workmen were moving a fancy, gilt-painted cradle into the corner. A housemaid stood ready to polish the baby’s bed.

  Jiggling Marianne in one arm and her own one-and-a-half-year-old girl in the other, Gianetta directed the workmen in English interspersed with Italian. “Attento! You weel break. Ah, good, that ees good.”

  Jane gathered the baby into her arms. She breathed in her clean scent, overjoyed at the way Marianne studied her with expressive blue eyes, her lips parting in a toothless grin. Something warm and fierce curled inside Jane. Already the infant knew her, loved her. No one must take her away.

  Especially not a man with
a bad reputation.

  “Did Marianne sleep on the journey here?” Jane asked Gianetta.

  The dark-haired woman nodded vigorously. “Two girls, so good. Mine, she ees sleepy still.” Laughing, she kissed her shy little daughter, who sucked her forefinger and stared at Jane with velvet brown eyes.

  “You may put her for a nap,” Jane said. “I’ll watch Marianne for now.”

  The Italian woman scurried away, crooning to her daughter. While the workmen departed and the housemaid cleaned, Jane sat down with the baby on the window seat. Marianne gurgled contentedly in contrast to her crying the previous day. Talking nonsense to her, Jane decided she was happier right here than dancing with a royal duke. At dusk, when the shadows grew long, Gianetta returned and Jane reluctantly handed Marianne back, for the infant had begun fretting in hunger.

  With a guilty start, Jane realized it must be past time for dinner. She patted her taut bun, making sure every hair was secured. Finding a stairway, she made her way down to the first-floor reception rooms. She wandered around for a bit, searching for a dining room, awed by the sumptuous chambers.

  In a green and gold drawing room so enormous it could have swallowed Jane’s entire cottage, she found the small gathering of people. Aunt Willy sat on a chair by the hearth, conversing with Lady Rosalind and a distinguished older gentleman in a dark blue suit and a stiff cravat.

  Where was Ethan?

  Then Jane spied him at a sideboard, pouring a tumbler of dark liquor. Drinking spirits, of course. She might have guessed. Clad in charcoal-gray, his white neckcloth a startling contrast to his bronzed skin, he looked every inch the sinfully attractive rake. He turned, saw her, and lifted his glass with an insolent grin.

  She pursed her lips. So he was back. Where had he been for the past few hours? Had he found the baby’s mother? Jane had a few words to say to him on the matter.

  “Ah, here’s my dear godchild at last.” Smiling, Lady Rosalind swooped across the fleur-de-lis carpet to guide Jane to the stranger. He stood up as they approached, and Lady Rosalind said in a soft voice quite unlike her usual playful tone, “You remember my friend, Lady Susan, don’t you, Peter? Well, this is Susan’s daughter, Miss Jane Mayhew.”

  His thin gray brows drew together. He had keen, ruddy features and an imposing manner which radiated the innate confidence of the nobility. “I recall Lady Susan wed a scholar who took her off to the country.”

  “Yes, a neighbor of mine. Jane, this is the Duke of Kellisham.”

  Jane had only a hazy notion of the proper protocol, but something seemed to be expected of her, so she extended her hand. “Your Grace, I’m happy to meet you.”

  He frowned at her hand, then gallantly brought it to his lips. “A pleasure, Miss Mayhew. You are newly arrived in town?”

  She suspected belatedly that she ought to have curtsied. Feeling gauche, she said, “Yes. We are here at Lady Rosalind’s kind invitation.…” She paused, wondering what—if anything—he knew about Marianne.

  “We have come to the city on a moment’s notice,” Aunt Willy said. “And for a more havey-cavey purpose, I cannot imagine—”

  Lady Rosalind broke in. “Now that we are all gathered here, His Grace and I have an announcement to make before we go in to dinner.” She smiled at him, and he gazed at her with a befuddled rapture on his stately features.

  Then he cleared his throat and looked around the small party. “I am most pleased to say that Lady Rosalind has done me the great honor of agreeing to be my wife.”

  The fire snapped into the silence. Jane blinked in surprise. Had Ethan known of the impending nuptials? She turned to study him.

  Giving his mother a hard, assessing stare, he strolled to the mantelpiece. Something dark flashed in his eyes, and he took a long swallow from his glass. Jane knew him well enough to see that he was displeased by the news. She tried to fathom why. Did he not consider Lady Rosalind’s chosen partner good enough for her? The duke seemed a fine, upstanding man, perhaps the ideal influence to tame her wild spirit.

  Unwilling to let Ethan’s ill-mannered behavior spoil the occasion, Jane hastened to Lady Rosalind and hugged her, then stepped back. “I’m so delighted for you. Have you set a wedding date?”

  She laughed gaily. “We are hoping for the early part of June. Tomorrow, we shall settle it with the pastor of Saint George’s.”

  “How well you’ve kept your secret, Rosalind,” Aunt Willy said almost accusingly. “To think, you’ve only been back in England for a few days and already you have such felicitous news.”

  “Oh, but Peter and I have known each other for many years,” Lady Rosalind said, clinging to his arm while casting an adoring glance at him. “We corresponded often while I was abroad.”

  “In truth, I made my offer in a letter,” he said in a gruff voice. “I begged Rosalind to come home and make me the happiest of men. And so she has.”

  They smiled into each other’s eyes, and their bliss caused a tightening in Jane’s breast. How wonderful it must be to know the love and devotion of a man. To look forward to a life of shared contentment. To be the most important woman in the world to him.

  Her gaze stole to Ethan. He had failed at marriage with his bride, Lady Portia. Only the previous year, Jane had heard the shocking story bandied about the neighborhood back home, that he had caught Lady Portia dallying with his valet. Ethan had sued her lover in court on grounds of adultery, then used the conviction to obtain a bill of divorcement in Parliament. It had been whispered that Lord Chasebourne liked his assignations, but he had condemned his wife for the same immoral behavior.

  His actions seemed so heartless, so cruel, that Jane wondered if she really knew him.

  He went to the sideboard and poured glasses of sherry for each of them. “If I may propose a toast,” he said, holding up his glass. “To the bride-to-be and her esteemed groom.”

  Whatever his objections, he concealed them behind a mask of charm. With the way he smiled, his teeth a flash of white in his swarthy face, one might have thought him pleased by the betrothal.

  But during dinner, Jane noticed the way he watched the joyful couple, his gaze narrowed ever so slightly. Could it be the jealousy of a son wanting to keep his mother true to the memory of his father?

  After a rich meal of roast beef and asparagus, Lady Rosalind said suddenly, “Ethan, I nearly forgot. I’ve only just heard the news about Lord Byron leaving England. What a tragic tale, that he would abandon his wife and daughter.”

  “Good riddance,” Ethan drawled. “There’s one less poet foisting his flowery sentiment on the masses.”

  Jane frowned at his flippant remark. “Lord Byron is a superb poet,” she objected. “I’ve read all of his works.”

  “You?” His droll gaze swept over her. “You don’t seem the sort to enjoy romantic tripe. It would put any intelligent woman to sleep.”

  It was both compliment and insult, and before Jane could form a suitable retort, Aunt Willy cleared her throat.

  “Speaking of sleep, I vow I shall welcome my rest tonight,” the older woman said, sagging in her chair. “Such a long journey we’ve had.”

  The party broke apart, Ethan excusing himself, saying he intended to go out.

  In the corridor, Jane hastened after him, her half-boots tapping on the marble floor. “Ethan—Lord Chasebourne, wait.” She stifled her proclivity to address him by his given name. It reminded her too painfully of the boy she had once secretly adored and the witless girl she had been.

  Pivoting toward her, he placed his hands on his hips, pushing back his coat to reveal his trim waist and hips. “If it’s more literary commentary, I must beg you to take pity and desist.”

  Jane pursed her lips. She had more important concerns on her mind. “You were surprised, weren’t you, by your mother’s engagement?”

  He shrugged. “Nothing my mother does surprises me.”

  “Why do you disapprove of her marrying the duke?”

  “I never said I disapproved.” />
  “You glowered at them. Just for a moment. Though I don’t suppose anyone else noticed.”

  He grunted. Jane persisted, determined to understand him. “Well, I think it’s wonderful that Kellisham adores her. He certainly proved his love by staying true to her for so many months.” When she paused, Ethan merely arched one eyebrow, so Jane went on. “She must be lonely since your father’s death—when was it? Ten years ago?”

  “Nine.” He withdrew a silver pocket watch, glanced at it, then snapped shut the lid. “If you mean only to spout sentiment, then pray excuse me. I have plans for the evening.”

  “With whom?” she blurted out.

  He shook his head. “Jane. Must you always pester me with rude questions?”

  She hated the superior way he regarded her, his hint of amusement in him. “Then I’ll ask again until you answer me. I wish to know if you went in search of Marianne’s mother this afternoon. And if you will do so tonight as well.”

  His dark eyes bored into her. He stood tall enough that she had to lift her chin in order to hold his gaze. Reaching out, he patted her on the crown of her head as if she were a child. “It’s late, Miss Maypole. So run along to bed and stay out of the affairs of men.”

  Turning, he strode down the wide passageway, heading for the grand staircase. His decisive steps rang out like a challenge.

  Her hand jerked toward a blue and white vase on a nearby pedestal. She wanted to heave it at him, to crash it over his patronizing head.

  Even as her fingers brushed the cool porcelain, she forced herself to think. He had not answered her question. Which meant he must be intending to confront the woman he suspected of abandoning the baby. Surely he would have denied it otherwise.

  Jane clenched her hand in the folds of her skirt. She couldn’t let him dump Marianne on a woman who clearly didn’t want her.

  And since he refused to cooperate, she would have to resort to subterfuge.

  Chapter 4

  Jane hastened to the staircase railing and peered down into the entry hall. The huge chandelier hung in darkness, and the candles in the wall sconces cast a flickering illumination over Ethan, his shadow towering on the wall. He addressed a footman in blue livery at the front door. “Have the barouche brought round,” he said, his deep voice echoing in the vast room.