by Olivia Drake
Jane felt satisfied, but it was a cold victory. She would plead a headache on the night of the ball, and no one would be the wiser. She hadn’t come to London to dance, anyway. She had come for Marianne’s sake. It was best she remember that.
She turned to examine a bolt of sturdy gray cotton. And in doing so, she missed seeing Lady Rosalind wink at the proprietor.
* * *
In the garden behind Chasebourne House, Jane sat in the shade of a pear tree. The perfume of its blossoms filled the late afternoon air. Across the pathway, a bumblebee buzzed the rosebushes, a fat black and yellow form drifting from one red bloom to another.
Jane felt drunk with contentment. After that disagreeable shopping expedition, she reveled in the warmth of the spring day. Beside her on the blanket lay Marianne, seemingly fascinated by the play of light and shadow in the leaves overhead. The baby gurgled and cooed, her voice as soft and sweet as the breeze that soughed through the branches.
Tenderly, Jane stroked the angel-fine hair that peeked from beneath the white bonnet. Those plump cheeks gave proof to Gianetta’s frequent feedings. The pink swaddling clothes made Marianne look like a newborn princess in a fairy tale. Jane’s throat caught. This baby was so precious, so innocent. Someone had to guide her through life. Someone had to give her a firm moral backbone. For heaven’s sake, someone had to take her from the nursery for outings, too. Who else besides Jane cared enough to bother?
Yes, she had to admit that her life here in London had turned out better than she’d anticipated. Besides her time spent with the baby, she had discovered Ethan’s library with its treasure trove of books. It was difficult to believe a frivolous rake could have accumulated all those volumes, everything from poetry and philosophy to history and novels. She could only conclude that his father or grandfather had followed intellectual pursuits.
The scrape of footsteps on the flagstones alerted her, and she sat straight up against the trunk of the pear tree. Shading her eyes with the edge of her hand, she looked toward the house with its pillared loggia and tall windows. Her heart did a little tumble when she spied Ethan striding down the garden path, the sunlight gleaming on his black hair. He wore a butternut-brown coat and dark breeches, and discreet gold buttons glinted on his waistcoat.
He looked around and spied her, coming forward until he stopped a few feet away. He cast a guarded glance at the baby. “You sent for me, Jane,” he said, in an imperious tone that stated his displeasure at being summoned like a servant.
Jane refused to be intimidated. “I hoped you might wish to join us out here. It’s a fine day.”
“Your note said you had something urgent to tell me.”
“I do. I thought you should know that Marianne reached for her rattle today.”
“Her rattle.”
“Yes.” Jane picked up the silver toy and held it near the infant. “Look, princess. Look what Auntie Jane has for you.”
Those blue eyes shifted from their study of the leaves. Marianne blinked at the shiny object; then her chubby arm darted out and her hand swatted awkwardly at the rattle.
“See?” Jane said proudly. “She’s trying to grab it.”
“She wants you to get it out of her face,” he said.
“No, she’s only just realizing that she can touch things. Isn’t it wonderful?”
He made a noncommital sound deep in his chest. But he hunkered down on the other side of the baby, took the rattle from Jane, and moved it in front of Marianne. Her eyes followed the gleaming toy, and once again, she batted at it. This time, her tiny fingers briefly curled around the handle before it slipped from her grasp.
“Well. Will you look at that?” Ethan murmured, a note of surprise softening his gruff voice. He continued to play the game with Marianne, shifting the rattle here and there, while she managed to make contact with it each time.
A tender tension squeezed Jane’s chest. Would he make a good father? Or an indifferent one, willing to acknowledge his daughter only when forced to do so? She wished to heaven she knew the answer.
Perhaps she shouldn’t have tricked Ethan into coming out here. Perhaps she shouldn’t encourage him to form a paternal bond with Marianne. He could take the baby from her; he could claim Marianne as his own. He could send Jane back to her lonely cottage in Wessex.…
Choked by bittersweet fear, she wanted to snatch the rattle from his hand. Then she noticed the ink stain on his middle finger.
The sight struck her as so peculiar that without thinking, she reached out and touched the blemish to make certain it was real. In that quick touch, the warm strength of his flesh seemed to sear up her arm and into her bosom. To cover her confusion, she said, “How strange … my own finger looks like that after I’ve copied manuscripts all day.”
His face seemed to darken, or perhaps it was just a cloud passing over the sun. He tossed down the rattle. “I’ve been going over estate business.”
“But don’t you have a secretary who records the accounts and pens letters for you?”
“He was busy with other matters today.”
Something didn’t ring true. She watched him closely, dissatisfied with his explanation. Had Ethan been writing letters? Did it have something to do with Marianne’s mother? “You didn’t come from your office,” she said slowly. “Mrs. Crenshaw told me you were in the tower room, and you didn’t wish to be disturbed.”
“So you sent your urgent message via a footman.” Scowling, he pushed to his feet. “Next time, don’t bother me over trivialities.”
“Marianne isn’t trivial. She’s your daughter.”
“That remains to be seen.”
Jane decided not to press the issue. “When shall we interview the next of your women?”
A muscle jumped in his jaw; Jane could see that, though she remained on the blanket, looking up at his towering form. Clearly he still resented her interference.
“This evening,” he said shortly. “Be ready at ten o’clock.”
“So late? I usually retire by then.”
“I can always go alone.”
She shot to her feet and looked straight into his eyes. “I’ll be there.”
“I’m sure you will.”
A sparrow twittered from the top of the brick wall surrounding the garden. Marianne cooed in accompaniment, making contented baby sounds. The gentle breeze ruffled Ethan’s hair, causing a lock to fall rakishly onto his brow. The intensity of his eyes fascinated Jane, the sunlight picking out golden flecks in the deep, dense brown.
What was he hiding from her?
Just then, the murmur of voices came from the house. Jane saw Lady Rosalind stepping down from the loggia, accompanied by the Duke of Kellisham. They made an attractive couple, the countess with her youthful figure and tawny-gold hair, and the duke so tall and distinguished.
“Bloody hell,” Ethan cursed under his breath.
“What’s the matter?” Jane whispered. “Why don’t you approve of the duke?”
He ignored her questions. Crouching down, he scooped up the baby, pink blanket and all. “Make haste and take her back up to the nursery,” he said in an undertone. “I’ll distract them.”
He tried to thrust Marianne at her, but Jane crossed her arms, outraged by his order. “You can’t hide her away like a bit of rubbish. She’s your daughter. She has every right to be out here, enjoying the sunshine—”
“Damn your stubbornness, they’ve seen us.”
Sure enough, the duke now propelled Lady Rosalind toward the rose garden. The countess looked worried, and from the movement of her lips and the way she clung to his arm, it appeared she was trying to reason with him. He shook his head, stalking forward in grim-faced disapproval.
The duke halted before them and nodded to Jane. “Miss Mayhew.” Then he glowered at Ethan. “So this is the infant. Your byblow.”
Ethan’s features took on that cool mask. “Her name is Marianne. Would you care to hold her?” He indicated the swaddled baby, who yawned, showing her
tiny pink gums. “After all, she’ll soon be your granddaughter.”
The duke held his arms rigidly at his sides. “You must have gone utterly mad. Have you no shame, bringing such a child into your own home?”
“So long as she might be mine, I must provide for her.”
With the ease of an experienced father, Ethan held Marianne in the crook of his arm. Jane realized belatedly that she had been wrong to think he meant to hide the baby. He had foreseen this confrontation and wanted to protect his daughter.
“I’ve told everyone that Marianne is an orphan,” Lady Rosalind said in a conciliatory tone. “I explained that to you, Peter. You saw for yourself during visiting hour yesterday that people were beginning to accept it.”
“Orphan, bah. No one really believes that Banbury tale.”
“Then we must make them believe.” She flashed a glance at the baby, who yawned again, sleepy-eyed and content against Ethan’s coat. “I do think it is admirable of Ethan to accept his duty toward his child.”
“Let him send her to the country, then,” the duke stated. “Hire an army of nursemaids if necessary. But don’t flaunt her before all the ton.”
“He isn’t flaunting her.” Jane could no longer hold her tongue. “For once, he is behaving honorably. And if narrow-minded people like you wish to believe otherwise, then I say, let them.”
Silence fell over the gathering. The wind rustled the leaves of the pear tree and sent a white blossom tumbling across the walkway. Lady Rosalind looked more anxious than ever, peering up at the duke’s thunderous expression. Jane knew she’d been rude, but she held her chin high, unwilling to apologize for speaking the truth.
“Once, Jane?” Ethan said. He cast a droll, sidelong glance at her. “Only once have I acted with honor? If I search my memory, I’m certain to find it is twice at the least, perhaps even thrice.”
His jest snapped the tension. A bell-like laugh rang from Lady Rosalind. “There, you see?” she told the duke. “Even Jane believes my son is doing the proper thing. The gossip will die down eventually.”
“A lady of Miss Mayhew’s background can know little of scandalmongers,” the duke said gruffly. “But you know, Rosalind. You know how easily a person’s good name can be ruined. As it is, Chasebourne has a less-than-stellar reputation.”
“Oh, but surely you cannot blame him for the divorce,” Lady Rosalind said. “The guilt of that woman is a matter of public record. We can be thankful she didn’t saddle him with a child not of his blood.”
Portia. They were speaking of Lady Portia, Jane thought. In dismay, she realized she’d nearly forgotten her promise to help Ethan’s former wife.
“Certainly a nobleman must secure the succession of his line,” Kellisham allowed. “But it is wrong to publicly acknowledge his illegitimate issue. And that is precisely why—”
“You must cease interfering in my affairs,” Ethan finished. Cuddling the baby, he gave the duke a hard stare. “If I choose to house my child under my roof, then it is no one’s decision but my own.”
“Young man, you also have a duty to the women under your care. By your actions, they will be judged.”
“My mother is an expert at handling social disasters,” Ethan said. “She doesn’t need protection. Isn’t that right, Mother?”
His words sounded more accusation than praise, and Jane wondered at the veiled look that passed between mother and son.
“Don’t be disrespectful, Chasebourne,” the duke snapped. “I will not tolerate it.”
“It’s all right, Peter,” Lady Rosalind said, stroking his sleeve as if he were a stallion to be gentled. “Ethan only means that I won’t stand for nonsense from small-minded gossips.”
“Your Grace, could you not lend your support to Lord Chasebourne?” Jane suggested. “Could you not deny the rumors for the sake of Lady Rosalind? Surely people would heed your word.”
“An excellent point,” Lady Rosalind said with delight. “No one would dare to disagree with you, Peter.”
“I will not lie,” he said stonily. “The child is not an orphan.”
“No one is asking you to lie, darling. Only to refer to Marianne as a foundling.” The countess gave a little laugh. “And that is certainly the case since she was found on Jane’s doorstep.”
“I hardly think—”
She briefly placed her fingers over his lips. “If you use that fierce stare of yours, you are sure to forestall any further questions.”
“Rosalind, it is not proper to mislead people—”
“But it is proper to protect your beloved.” Pressing her cheek to his sleeve and gazing up at him, she smiled, all charm and sensuality. “Surely you would do your best for me. Please?”
He compressed his lips, as if he were fighting an inner battle. Gradually, his harsh expression gave way to a besotted warmth. His gaze focused fully on her, and they might have been the only two people in the world.
Jane’s heart melted. She glanced at Ethan, to see if he too rejoiced in their accord. But he stood glowering, the breeze lifting a lock of his hair.
The duke raised Lady Rosalind’s hand to his lips. “It shall be as you wish, my dear.” To her son, he gave a slight bow. “Chasebourne, it seems I must be your advocate in this.”
“The devil’s advocate,” Ethan said.
The two men exchanged a flinty glare, then the duke and Lady Rosalind strolled away, the countess casting one last intense look over her shoulder at her son. Or had that glance been aimed at her little granddaughter?
His face devoid of emotion, Ethan passed the now-slumbering baby to Jane. The warm weight of her thrilled Jane, and she could not resist bending close to inhale the sweet, distinctive scent of powder and soap. When she lifted her head, she noticed Ethan watching his mother and Kellisham go back into the house.
“Why do you disapprove of your mother marrying the duke?”
He grimaced. “You’ve seen what a puritan Kellisham is. He’s wrong for her. And she’s only marrying him for the exalted status he’ll bring her.”
Jane let out a huff of disbelief. “That isn’t true. Haven’t you seen how they gaze at each other? It’s clearly a love match.”
“Love. And what does a dried-up spinster know of love?”
His words hit like a fist to her heart. For an instant, she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think past the pain gripping her breast. Before he could realize the effect of his words on her, she hurled back, “What does an unconscionable rogue know of love, either?”
That moody darkness descended over his stark male features. “Not much, it would seem.” He lifted his hand, and she thought for one pulse-pounding instant that he meant to caress her. Instead, he gently stroked his forefinger over the baby’s rosy cheek. “Not much at all.”
Chapter 8
Lady Esler held up a sweetmeat while the fuzzy white poodle danced on its spindly hind legs. The widow of the Marquess of Esler, Eleanor had flame-colored hair, sparkling brown eyes, and a fondness for animals, as proven by the two tabby cats asleep on the hearth rug and the many paintings of horses on the drawing room walls. Crooning nonsense to the dog, she leaned forward, giving her guests an unashamed look down her bodice.
With the coolness of a connoisseur, Ethan appreciated the view. Eleanor made a voluptuous contrast to Jane, who sat primly upright in her chair, her gloved hands folded in her lap. He knew exactly what Jane was thinking. That he chose his women by their physical attributes. That he was a lecher, a walking phallus who possessed no skills outside the bedchamber.
He didn’t know why her assumption annoyed him so much lately. He never mistreated his women; in truth, he lavished attention on them. And when the liaison ended, he always left a generous gift. It was no wonder Eleanor had welcomed him tonight with open arms.
She dropped the treat and the dog snatched it in midair. “There, my little Snowball, you’ve earned your reward, dancing for Mama.”
“You’ll make him sick,” Ethan observed.
&nbs
p; “Oh, don’t be a scold. We used to have such fun together.” An impish smile illuminated her fine, freckled features so that she looked like a spoiled child rather than a widow of two-and-thirty. To Jane, she murmured, “He is a very naughty man, you know.”
“So I have heard.” Jane said disdainfully.
“Watch out if he entices you into a dark room. He is liable to take all sorts of wicked liberties.”
Ethan snorted to himself at the absurdity of Eleanor’s chatter. He’d like to do that just once, to corner Jane and see if he could infuse some warmth into that frigid body. Would darkness ease her inhibitions?
Hardly. Jane looked typically strict, her lips pinched together, her hair scraped into a no-nonsense knob atop her head. The only loose aspect about her was that sack masquerading as a gown. The only hint of emotion was the fervent gleam of longing in her eyes.
Longing?
No. That gleam had nothing to do with ardor; it was a trick of the candlelight. Miss Jane Mayhew had never entertained a carnal thought in her life. She likely occupied her mind with recitations of virtues. Or a list of his sins.
Jane said, “Lady Esler, if you will allow me to explain why we are here—”
“Please do! Especially if it is in regard to the startling news I heard at the Herringtons’ rout last night.” Eleanor turned to Ethan. “Forgive me for being blunt, Chase, but do you really keep your love child hidden away in your nursery?”
With effort, Ethan maintained his smile. He despised the notion of people gossiping about Marianne as if she were a carnival amusement. “I’ll tell you the truth, if you agree to do likewise,” he said. “Do we have a pact?”
“Of course. I’ll never reveal what you say to another soul, cross my heart.” For good measure, Eleanor solemnly traced an X over her lavish bosom.
“The gossip is true, then,” he said, watching her intently for signs of subterfuge. “The child might be mine.”
“Might be?”
“The infant’s parentage is in question. But I’m hoping you can shed light on the matter. It’s your turn now, so tell me all you know of her.”