by Olivia Drake
And she could never share her private memories of Ethan and their awkward, exhilarating past. No one knew that as an adolescent, she had fallen madly in love with the boy who’d poked fun at her bookishness. Certainly not Ethan. She would hug that secret to her heart forever.
Pierced by poignant longing, she stole a glance down the line of dancers. Ethan was chatting with his partner, his face alive with a charm he hadn’t shown to Jane. Then he looked in her direction and his smile vanished.
If anything, her transformation appeared to have annoyed him.
The knot inside her tightened. She had waited in the ballroom, impatient for his duty in the receiving line to be ended. Other gentlemen had obtained an introduction to her, and she had been pleasantly surprised by their regard. She had behaved as Lady Rosalind suggested, and let them do most of the talking, but for all Jane’s enjoyment in the novelty of popularity, she longed for one man in particular to admire her.
Her hopes had soared when she’d spotted Ethan peering at her from across the ballroom, making his way toward her, listening to their conversation. There had been a gleam of appreciation in his dark gaze that she’d never before seen. Something hot and wicked, something that had set her heart to beating faster.
Then he’d recognized her. The light had vanished from his eyes, leaving them flat and stony.…
Lord Keeble bowed before her. She blinked at his balding pate, and realized the dance had ended. He kissed her hand a bit too fervently and said, “I am honored that you chose me for your first dance, Jane. May I call you Jane?”
She politely extracted her fingers and glanced over his shoulder, but Ethan was lost in the crowd. “If you like.”
“I feel as if we’ve known each other forever. Perhaps you won’t think it too forward of me to ask if you would take a stroll? Chasebourne’s house is magnificent. I should like to see more of it.”
His attention should be flattering. Yet there was something avid to his expression that made her skin crawl. “Thank you, my lord, but I see the Honorable Mr. Duxbury approaching. I’ve promised the next dance to him.”
Lord Keeble grumbled, but he handed her over to his dandified friend, who turned out to be not quite so honorable as his appellation. Duxbury spent the first half of the dance trying to peer down her bodice. He spent the second half hobbling when Jane deliberately trod on his toes. Nonetheless, he too asked her to escort him on a private tour of the mansion.
The leer on his round baby face scandalized her. Did these gentlemen believe her immoral simply because she was a guest in Lord Chasebourne’s house? Was everyone associated with Ethan tainted by his debauchery?
She hoped not, for Marianne’s sake.
Jane’s fears were allayed when she danced with a steady stream of gentlemen who treated her with respect. She marveled at their attentiveness, and began to believe she was more than just a curiosity, that they truly did find her pretty and charming. For the first time in her life, she felt the power of her own femininity. She relaxed enough to flirt a little, to ply her fan and trade witticisms.
Yet always she was aware of Ethan fending off a barrage of beautiful ladies. Several times she caught him glancing at her, but it must have been just a coincidence. He had no interest in her, none at all.
Well, she refused to let him spoil her magical evening. In between sets, she drank champagne, enjoying the burst of sparkling bubbles against her tongue. She seldom consumed wine, and it made her giddy and reckless, ready to practice her womanly wiles on a succession of suitors, gangly and short, stout and lean, gregarious and shy. She spied her aunt once, sitting in a corner with the other matrons and spinsters, and Jane felt a rush of unfettered joy to be out on the dance floor, moving to the music and in the company of an admirer.
As the night wore on, however, she discovered a drawback to the fine art of listening—more often than not, her partners were crashing bores. She had just rid herself of her latest, a paunchy baron who had droned on about his pack of hunting hounds, and lifted another glass of champagne to her lips, when someone plucked it out of her hand.
Heat prickled her skin. Even before she turned, she knew his identity. She caught his unique aroma, something dark, disturbing to the senses.
Ethan.
He glowered at her. “You’ve had quite enough to drink already.”
“Give that back to me.”
“No.” He placed the glass on the silver tray of a passing footman. “I won’t let you stumble around and make a fool of yourself.”
Jane didn’t tell him the ballroom was spinning already, forcing her to focus on his sinfully handsome face. Perhaps he was right about the champagne. That had to be why she felt so suddenly light-headed. Only a ninny would hope for his love; only a wanton would feel this flush of yearning.
“If you’ve come to scold me, then go away,” she said. “I can find more pleasant company elsewhere.”
“I’m sure you can,” he said with a wry grimace. “But you promised me a dance.”
She blinked, jolted by an unwelcome memory. She had made that promise so that she could fulfill her obligation to Lady Portia. Yet Jane felt an intense aversion to handing him over to another woman. Especially a woman he had once adored.… “Is it midnight already?”
“Nearly.” He took a step closer, bending his head so that he could speak low into her ear. “Is that when the beautiful princess turns back into Cinderella?”
Beautiful. Was he saying … he found her beautiful?
Foolish longing spiraled in her breast. “That’s how the story goes,” she said, trying to read his obsidian eyes. “If one can believe in fairy tales.”
“Which you do not.” He patted her gloved hand as he might stroke a favorite dog. “You’re still my practical Jane. Not the sort of woman to let a few men turn your head.” He looked at her questioningly, as if waiting for her to confirm his statement.
That hint of uncertainty in him exhilarated her. So he was not so sure of her, after all. Ever since childhood, he had always seemed confident, all-knowing, so much more sophisticated than she. Was it possible she held the upper hand over him tonight?
“The music is beginning,” she said. “Shall we join the dancers?”
“Answer my question.”
“Did you ask me something?”
“You’ve been flirting tonight. But these men don’t really know you as I do. They don’t know you’re only playacting, behaving according to my mother’s instructions.”
“Oh?” she asked, giving him her most demure smile. “Perhaps this is the real me, sprung like a butterfly from my cocoon.” She twirled in front of him, enjoying the flutter of silk against her skin, rejoicing in the way he glanced down the length of her. Did he appreciate what he saw?
He clenched his jaw. “Stop it, Jane. This isn’t you.”
“Others don’t share your opinion. In fact, several of my admirers have requested permission to call on me. Now, we mustn’t dally, or we’ll miss this set.” In a fit of daring, she started toward the dance floor, praying he would follow her. She would die if he did not.…
To her delight, Ethan stalked at her heels. His features looked grim and suspicious, as if he could not quite fathom the change in her.
She liked catching him off guard. It gave her a kind of power over him, a feminine allure that she was only just beginning to understand. So what if her behavior was merely a role? It would do him well to wonder.
As they reached the other dancers, she recognized the music and saw couples gathering. Disappointment pricked her high spirits. “It’s a waltz. I’m afraid our dance will have to wait until later.” Except there wouldn’t be a later. In a few moments she would be obliged to lure him out to the garden. She would give him over to another woman.
“Devil take that silly rule,” he said. “You’re as old as I am, and you ought to be able to dance whenever you like.”
“But Lady Rosalind said—”
“Live dangerously. Isn’t that your mot
to tonight?”
With one hand, he caught hers; he clamped his other hand around her waist and propelled her into the throng of dancers. Surprised, she clutched at him. For a moment she could not think, could do nothing but let him guide her along, twirling around and around, her spirits soaring from an onslaught of pure joy.
She was dancing with Ethan. He held her in his arms, perhaps not as close as in her dreams, yet with a possessiveness that thrilled her. She liked the feel of his hand, big and strong, gripping hers. She liked the intimacy of his other hand resting at her waist. The heat of it spread a wonderful tingling through her breasts and down into her lower regions. Oh, she did feel wicked!
She caught flashes of the onlookers. People stared and whispered. Lady Rosalind smiled from the edge of the crowd while His Grace of Kellisham frowned at her side. A reckless pleasure filled Jane. She was waltzing with a renowned rogue. In full view of the ton, she was committing a scandal, and she didn’t care what anyone thought.
Except Ethan. She cared intensely what he thought.
She focused her giddy attention on his face and saw his mouth quirked into that devilish grin. “Enjoying yourself, Miss Maypole?”
She threw back her head and laughed. “Yes, I am.”
“No doubt the other guests are talking about us.”
“Let them.”
“My, you are daring tonight.” He glanced moodily at her mouth. “Have a care. The wrong man might misconstrue your nature.”
“How so?”
“He might think you willing to do his bidding.”
His deep voice rasped across Jane’s senses. Beneath her hand, his arm muscles shifted with the movements of the dance, and more than anything, she wanted to close the gap between them, to press herself to his hard body. “Fie, my lord. I do no man’s bidding. I please only myself.”
“And what pleases you, Jane?”
You. Only you. She caught herself in time, remembering to be mysterious. “Shame on you for asking such an impertinent question. But I’ll answer it anyway. Moonlight on a lake. A roomful of exotic orchids. Silk against my skin.”
He frowned as if displeased by her answer. “You’ve never been the frivolous sort. What do you hope to gain by this masquerade tonight?”
“Must I have a purpose? Other than pleasure, of course.” She formed her mouth into a half-smile, the way she’d seen his women do. “Besides, you are the only one who thinks it a masquerade.”
“I am also the only one who knows you’d rather read a book of sermons than snare a noble husband.”
“Perhaps my tastes have changed.”
“It’s best they don’t. Forgive me for being blunt, but you lack a dowry. The moment these vultures discover the truth, they’ll fly off to a more lucrative prospect.”
She didn’t care. None of them mattered to her. Only this man. The one man who made her heart spin out of control.
The one man she could never have.
That was why she meant to savor this moment. She could remember it later, alone in her bed. She could treasure it, like a miser with his hoard of gold.
Her senses reeled from the constant twirling, from the nearness of him. Ethan. She closed her eyes and saw brilliant specks cavort against her lids. His tautly muscled arms flexed beneath her fingers. The world swam around and around and around.…
Cool air tickled her face. The music faded into the distance. The twirling slowed and ceased, though she could still feel his hands firmly holding her, spanning her waist.
Opening her eyes, Jane blinked. She stood with Ethan on the balcony outside the ballroom, close to the stone balustrade. The moon showered silvery light over his black hair, and shadows veiled his face.
“Are you all right?” he asked. “You looked as if you were about to swoon in there.”
She felt like swooning now. His thighs pressed lightly against hers, and she longed to be one of those shallow women who inspired tenderness in a man, a seductress who knew how to entice him into a kiss. If only she dared tell him how much he meant to her, how much he’d always meant.
The effects of the champagne clouded her reason. Emboldened, she leaned into him, and his arm moved up to support her shoulders.
“Are you dizzy?” he asked. “Perhaps you should sit.”
“Mmmm.”
Her breasts brushed his chest. It was an incredibly carnal feeling, and like a cat, she wanted to rub herself against him. Her legs felt as limp as wilted flowers. She stood so close she could see his features in the darkness, the cheekbones she longed to trace with her fingertip, the eyes that watched her with hooded intensity, the mouth she longed to taste.
She sensed an awareness in him, a charge of energy as searing as a lightning bolt. “Jane?” He cupped her cheek in his big hand. His lips parted slightly, and he tilted his head at a watchful angle. Did he realize she was a woman now?
She ached to show him all the feelings kept locked too long inside herself. She wanted him to kiss her, wanted it with all her heart. And for a fleeting moment she thought that he might. The warmth of his breath mingled with hers, and the air seemed wrapped in magic.…
From somewhere inside the house a sound intruded from an opened window. The sonorous bongs of a clock.
The rhythmic noise shattered the trance surrounding Jane. With a gasp of dismay, she jerked herself backward, out of his arms.
Midnight.
The witching hour.
It was time for Cinderella to give away her prince.
Chapter 10
Ethan gulped in the chilly night air. Though she had moved away, he could still feel the heat of her body burning him. He could still feel the pressure of his own arousal. What madness had come over him?
This was Jane.
Jane Mayhew, repressed spinster.
Miss Maypole of the disapproving sneers and critical commentary.
It was insanity to desire her. Yes, she had thrown herself into his arms, but she had drunk too much champagne to realize what she was doing. That was why he’d brought her out here, half swooning, before anyone else noticed she was melting in his arms. He had never intended to take advantage of her inebriated state.
Yet if she hadn’t pulled back, he would have kissed her. The realization galled him. He would have kissed Jane because she intrigued him, because he wanted her. Madness. He must be desperate; he hadn’t bedded a woman in the fortnight since Jane had come marching into his chamber, on a mission to prove him a father.
Tonight, she didn’t look at all like that prim old maid.
She stood at the stone railing, peering down into the darkened garden. Moonlight glowed on the curvy white expanse of her bosom, and he couldn’t help staring again. He had always believed her flat-chested, sexless beneath the loose gowns she wore. But Jane had enough there to tempt a man. What other assets did she hide?
She leaned farther out, still gazing downward, like a moon maiden enthralled with the earth below. Spurred by fear, he caught her by the waist and hauled her back onto the balcony. “What the bloody hell are you doing?” he snapped. “You’ll fall to your death.”
“I was holding on to the railing.” She giggled with un-Jane-like abandon. “Now I’m holding on to you.”
She clutched at his coat, and again he was aware of her body, soft and pliant in his arms, ready and willing to be coaxed to his command. It was a novelty to hold a woman who was nearly as tall as he, his equal match. “We should go back inside,” he said.
“Not yet.” She groped for the fan dangling from her wrist, opened it, and peered at him over the feathers. “I’m really rather warm. And dizzy, too. Will you walk with me down in the garden?”
He shouldn’t do it. He should escort Jane to her aunt. Wilhelmina would see to it that Jane behaved.
But another man might ask her to dance. Another man might lure her out to the garden and take advantage of her. A man of lesser willpower than Ethan.
“Come along, then.” He guided her to the narrow stone staircase
that led down to the ground floor. She clung to him, proving that her senses still reeled from the champagne. Afraid that she might tumble down the steps, he slid his arm around her waist as they descended to the garden. She had a strong, slim body that made him think of long, athletic sessions in bed.
Devil take it. He too must have drunk an inordinate amount of champagne, though a few glasses had never before troubled him.
Strings of lanterns lit the trees. Several other couples strolled the flagstone pathways, and the murmur of their voices blended with the distant music. He could smell the sweetness of roses carried by the breeze … or was it Jane’s scent? He wanted to put his face to her bosom and breathe deeply.
Desperate for a diversion, he touched her locket, careful to avoid her warm skin. “This is a pretty piece.”
“It was my mother’s,” Jane said, a melancholy note entering her voice. She reached up to clasp the locket, her fingers brushing his. “It’s my most prized possession. I wear it all the time—though it was always hidden beneath my dress before tonight.”
He wished to God she still had on that shapeless sack, buttoned to her chin. “You’ll want to sit down,” he repeated, steering her toward a bench in the shadows. “You must be weary from all the dancing.”
“No!” she burst out. Then she whispered, “I mean, I would prefer to walk. In the country, I’m accustomed to walking for hours.”
Her vehemence surprised him. Stranger still, she peered around the garden as if curious about the other couples. She wasn’t a gossip, so why did she care who was out here? Did she worry about who saw her in the company of a seasoned rake? She ought to.
“As you wish,” he said. “But we mustn’t stay away for too long, lest people comment on our absence.”
“I never knew you to fret over what others think.”
“I’m not concerned about myself. It’s you who need take care. Once a woman loses her good reputation, it can never be retrieved.”
“While the man goes on his merry way.”
“Precisely.” Her words cheered him. This was his thorny Jane, the comfortable Jane he knew so well. “Let me give you a word of warning,” he added. “You should stay away from men like me. Don’t go walking in dark gardens with any of your dance partners. Especially not Keeble or Duxbury. They’ll take advantage of you in a flash.”