by Olivia Drake
“Don’t.” He spun on his heel and scowled at her. “Don’t you dare even suggest it. My private life will not become fodder for the amusement of the masses.”
Jane pursed her lips. “If you think your work has no merit, then why do you continue to write?”
A dull red flush crept up his cheeks. He stood with his arms crossed, his jaw raised. “It’s a bad habit, that’s all.”
Jane gathered more papers and added them to her stack. “Rather like biting one’s nails? Or taking too many mistresses?”
“Precisely.”
“I disagree. I think you are a creative genius who has an obligation to share his God-given talents.”
He snorted. “I have an obligation to no one, and that is the way matters shall remain. Now go back to your room and stay out of my life.”
“Not yet.” She held up a paper to the lamplight and read through the maze of crossed-out words. “‘Beneath these vast and silent fields / Lie the bones of those unyield / Whose blood sustained the living men / And nourish now the victory coffin—’”
He snatched the paper out of her hand and crushed it. “Jane, I’m warning you for the last time. Get out. Or I’ll throw you out.”
“No you won’t,” she said. “Oh, Ethan, you have such a faculty for language. How can you belittle it? How can you let people go on thinking you’re worthless?”
“It’s my true nature,” he snarled. “You’ve said so yourself.”
Furious that she had made him voice his deepest fear, Ethan teetered on the verge of violence. He hurled the ball of paper into the waste bin, but he couldn’t stern the black tide inside himself. He hated her in that moment. He hated her for probing, for stripping away his defenses.
An oasis of calm, Jane knelt in the pool of her turquoise skirt. She had made tidy piles of the poems—his poems—and now gazed expectantly at him as if she had the right to pry into his secrets. He felt compelled to wipe that sympathy off her face, to make her see him as he really was—moody, broody, and beyond redemption.
He resumed walking, determined to burn off the dark fire inside himself. “Tell me I ought to be proud of myself,” he said. “While Napoleon marched his army into Belgium, I cast wagers on his success. While men like John Randall gave their lives for their country, I stayed at home to drink and whore. I didn’t even realize the battle had taken place until five days later. You see, I’d spent that time in bed with Serena Badrick.”
He could still remember surfacing from the hellhole of her bedroom, drained, dogged by self-disgust. And the shock of reading the news reports, the papers from London that had piled up during his sordid affair. He had ridden straight for home, ill to his soul, unable to flee the knowledge that at last he had fulfilled his father’s most dire prophesy.
Jane sat on her heels, watching him with unruffled acceptance. “You wrote a moving tribute to the captain and the other men who died,” she said. “Surely that counts for something—”
He cut her off with a slash of his hand. “It’s meaningless. A few words on paper signify nothing to the men who bled on the battlefield.”
“But you aren’t a soldier. You’re a writer. And if you share your poetry with others, you’ve fulfilled a purpose in making people aware of the horrors of war.”
He was drawn to her wise, innocent features, to the glimmering of light there. Turning away, he braced his hands on the carved mantelpiece and stared down into the dying fire. “No. You’re mistaken. There is no purpose to poetry other than vain self-indulgence. Words mean nothing. Only actions matter.”
“Who told you that?”
He clenched his jaw. But for once he could not stop the dark memories inside him from pouring forth. “My father.”
“Then he was wrong.” She scrambled to her feet and hurried to his side, a long-legged filly with more eagerness than grace. “Just because he didn’t appreciate poetry doesn’t mean your writing lacks value. He wasn’t capable of understanding your aesthetic thinking. It’s a matter of taste and preference.”
She didn’t understand. Or wouldn’t. In her own way, she was as stubborn and unrelenting as his sire. “It’s more than that,” Ethan said. “You’re simplifying the matter.”
“Did he ever read any of your work?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
Ethan snatched up the poker and stirred the coals, adding a few more lumps from the scuttle. Keeping his voice flat, he said, “When I was eleven, I wrote a poem for him on his birthday. I spent hours composing it, finding just the right words, recopying it. I made him out to be a god among fathers. And when I presented it to him, he ripped up the paper and threw the pieces into the fire.” Watching the flames leap up, he could see the parchment blackening, turning to ash. He could taste the sickness in his throat and feel the churning in his belly. Angry that the past still affected him, he jammed the iron poker back into its stand.
Jane touched his arm. “How cruel of him. If I had known…”
“If you had known, it wouldn’t have made a bloody bit of difference:” Ethan told himself to step away from her; the warm pressure of her hand felt dangerously comforting. Yet he didn’t move. “He wanted me to spend my time preparing to run the estate and to take my seat in Parliament someday. He sent me to read the law, but I failed in my studies. My sole interest lay in literature, a fact that enraged him. He told me…”
“Told you what?”
His throat taut, Ethan forced himself to go on. “He told me I would end up in the gutter if I didn’t do as he said. I’d be worse than the lowest gin-sotted derelict—because I’d had all the advantages and wasted them.” He pulled his gaze away from her. “And that’s precisely what’s happened.”
“So he is the reason you’ve denied your brilliant writing all these years.” Her eyes flashed with ire. “Well, I wouldn’t give a copper farthing for his narrow-minded opinion.”
“He wanted me to accomplish something with my life, the way he did.”
“Balderdash. He wanted to remake you in his own image—instead of allowing you to follow your own interests.”
Ethan resisted her logic. It was easier to taunt her. “Is this really Miss Maypole, commending me for ignoring duty and responsibility?”
“Yes,” she said, moving in front of him, her skirt rustling. She grasped his arms like a governess intending to drill a fact into an obstinate pupil. “You’ve closed yourself away here, scorned your talents, all because your father was too dull and dictatorial to understand your abilities. Can’t you see that you must be true to yourself, not become what someone else decides you should be? Your talent isn’t a vice. It’s a blessing.”
Her intensity drew him. The last thing he’d expected was for Jane to champion him. He’d only told her the truth in an attempt to disgust her, to make her see the mistake in exposing his secret to the world. And still she didn’t understand the tempest of emotions that compelled him to write. She didn’t grasp how personal those feelings were, how raw and exposed he felt from just one person reading his work, let alone hundreds—even thousands. The very prospect repelled him.
Judging by her fervent expression, Jane would not easily give up her new crusade. She stood before him, clutching his arms as if she could impose her will on him, a meddlesome woman telling him how to think and feel. And when she looked at him, her eyes shone as if she could see good inside the fallen archangel.
Damn her. Damn her for trying to change him into some idealistic vision of a hero. And damn himself for wanting to believe her.
“To hell with poetry,” he muttered, crowding her against the stone wall. “I’ll show you who I really am.”
His mouth caught hers, pressing hard. He slid his hands over her breasts and hips and bottom, making no concessions to her innocence. She was tall and willowy, almost his equal in height, yet soft and curved in all the right places. She wasn’t drunk on champagne this time, and so much the better. Jane would see that he truly was the disgraced man the world saw
.
He cupped her breasts, massaging her through the rigid corset, expecting her at any moment to slap his hands away and accuse him of being a wicked rake. He wanted her to do just that, to run away in disgust and leave him the hell alone.
Instead, she uttered a small sound in her throat. Her arms looped around his neck and her fingers tangled in his hair. “Ethan.” Breathing his name, she parted her lips and pressed her body to his.
Heat flashed to his loins. It was intense, mindless, intoxicating, and he reacted without thinking, tasting her more deeply, fitting himself into the cradle of her hips. He felt the powerful urge to join with her, to make the bond between them physical as well as cerebral. He knew passion, how to control it, how to shape a woman to his will. And he would do just that to Jane; he would make himself the center of her universe. He would dominate her, give her pleasure, until she forgot all else. Reaching for the back of her dress, he had the buttons undone to her waist when sanity broke through his madness.
Jane. He intended to make love to Jane Mayhew. Miss Maypole.
He jerked himself back, bracing his shaking hands on the stone wall. His head bent, he fought for breath. “We can’t do this.”
“Why not?” Her voice sounded husky, and her fingers moved back and forth over his collarbone. “Don’t you like kissing me?”
He lifted his head. Gray-blue eyes studied him with open yearning. Her lips looked damp and reddened, inviting as heaven. Damning as hell. “Kissing is for virgins,” he said bluntly. “Go back to your room. Lest you find yourself ruined.”
He stepped back, allowing her space to leave. But she didn’t move. The short sleeves of her gown sagged halfway down her shoulders, giving her a vulnerable, waiflike appearance.
“Perhaps I want you to ruin me,” she said. With a sinuous shrug of her shoulders, she let the dress slip down. It clung stubbornly to her bosom for a moment before pooling at her waist. “I’d like it very much, please.”
She might have been requesting a teacake. Her gaze fixed on him, she plucked at the front laces of her corset.
He stared at the pink-ribboned undergarment that defined her slender form and pushed up her breasts, tantalizing him with a glimpse of what lay beneath. She must have drunk too much wine at dinner. That was the only explanation for her astonishing behavior.
“The devil you say.” Before she could do more than loosen the corset, he yanked up her bodice, his fingertips brushing her flesh. The fabric clung there, revealing a tantalizing swath of ivory skin. She felt soft and warm, and he wanted only to strip away that last defense and take her in his hands. He wanted to press her down to the floor and introduce her to mindless lust. Harshly he said, “Cover yourself.”
Making no move to obey, she lowered her chin and regarded him through her lashes. It was an incredibly erotic look coming from an untried maiden. “Oh, Ethan, you make me feel so warm and shivery inside. If you don’t make love to me now, I’ll never know what it’s like. Please, let me show you I’m not a sour old spinster.”
If she had punched him, she could have not have shocked him more. He couldn’t think, he could scarcely breathe. His body was on fire.
For her. For Jane.
Unable to stop himself, he settled his shaking hands on her bare shoulders. “My God, you deserve better than a sordid affair.” He lowered his voice to a gruff murmur. “I’m not good enough for you.”
“Perhaps not.” She graced him with a rueful little smile. “But I don’t want any other man. I want you.”
A gust of wind rattled the windowpanes and lightning flashed, closer now. Desire gripped his loins. He could scarcely believe this was Jane, prim and prudish Jane, declaring her passion for him. He knew he should send her away, push her out of the tower room and bar the door. He could offer her only a fleeting ecstasy.
Yet he couldn’t walk away.
She stood in the flickering light of the lamp, gazing at him with those clear gray-blue eyes, her expression radiating a richness of emotion that called to a yearning buried deep inside himself, something both tender and terrifying, something that overruled the few scruples he had left.
And he knew in that moment that he was lost.
Chapter 17
His sudden move caught Jane by surprise.
Seizing her in his arms, he swept her up and half carried her to the rug before the hearth. Startled hope stole her breath. Even as her toes met the floor, his mouth came down on hers with stunning ferocity.
She had no time to think, no chance to revel in the knowledge that her plan had worked. With one hand he cradled her head so that he could taste her, with the other he explored her form. He tugged down her bodice, yanked at the ribbons, parted her corset. And then he thrust his hand inside her shift and cupped her breast in his palm.
She had dreamed of a man’s touch, his touch, but the reality was so much finer. He moved his thumb across the crest, and the sensation sparkled downward, causing a place deep inside her to contract. By instinct, she arched against him, obeying the need to be closer, to feel the pressure of her body against his.
His mouth left hers and she mourned the loss, but only for a moment. He kissed a path across her cheek, licked her inner ear and made her shiver, moved down to her throat and lower still. Even as his hands pushed off her bodice and corset, he put his lips to her breast, not bothering to move her shift aside, suckling her like a babe.
She gasped, unprepared for the shock of it, the tugging sensation that spiraled down to her belly in a warm wave. As he bent to her bosom, she threaded unsteady fingers into his thick hair. She tipped her head back and closed her eyes, the better to feel the magic of his mouth.
“Oh, Ethan.”
Her legs went weak and she must have swayed, for he guided her down to her knees and knelt before her, peeling away the cambric shift until she was bare to her waist. Looping one arm around her waist, he touched her breasts with his fingertips, tracing the contours of hills and valley.
“No padding,” he said with intensely male satisfaction. “How did you hide these for so long?”
She ducked her head, absurdly pleased by his approval. “How did you hide your writing?”
His mouth quirked into a wry grimace. “We’ve both had our secrets. But I confess, I like yours better.”
He replaced his hand with his mouth, applying himself to her bosom again in that uncommonly delicious kiss. She felt the rasp of his tongue first on one side, and then the other, filling her with wanton warmth and sending liquid shivers over her skin. The feeling expanded throughout her body and pooled deep in her belly.
With unsteady hands, she cupped his neck inside his collar, absorbing the heat of his flesh, caressing his jaw and feeling his movements as he suckled her. Sweet heaven. How had she lived for so long without knowing this pleasure? No wonder women flocked to him.
She swallowed against the furious ache in her throat. She didn’t want to think about all his lovers, not tonight. It was futile to wish for fidelity from him. That had nothing to do with her purpose. For now he was hers and nothing else mattered.
He plucked the pins from her hair, letting the rich brown mass flow down to her waist. “God, how I’ve wanted to do this,” he muttered, bending his head and nuzzling her neck. “To strip away your starch. To know how you taste and feel.”
He was touching her as he spoke. One hand kneaded her breast, the other slipped inside her gown to cup her bottom. His big palm felt solid and possessive over the thin barrier of her petticoat. Her breath quickened, as much in response to his words as his caress. “Did you, truly?” she asked, gripping his shoulders, not caring if she let her wistfulness show. “Did you really imagine doing this with me?”
The sound he made in his throat was part groan, part laugh. “Jane, ever since you stormed into my bedchamber in Wessex, I’ve thought about nothing else. Nothing but you.”
Her insides curled sweetly. She didn’t want to think he might be embellishing the truth. Tonight she would believe
whatever he told her. She would revel in his charm and learn all he was willing to teach her. And perhaps if—when—he married her, they could do this every night. Perhaps he wouldn’t be so angry when he realized she’d come here to trick him.…
She lifted her face to him, and he plunged her into another deep, drowning kiss. Her senses swam giddily, leaving her gasping and limp, clay in his capable hands.
The next thing she knew, he had her falling backward, onto the carpet in front of the fireplace. But it wasn’t the heat from those flames that warmed her. It was Ethan kneeling over her, Ethan unknotting the ties of her petticoats with expert ease, Ethan peeling off her gown and undergarments in one smooth pull. Only her gauzy silk stockings and lacy white garters kept her from utter nakedness. Through the mist of her desire, she felt a certain shyness as he gazed upon what no man had seen before. Instinctively, she brought her hands low to shield her most vulnerable place.
He took hold of her wrists and gently moved her arms. “Don’t,” he said. “Don’t ever be ashamed. You’re beautiful. The perfect woman.”
For several heartbeats he gazed at her, and she wanted to weep at the appreciation on his face. Then his hand met her thigh. His fingers feathered up and down, until her embarrassment melted into a different sort of tension, an impatience to move beneath him. No longer could she lie still and watchful. She ached for something she could not name, something that made her twist her hips toward his hand in unabashed eagerness.
“Ethan?”
“Don’t be afraid,” he murmured. “Let yourself feel it.”
“Feel what?”
“This.”
He cupped her between the legs, the heel of his palm pressing lightly, insistently. Even as she gasped in startled wonder, he lay down beside her, his leg anchoring hers with a gratifying weight. He still wore his shirt and breeches, and it seemed utterly decadent for him to be clothed while she sprawled like an offering for his pleasure.