by Olivia Drake
The rigid set of his mouth eased. “So long as they aren’t spreading gossip about you or Marianne.”
“Of course not. I’m afraid we’ve become yesterday’s scandal.”
He leaned closer. “Shall we create a new scandal, my lady?”
A wolfish grin lit his darkly handsome features. He stood so near she could feel his heat, and it sparked a slow burn inside herself. He could kiss her right here in this company, and she would not resist. He knew it, too; she could see the confidence in his dark eyes. She ought to reject him, the swaggering rogue.
But his brash masculinity appealed to her too much, and in the dangling fronds of the fern, her hand found his. She stroked her thumb over his big palm, loving the way his eyelids lowered slightly, his gaze intensifying. She could almost fancy he felt more for her than lust.…
His gaze drifted over her bosom. Then he frowned slightly. “You aren’t wearing your locket.”
“Oh, I…” She paused, disliking the need to fib. “I misplaced it, but I’m certain it will turn up eventually.”
“Be sure to ask the maid.” He gently squeezed her fingers. “I know how much that locket means to you.”
Genuine concern shone in his eyes, and something very sweet took wing inside her, that he remembered how much she valued the sentimental keepsake. He mustn’t learn she had bartered it in order to give him a gift from her heart.
A clapping of hands shattered the moment. She stepped back, almost spilling her tea. A voice called out over the hum of conversation, “If I may have the attention of everyone here.”
By one of the fireplaces, Lord Keeble clambered onto a footstool. The added height made him as tall as Duxbury, who grinned at his side. Keeble’s portly chest was puffed out in an air of self-importance, and Jane cringed to think that he might offer an idiotic toast.
To Ethan, she whispered, “I do hope he doesn’t spoil the party for Lady Rosalind.”
“She’ll give him a proper set-down if he does. My mother is quite good at looking after her own interests.”
His fingers stroked the back of her waist, a gesture both soothing and energizing. She was impatient to return home, to give him her gift. Instead, she had to sit here and listen to Keeble’s ridiculous posturing.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I have a special surprise for all of you today. We have in our midst a rare talent, a man of mystery who is a member of the ton. A man who has hidden his genius from us until today.” Keeble paused, and Duxbury bobbed his head as if to confirm Keeble’s pronouncement.
A buzz of interest filled the chamber. People turned to one another in curiosity to see if someone could identify the subject of Keeble’s eulogy.
“What a pretty speech,” Ethan murmured to Jane. “He-should play ringmaster for Astley’s Circus.”
Her throat dry, Jane couldn’t answer. She took a sip of tea and tried to subdue a sudden twinge of uneasiness. There was something about Keeble’s manner that disturbed her. He kept glancing at her and Ethan.
The duke’s voice rang out. “Keeble, if you intend to repeat hearsay or innuendo, I must ask you to step down.”
“’Tis no rumor, Your Grace, but a fact I am prepared to prove right here and now.” Like an excited child, Keeble bounced up and down on his toes. “This man of secrets is a poet whose work surpasses that of Lord Byron and Mr. Shelley. And it is my great pleasure to be the very first to read a short selection from his new book.”
A dizzying-shock swept over Jane. Her cup rattled down into its saucer. She gripped the porcelain as Keeble surveyed the throng, then stared with undisguised glee at Ethan.
No. Impossible. The viscount couldn’t know about the book. She had made certain no one followed her to the printer’s shop.
Frowning, Ethan placed his untouched cup on a side table.
Keeble reached into an inner pocket of his peacock-blue frock coat and extracted a slim volume. A second jolt shook Jane, and a rising panic pressed on her lungs. The binding looked identical to Ethan’s book.
But she had locked the gift in her desk in her bedchamber. How could Keeble have obtained it?
She must be mistaken. There must be another gentleman who penned poetry in secret. It could only be a horrid coincidence.
Keeble riffled through the pages, cleared his throat theatrically, and began to read with melodramatic flair.
To One Who Sleeps at Waterloo
In valor he did ride to war,
One of many called to more
Righteous cause than those who wait
By hearthside comfort for his fate …
As the familiar words resonated in her ears, Jane stood paralyzed. A sense of unreality made her sway. This could not be happening. It could not be true.
She jerked her head toward Ethan. His gaze focused on Keeble, he gripped his fingers into fists, his knuckles white. An expression of panicked fury tautened his profile. Then he turned his head and looked straight at her.
She felt pinned by that dark, penetrating stare. There was a stark question in his eyes, a mirror of her own disbelief. And a raw agony she had glimpsed in him only once before, in the tower room the evening he had caught her reading his poems. Aghast that she was the inadvertent cause of his pain, she lowered her head and squeezed her eyes shut.
Her action had answered his question. She knew that, yet she could not disavow the truth. She had taken the poems to the printer. And somehow, Keeble had put his hands on a copy.
She was aware that he had ceased reading. A hush blanketed the saloon. Then a woman sniffled loudly, and a whispering of voices gathered force like wildfire, sweeping through the chamber.
“By Jove, that’s demned good!” a gentleman exclaimed.
“My dear James gave his life for his country, too,” a lady said brokenly.
“Where might I purchase this book?” someone else asked.
“Who is he?” several people clamored. “Tell us the name of the poet!”
Keeble preened with self-importance. “I am pleased to be the first to reveal his identity—”
Ethan uttered a low growl.
Jane jerked her chin up, opened her eyes, and saw him striding toward Keeble and Duxbury.
The sly triumph vanished from Keeble’s round face. He backed to the edge of the footstool. His voice changed to a sputtering falsetto. “I say … ah … perhaps he does not wish his name unveiled just yet … perhaps he would rather his wife do the honors.”
Ethan snatched the volume out of Keeble’s clutches. He paged through the book, his scowl deepening. Then his gaze shot to Keeble. “Perhaps he despises snoops.”
His fist flashed out and met Keeble’s jaw. The short man tumbled backward, straight into Duxbury. Both men landed in a tangled heap on the carpet.
Several ladies screamed. The clamor of voices rose to a fever pitch. Mouths agape, everyone stared at Ethan.
Jane dropped her teacup. Heedless of the liquid that splashed her lavender gown, she hastened toward him. She had to get him out of here. She had to make amends for her role in this scandal.
The duke strode forward. “What is the meaning of this outrage?”
“You should thank me,” Ethan drawled, flexing his fingers. “I was clearing the rabble from your home.”
Keeble groaned and rubbed his reddened jaw. “I ain’t rabble,” he protested. “All I did was read a poem.”
Duxbury sat up, his cravat crooked. “A pack of fancy words, that’s all.”
Lady Rosalind appeared beside the duke. Her eyes glistened with unshed tears as she gazed at Ethan. “You wrote that poem?” she whispered. “You?”
A dull flush crept up his throat and cheeks. He said nothing.
“You wrote it for John—for Captain Randall, your friend,” she said softly. “Oh, Ethan, it is a wonderful tribute—”
“It is a private matter,” he said grimly, shoving the book inside his coat. “I will thank you not to mention it again.”
The murmurings took on an excited edge. Jane
could see that people were amazed to discover the most notorious rogue in society could have such perception. And in spite of her distress, she was glad. Fiercely proud of him.
She slipped her arm through his. “Forgive us, Your Grace, my lady. I’m afraid we must take our leave. My husband and I have a pressing engagement.”
His dark glance seared her. “We do, indeed.”
With a tug imperceptible to anyone but her, he urged Jane toward the open doors.
“Wait!” someone called. “Do tell us where we might purchase a copy.”
Several people murmured and nodded.
“I fear,” he said with a hard-edged smile, “that you shall have to content yourselves with Lord Byron and Mr. Shelley. Good day.”
His arm rigid, he marched Jane out of the saloon and down the grand staircase. Their footsteps echoed in the vast foyer with its pale marble floor and crystal chandelier. One footman fetched their wraps while another held open the front door and scurried to fetch their carriage. They waited on the long portico, the sky gray and a chilly breeze blowing.
Ethan paced back and forth, as if unable to contain his agitation.
Jane could bear his silence no longer. Swallowing past the tightness in her throat, she said, “Ethan, please understand, I did not mean for anyone else—”
“Enough,” he snapped. “We will have our words in private.”
Her spirits descended even lower. She knew how highly he valued his privacy. And she had had a hand in destroying his peace. But surely … surely he would listen to reason, at least once his anger burned out. In the meantime, she would do everything in her power to make him comprehend that her intentions had been pure.
The sleek black barouche drew up in front of the mansion. Ethan ushered her down the broad marble steps and into the vehicle, taking the seat opposite her, his back to the horses. The closed carriage seemed to throb with tension, and she felt as if she were riding with a stranger.
“Now,” he said, “you will explain what happened in there.”
She forced herself to face his piercing glare. “I copied some of your poems. I took them to a printer and had them bound into a book.” Her voice wobbled and her eyes stung. “It was to be my birthday surprise to you.”
“Is it Keeble’s birthday, too?”
“No! I did not give him that book.” She leaned forward, desperate to erase the mistrust from his face. “I told the printer to make one book, and only one. He was not to allow anyone to read the poems. But … Keeble and Duxbury must have seen me enter or leave the shop. And somehow they convinced the printing master to disregard my instructions.”
“Money is a powerful persuader.”
He was right. It all made a sickening sense. “Then you do understand. You know that I meant the book for no one’s eyes but yours. Yours alone.”
His expression remained stony. “I know that you took my papers without permission. That you read what I wished no one to read. That by your actions, my ramblings have been exposed to the world.”
“That poem was more than ramblings. You touched the heart of every person present.”
“And wreaked hell on my reputation as a heartbreaker.”
“Don’t make a jest of it.” She lifted her chin and stared unflinchingly at him. “To be truthful, Ethan, I’m not sorry for what’s happened. People should know that you are more than a shallow rake.”
The hollow clopping of hooves filled the silence. The carriage swayed as it turned into the drive in front of Chasebourne House.
Ethan said nothing, his glower set in granite. There was no time to plead further with him as the barouche came to a stop and an impassive footman opened the door.
Feeling ill from the quarrel, Jane stepped down onto the paving bricks. The breeze tugged at her bonnet and sent a smattering of cold raindrops at her face. Not wanting anyone to witness her misery, she walked a few steps toward the grand mansion with its soaring columns and many tall windows. How magnificent was her new home. And she would trade every last stone for Ethan’s love.
Only then did she realize he hadn’t followed her.
She turned to see him standing by the front wheel, speaking to the coachman. Was he leaving? Before she could convince him to forgive her? Struck by panic, she hastened back just as Ethan was stepping into the carriage.
“Where are you going?” she murmured.
“To a place that caters to shallow rakes.” His gaze flashed over her in a dark, moody sweep. “You needn’t wait up.”
He shut the door and she stepped back automatically as the carriage rattled off down the drive.
The finality of his action struck her in full force. Her knees shook, and with effort, she mastered her trembling and walked slowly toward the house. Ethan didn’t care to hear her explanations. He didn’t care that she had printed his poems with the best of intentions. He could see only that she had provided the means for him to be unmasked before the world.
To him, her gift of love was another betrayal.
* * *
Ethan returned home very late and very drunk.
Stepping down from the carriage, he staggered. The footman grasped his elbow to discreetly steady him, but Ethan waved him away. “Thass won’t be neshessary.” He was faintly surprised to hear the slurring of his words.
The house seemed to sway in the darkness, and four torches flanked the doors where he could have sworn there were only two. Dimly he heard the clatter of the carriage as it set off to the mews. He took a deep breath, and the chilly air revived him enough to walk.
Right foot, left foot. He made his way toward the broad steps and had a flash of memory, of running up these very steps only to trip on the last one and fall flat at his father’s feet. Though a knot swelled on Ethan’s forehead, the fifth Earl of Chasebourne had reprimanded him for behaving like a common urchin. For crying, he had been banished to the nursery.
He felt the heat of moisture in his eyes now. He blinked it away in denial of a more piercing memory. Jane. The poems. The raw torment that burned despite the brandy.
He reached the portico and somehow his shoulder sank against the massive stone column. A second footman rushed to help him, a second time Ethan motioned him away. Reluctant to go inside just yet, he turned from the bright light of the torches—there really were just two—and gazed past the iron-fenced drive to the darkened square.
The book lay in his coat pocket. He could feel it pressing into his rib cage. In the carriage after he’d left Jane, he had been unable to resist examining the slender volume. He had donned his eyeglasses and viewed the pages in crisp clarity. Reading his own words, he had felt … a lifting inside himself … a feeling curiously like elation.…
Something moved in the darkness of the square. A tall man, watching from the shadows.
Ethan blinked his bleary eyes, and the image melted into nothingness. He stared into the depthless gloom beneath the trees. The clouds hid the moon, and the gaslights at either corner were too distant to penetrate the blackness. This prickling of unease he felt was another illusion.
An illusion like his trust in Jane.
She would be in her bed now. Asleep at this late hour. He wanted to go to her, to touch her, to feel her move against him with sleepy sensuality. He wanted to hear her cry out with love for him.
No. He wished her gone. She knew him too well. As he knew her. A cold shudder gripped him. She would poke and pry until she had opened his soul for all the world to see.
Muttering a curse, he pushed away from the pillar and managed to walk without stumbling to the front door. The brightness of the torches hurt his eyes. He’d be damned lucky to make it upstairs to his bed.
He would deal with his wife in the morning.
* * *
Jane awakened to the muffled sound of raised voices.
Pushing up on her elbow, she squinted at the pale light streaming through a crack in the draperies. It could not be far past dawn. Her mind felt drugged, her limbs heavy. She had not falle
n asleep until the wee hours.
Yesterday’s events came rushing back at her. The poems. The ruined birthday gift. Ethan’s fury.
The voices came from his bedchamber. She had not been dreaming his deep, angry tone. A quieter male voice answered him. Wilson? And a woman. There was a weeping woman. Jane could hear her broken sobs.
For one wild moment, she feared he’d brought home a whore. Cold sickness clutched at her belly. Then reason asserted itself. He must be berating a servant, that was all. She would not allow him to take out his wrath on a helpless employee.
Throwing back the coverlet, Jane scooted out of bed. She stepped through the semidarkness to pick up her silk robe from a chair. As she headed to the connecting door, she thrust her arms through the sleeves and tied the sash.
She didn’t bother to knock. She turned the handle and marched inside.
The draperies had been drawn to let in the meager light. Clad in a dressing gown, Ethan paced a path from the fireplace to the rumpled bed. Wilson clutched a white shirt and trailed after him, beseeching him to get dressed.
Her dark hair straggling from a white nightcap, Gianetta knelt wailing on the carpet.
Foreboding seized Jane, by the throat. “What is going on here? Has something happened to Marianne?”
Ethan swung toward her. His eyes were dark and hollow, his face haggard and unshaven. He strode toward Jane and took her by the arm, guiding her toward a chair. “Sit down.”
His heavy voice chilled her. Fighting a wild alarm, she wrenched free and rounded on him. “Just answer my question. Is Marianne ill? Have you sent for a physician? I must go to her—”
“Jane. She isn’t ill.” He paused, a muscle working in his jaw as he raked his fingers through his hair. “She’s been abducted.”
Chapter 23
Ethan saw disbelief darken Jane’s face, followed by horror. The same horror that gripped his chest. He had been awakened only a few minutes ago, groggy from the brandy he’d drunk. The news had hit him like a fist to his gut. He still could not fully grasp the truth of it.
Jane shook her head, her thick braid swinging. “How can you be sure?”