by The Rogue
Jane went very still, mesmerized by the sudden warmth in his eyes. He was looking at her as if she were simply an ordinary girl—not “my lady,” or “the heiress,” or even “wealthy customer.”
If she was not mistaken, no man had ever looked at her like that in her life.
She smiled shyly back up at him, a real smile, without a smidgen of social reticence in it.
His eyes warmed further. “You as well, eh?”
Her gaze went to his fine cravat, tied in the latest style, ruby stock pin glittering in the folds. He followed her gaze, glancing down at himself with a wry grimace.
“Protective coloration,” he explained. He nodded at her severe silk gown. “Like you. If you went about in rags, you’d only draw attention. You must put half your pay into keeping up appearances,” he said sympathetically.
Jane looked down and smoothed her skirts. Did she really look like a governess in this gown? True, it was cut very simply.
She was suddenly overcome by a wild desire to own something daring and bright, something that would make Mr. Damont’s eyes pop from his head—
Not that she cared what he liked. Not at all. But there was that sapphire-colored silk she’d seen displayed at the modiste’s . . .
Ethan gazed down at his companion. Aside from that one unfettered, surprisingly contagious grin, she’d scarcely been able to respond to him at all. She was a funny, shy creature, wasn’t she?
Of course, that explained why she was lurking in the garden tonight. Still, shirking her duties that way made her a bit of a rebel as well, and Ethan was very fond of rebellion. He encouraged it, in fact.
He leaned close to her ear. “Stay right here,” he whispered. “I shall return in a moment.”
With a wink, he quickly let himself back into the house. It was the work of only a moment to abscond with two glasses and a bottle of wine left to breathe in the butler’s pantry.
When he returned to the terrace, his new friend was standing at the edge of the lawn as if she were contemplating making a run for the shrubbery. Tucking the wine under his arm, Ethan went to her and held out his hand.
“You cannot leave me now,” he said with a smile. “If you go, I’ll have to go back in as well.” He put on a mournful face. “A fate worse than death, you know.”
That got a tiny laugh from her, hardly more than an amused breath, but Ethan took encouragement nonetheless. Taking her unresisting hand, he led her back to the bench. “You and I,” he said, “are the only two people in the world, as of this moment.”
She was gazing at him in wry disbelief, her opinion of his madness plain. “Oh, I know,” he said. “You think me mad, but look at it from this perspective. If we are the only two people in the world, then there is no one to condemn or decry us. No one else to whom we owe a farthing, or a favor.” Or a house.
Ethan shook off any thought of the Liars and their deal with the devil. “I want an hour of freedom,” he begged his companion with a smile. “Doesn’t that sound grand?”
She glanced away, biting her lip slightly. The motion called Ethan’s attention to the fact that she had a very pretty mouth—a nice bow to her upper lip and her bottom one was full enough to impart a hint of secret sensuality. Now that was interesting.
Being that he was no kind of gentleman, Ethan wasn’t above stealing a kiss from a pretty lass. A pink tip of tongue flicked out to soothe that bitten lip.
No, indeed. Not above that at all . . .
His rebel governess turned back to gaze at him with a challenge in her eyes and a glass in her hand.
Ethan grinned. “That’s my girl.” He poured them both a few inches of wine. “Now, sip that slowly—”
When she quickly brought the glass to her lips, Ethan stopped her with a hand on hers. “There is no race,” he said softly. “This is about savoring a moment of time out of time. Sip slowly and pretend that there is no tomorrow, no yesterday, no expectations—”
He halted at the soft sheen that came into her eyes. She blinked quickly, but the startled expression on her face gave him pause. He hadn’t meant to upset her—but perhaps it was not his words that made tears threaten.
If what he was saying struck such a chord with her . . . well, perhaps they had even more in common than he’d first assumed.
He set his own glass on the bench and took her hand in both of his, glass and all. “Don’t take on so,” he whispered. “I know it can be hard to make your way where you do not truly belong—to walk in their halls and live in their rooms—and it must be doubly hard for you, lost between, who is neither servant nor equal—”
Jane could not withstand the sweet sympathy in his voice, the warm comfort of his hands on hers. To her complete disbelief, a single hot tear broke free from her control to roll down her face. Why? She had no such burden! She was Lady Jane Pennington, without a care in the world.
And yet, until that moment, she had never before realized how truly alone she was. Lost between—yes, that was precisely how she felt. Few women in her world were her equal, either in status or in competence. Her own mother used to look at her as if she were not quite sure where her daughter had emerged from. Everyone looked to her when difficulties arose, but no one ever paused to wonder if she had any difficulties of her own.
Men knew not what to make of her, for her very competence seemed to turn them away. She was unfeminine, unwanted except for her wealth, which was more of an ironic joke than she’d ever dare admit.
Mr. Damont liked her . . . but Mr. Damont didn’t know her. She let her hand relax within his warm ones. He took her glass away, setting it beside his. His eyes shone with sympathy for the plight of the shy governess. If she spoke now, revealed herself, he would—
What would he do? She found him entirely unpredictable. He was by turns charming and caustic, kind and cynical. He obviously had no love of the aristocracy.
Therefore it was very unlikely that he would continue to like her, to talk to her, and certainly not to hold her hand so comfortingly in his large warm ones.
She had no right to that comfort. It was undeserved and unwanted. She tried to pull her hand from his.
His fingers tightened gently about hers. “Shh,” he soothed. “Don’t be vexed. One tear does not an ocean make.” He reached to brush his knuckles down her cheek, drying the path of that tear with a single caress. Jane nearly started. When had anyone ever touched her like that?
He flicked his fingers open in the air. “See? It never happened. No one will ever know. Besides, no one else exists tonight, remember?”
Jane nodded slowly, unwillingly charmed by the notion. That way she would not have to wonder, What was Lady Jane Pennington doing sitting in the dark with a common gambler, drinking his wine and holding his hand?
The door to the house opened, shattering the moment. “Ah, Lady Jane, here you are,” the footman standing there said. “Her ladyship is seeking you.”
Jane went quite cold. Her gaze shot to meet that of Mr. Damont. He dropped her hand and stared up at her as if she had suddenly turned blue.
Jane stood, never taking her gaze from Mr. Damont’s shocked one. “Thank you, Robert. Tell her ladyship I will join her shortly.”
When the obviously curious footman shut the door and left them in the dark once more, Jane clasped her hands before her. “Do please forgive my deception, but it was necessary to ascertain whether you were the sort of man to expose the embarrassing incident the other night—”
“You? That was you?” He seemed most distressed. “In the tree?” His eyes narrowed. “Who are you?”
Jane lifted her chin. “I am Lady Jane Pennington, daughter of the late Marquis of Wyndham.”
Mr. Damont shot up from the bench. “You’re a bloody actress, that’s what you are! What sort of game is this?” He was indignant and angry, which she’d expected, but also visibly hurt, which she had not.
Jane took a breath. “I had no intention of misleading you, sir—”
“The bloody hell you di
dn’t!” He ran a hand over his face, obviously reaching for control. “See here, Lady Jane, do you have any idea what sort of trouble a bloke could get into for trifling with a woman like you?”
Oh, dear. That possibility had never crossed her mind. “I’ve—I’ve no intention of making trouble for you, Mr. Damont.”
He turned away, shaking his head. “I thought you were someone I—” He turned back angrily. “I suppose now we’re going to play ‘Call the magistrate, I’ve been assaulted,’ am I correct?”
Jane drew back. “Of course not—”
“Why not? You’ve quite a case against me. I’ve held your hand, held you in my arms, touched you in all sorts of improper ways. I’ve even seen you in your knickers, lovely legs and all, haven’t I?”
Jane swallowed. She hadn’t meant to inspire such a rage—
Lovely legs and all?
Shocking. Bawdy. And very gratifying, in a secret feminine way that she would never admit. Did she have attractive limbs? Perhaps she did. How would she know, after all?
Ethan drew a deep breath. Calm down, old man. If the wench were going to call down the law upon him, she could have done so already. One scream and the house would have descended upon them and hauled him off her.
Instead, she had tricked him, lied to him—
Well, that wasn’t strictly true. She hadn’t spoken at all, but Ethan was in no mood to be charitable. Lies by omission were lies all the same. He ought to know, he’d practically invented the method.
Damnation, all he had wanted was a moment where he wasn’t who he was . . .
Perhaps that was all Lady Jane Pennington had wanted as well.
Ethan wasn’t willing to allow complete forgiveness, but his anger settled slightly. He turned to her. “I think it is time you went home. I’ll have a footman fetch your carriage—”
“I live here,” she interjected. “I am Lord Maywell’s niece.”
Ethan closed his eyes in complete surrender. “Of course you are.” This was going to make his bloody blasted “mission” even more difficult. Ethan found himself very near laughter. “You are a lady, an heiress, the daughter of a marquis, the niece of Lord Maywell—and I’ve seen your knickers.”
Lady Jane Pennington folded her arms. “I fail to see what you find so amusing, Mr. Damont.”
Ethan laughed out loud. “Of course you don’t!” He swept her a deep, mocking bow. “Back into the house with you, Lady Jane, or I’ll tell every man in there what color your garters are!”
“Oh!”
She had the pure gall to be affronted. The lying schemer. She drew up to her full height—which was rather nicely tall, in fact, for she nearly reached his chin. Ethan had ever preferred tall women—and stalked away from him, shutting the terrace doors behind her with a decided slam.
Ethan let his head hang and rubbed one hand over his face. His fingers left a damp trail on his cheek.
Her single tear. Lady Jane Pennington, who had nothing to weep over as far as he could see, had left a single, hot teardrop in his hand.
Ethan touched his dampened cheek with curious fingers and wondered what he had said that would bring a woman like that to tears.
Ethan expected supper to be excruciating. These things usually were. Now, with the addition of the “matter of Lady Jane Pennington” to make him feel the breath of aristocratic retribution on the back of his neck, it looked to be a nightmare from hell.
Ethan’s usual manner of passing the time at boring events was flirtation, but that would be impossible at the Maywell table. With the Maywell Mob making up nearly the entire list of attending ladies, there would be no safe targets for his charm.
Flirting with a young Society girl would mark him as unsafe—ending his parasitic career with one fell blow of the hammer. So far he was tolerated, even encouraged, because he’d never crossed that line. Oh, he’d had some playful encounters with married women, and a few memorable widows, but he knew what he was—and he knew what he wasn’t.
So the Society daughters he treated with cool politeness, careful not to allow the slightest hint of attraction even to the most stunning of them. They weren’t for the likes of him. They weren’t even supposed to be breathing the same air.
When he was ushered into the main salon of Maywell House, Ethan saw that his fears were realized. The only ladies present were the five daughters of Lord Maywell and their cousin, Lady Jane Pennington.
After leaving the terrace, he’d returned to the smoking room and listened more carefully to the discussions floating about him. His impression was that Lady Jane Pennington was an heiress trolling for a duke at the least, for she’d given short shrift to any lesser fellows.
The young blokes about town had dubbed her Lady Pain for her manner of delivering her refusals. When anyone met with her guardian, Lord Maywell, to plead for her hand, Lady Jane had immediately shot back a scathing refusal letter to each. Ethan didn’t blame her for seeking a higher match, but such cruelty could not be excused.
The most he could hope for this evening was to be seated next to Lady Maywell, who was far too sensible to flirt and might even offer some interesting conversation.
Instead, he found himself between the youngest—and possibly the silliest—daughter, Serena, and Lady Pain herself.
Of course. He sighed deeply, hiding it beneath the act of sitting down. It was going to be a very long evening.
Lady Jane looked very much the proper heiress now. Ethan was quite sensitive to the secret code enacted in the nuances of dress and manner. Here in the full light, it was obvious that Lady Jane’s gown was finer even than Lady Maywell’s in cut and fabric.
He must be slipping, to ever perceive her as a lowly governess.
The first course of soup was served. To his left, Miss Serena Maywell promptly tipped her spoon onto her bodice. Ethan suspected it was because she’d been staring at him and not her soup, but he’d been careful to not quite meet her eye.
He continued to act as if the spreading stain on her gown were invisible, along with her tiny humiliated sniffles. He would have liked to charm her out of her upset, but she was so young that she’d surely take his attentions wrong.
Damn, the girl couldn’t be but sixteen! She ought to be dreaming in her schoolroom, sneaking peeks through the banister at what the adults were up to! What were her parents thinking to throw her out onto the Marriage Mart at her age?
On the other side of him, Lady Jane cast fretful glances past him—or rather, through him—at Serena, but there was little she could do from where she sat. Finally Ethan, unable to bear the small hiccups now accompanying the sniffles to his left, turned helplessly to Lady Jane.
“Is there nothing you can do?” he asked in a low voice.
Lady Jane shook her head without looking at him. “I fear not,” she murmured. “She cannot leave the table and I dare not call further attention to her now. We can only pray that no one else notices.”
She was kind to her cousin, at least. Perhaps her spleen was saved for encroaching gamblers and overly ambitious suitors only. Still rather ill done of her, but not entirely nasty. Ethan tilted his head slightly toward her once more. “Then I fear I must make sure no one else notices.”
Ethan leaned forward to speak to the table at large. “Have you all heard the latest about the Prince Regent? There’s a driver who knows a footman who knows a chambermaid who swears she heard a donkey bray from the royal bedchamber—”
Jane sat back and watched Mr. Ethan Damont capture the attention of the entire party with one skillfully ribald tale after another. He was shocking, outrageous, and entirely entertaining without ever going over the line of innuendo and rumor. If she hadn’t known his purpose, she would have thought him presumptuous and flashy—just the sort of fellow she could not bear.
But as she watched him engage everyone there, distracting them enough so that Serena was able to dab secretly at her gown with a damp dinner napkin—rescuing Serena like a knight charging in on a white horse of gos
sip, for pity’s sake!—Jane found that she could bear him very well indeed.
He was angry with her, however, that much she was sure of. His manner was nothing like his teasing behavior before.
She could leave it at that, if she liked. He’d proved tonight that he would not willingly allow a lady to be embarrassed. It was possible that she could simply trust his nobler instincts . . .
No. It was no good. She’d never been one to bear suspense well. She had to know if he could be trusted with the truth. She would pin him down directly after supper.
Chapter Seven
Once the ladies had left the dining room, Ethan made his escape into the hall, past a footman who stood guard against interruption, and around the corner. If he could just make it out of this madhouse, he would go back to the Liar’s Club and tell Lord Overbearing that he could take his little spy ring and—
“Mr. Damont, I wish to speak to you.”
Ethan nearly jumped out of his skin when the girl popped up from nowhere. “Good God, my lady!” He clapped a hand over his heart, not actually pretending. “Have pity, if you please!” He blinked at her, then dropped his charm like a hot rock. “Oh, it’s you,” he said dismissively.
Lady Jane drew herself up. “I do not see why you are so testy yet. I had a perfectly reasonable explanation for my actions. I needed to ascertain whether or not you could be trusted.”
Ethan regarded her hotly. “And the verdict?”
Jane clasped both hands before her. “I found you charming and kind. Pity that I turned out to be so very wrong.”
“Hmph.” Ethan could not help feeling gratified that she had liked him. He had liked her as well, until—
“What do you mean, you were so very wrong?”
Jane fought back a smile. She’d certainly managed to get his attention. “Oh, very well. I suppose I wasn’t so much wrong as I was . . . misled.”
“Misled!”
She spread both hands against his outrage. “Truce! I shall admit it, I was not wrong.” She dropped her hands and gave him a slight smile. “Why is that you take no affront when someone accuses you of cheating at cards, yet you took great offense when I said you were not charming?”