Mother's fever was better that day, so she watched, too. Small and frail in her wheeled chair, she was so obscured in the dark shade of a broad sycamore, it was as if she watched from some other realm already.
Sybil's father had seemed to shrink into himself when her mother died not a fortnight later.
Guilt, Sybil suspected.
She knew men of her class thought nothing of keeping a mistress, and most of their wives maintained a state of willful ignorance about that "other one." But when her mother had discovered her father had sired a bastard on one of the help right under her own roof, her health, never robust, began its steep decline. Lord Somerville blamed himself.
Now, her father faced his own decline—a financial one. And might not his health follow his fortunes?
Sybil sighed. Had the earl passed guilt on to her along with his eyes and the soup girl's face?
She stood and paced the small room. Giovanni was bohemian enough in his lifestyle not to ask her to marry him. He was content with warming her bed and that was fine with her. It kept their relationship blissfully uncomplicated.
Emphasis on bliss.
Then an idea struck her.
Why not go ahead and marry Lord Eddleton?
She swallowed a shudder of distaste at the idea of coupling with someone other than Giovanni, but she supposed she'd have to in order to make the contract valid. Then, once the Pearl made port and her father's finances were settled, she and Giovanni could run away together and live in delicious sin beneath a blue Tuscan sky.
It was only a matter of a quick wedding and a few months of pretended wedded harmony. She wouldn't even need to give up Giovanni, so long as they were discreet.
But that meant Sybil had to appear at Lord Hartwell's Christmas Ball this night to accept Lord Eddleton's proposal.
She dressed quickly and then sat down to write Giovanni a short note. Yes, this would be best for all concerned. It would give her time to plan and pull together some traveling money as well. She'd go with Giovanni in any case, but why not go in style?
“I wonder if I can convince my fiancé to hire Giovanni to paint our wedding portrait,” she said with a laugh. She sealed the note with a glob of candle wax, then dashed down the rickety stairs and into the snowy night.
Chapter Nine
Ian led Jane down the corridor and into the staircase hall. One floor below them, more guests were being admitted at the front door with loud announcements of Lord and Lady Somesuch-or-Other ringing in the grand foyer. The porter was minding his position. But at the second-story landing, Ian and Jane tiptoed past a liveried servant who nodded at his post, like a tired cart horse, snoring softly. The scent of gin wafted about him.
Too much Christmas spirit, Ian thought thankfully as they climbed the gracious main staircase, their steps silent as the snow falling outside.
Halfway up to the next landing, Jane tugged his hand and whispered, “This leads to the family's floor. Someone's bound to see us there.”
Ian shook his head. “His lordship is playing politics and Lady Hartwell is busy with her guests. All the servants are either running up and down the back staircase in service or in the kitchen, enjoying their own Christmas feast.”
He hoped Edward was enjoying his beef.
Ian had a feast of his own in mind, if only she'd start up the stairs once again. “Come, love.”
Jane pushed around him, lifted her skirts, and took the steps two at a time, her slippers making a soft swish against the polished oak. Ian hurried to catch up to her. When he threw a sidelong glance at Jane, her face was set in a frown. He'd smooth that away in short order if she'd give him his way just this once.
Ian ducked into the marquess's chamber. The gas lamp had been left burning low, softening the dark edges of the masculine room with a golden glow.
Jane was still scowling at him as she followed him in. “Well, what are you waiting for?”
He started to embrace her but she straight-armed him.
“Not now.” She spoke softly, but her determination was unmistakable, a spine of steel wrapped in silk. He wondered if she knew how fetching she was when blood heated her cheeks and spread down her neck to the tops of her br**sts. “Out of those clothes, Ian. And I mean it.”
“Willingly.” Even though she was angry with him for dragging her up here, his body roused to her with an aching cockstand. A smile tugged at his mouth. “But remember your bargain. You're here to help me out of them.”
“You'll have to tell me what to do, since I've never undressed a man before.” She cocked her head at him and arched a not-so-innocent brow. “What do you want?”
You, Janie love, up against the wall with your gown bunched around your waist. His mouth went dry. Damn, he was as randy a he-goat as that blasted Lord Eddleton. But unlike the viscount, Ian loved this lady. Surely that counted for something.
“I...” He tugged at his cravat and hopelessly fouled the knot. “I want to be rid of this bloody bit of rubbish about my neck.”
Tugging off her long white gloves, she floated toward him. Her kid-soled slippers skimmed across the floor as if she possessed invisible wings.
“Let me see about it, then.” She dropped the gloves and her fingers grazed his neck in teasing touches. “Oh, you've tugged the wrong end of the waterfall. There.”
She held both ends of the neck cloth and pulled his head down so there was hardly a hand's span between them. Her breath was moist and sweet. The remembered taste of her mouth made his c*ck twitch.
“Next time,” she said in a husky whisper, “steal a cravat with less starch.”
Then she yanked the cravat off his neck, the stiff cloth raking his flesh.
“Ow!” He clapped a hand to the back of his neck and rubbed vigorously.
“Less starch would smart less, I expect,” she said with a poisonous smile.
“You did that of a purpose.”
“Of course.”
“I thought ye agreed to—”
“Help you out of those clothes? So I did.” She poked out her bottom lip in a wickedly seductive pout. “You wanted to be rid of your cravat and I've rid you of it.”
“But that's not—”
“Not what you asked for? Or not what you expected?” She poked his chest with her forefinger. “Ian Michael, this is no game. Do you not understand what will happen to you if you're caught in his lordship's clothes?”
“Aye, but—”
“But nothing.” She reached up and started to push the gray wool jacket off his shoulders. He turned a slow circle and slid out of it before he knew what was happening. “We don't have time to waste. I'm only here to make sure you get back into that footman's livery, you stupid, big Scot.”
He decided silence was his best defense.
She dipped to retrieve her gloves and spread them and the jacket neatly across the foot of his lordship's tall bed. He followed close behind so that when she turned around there was only a hand's span between them.
“And don't think you'll be sidetracking me with kisses,” she went on, as her fingers flew down the row of silver buttons marching down his waistcoat.
The sweet lilac smell of her hair made his mouth water, but he wisely kept it shut. She folded the waistcoat and laid it beside the jacket before turning back to him.
“Do you really think Lord Hartwell won't notice that someone else has been wearing his shirt?” Her hands slowed as she undid the buttons on the fine white lawn, exposing more and more of his chest as the fabric parted.
He balled his fingers into fists to keep from reaching out to her.
“Turn around.” Her voice trembled a bit, enough to let him know she was losing steam.
He forced himself not to smile until he'd presented his back to her. She tugged the shirttail out of his trousers and peeled it slowly off him, baring his back. Her breath hitched.
“You're not wearing any small clothes at all,” she said softly.
Ian shrugged. “Charlie's livery is a snug fit. It's easier to fasten up wearing nothing but me skin beneath. Then once here, I figured it was bad enough to help myself to Lord Hartwell's wardrobe. I didn't think I should press his hospitality so far as borrowing his drawers.”
A giggle slipped from Jane's lips.
So lightly he almost thought he was imagining it, she ran her fingertips along the tops of his shoulders and then down the sensitive indentation of his spine. It took every ounce of will he possessed to remain still.
“You shouldn't have come.” Her breathless tone belied her words. “Honestly, Ian, what were you thinking?”
He turned to face her. “I was thinking I couldn't bear for ye to belong to someone else.”
Something softened behind her eyes. The hazel seemed to darken to indigo in the dim light.
“Do ye no’ ken that I want ye only for myself?” He cupped her face and was grateful beyond words when she leaned her cheek into his rough palm. Her skin was smoother than her silk gown. He ached to press his lips against her cheek. “I couldn't bear the thought of another man touching ye the way I long to.”
Slowly, as if she were a spooked mare, he leaned down and kissed her on the sweet hollow beneath her cheekbone. She didn't stop him, so he moved down to the corner of her mouth, the spot that was half warm skin, half intimate moistness. With a low moan, Jane turned her head. Her lips parted in unmistakable invitation.
He took her mouth, gently at first, then because he couldn't help it, with bruising passion. His tongue played a lovers' game with hers, a darting chase of capture and release. Jane proved his equal, stealing the breath from his lungs and replacing it sweetly with her own.
While he slanted his mouth over hers, Ian slid his hand down to the top of her gown where the line of pearl buttons began down the front. He fiddled with the top one and it popped open. She broke their kiss off.
“I thought we were here to undress you,” she said with an impish grin, but she made no move to stop him when he moved down to the next pearl.
“Perhaps we could take it turn and turnabout,” he suggested, as he circled the button with his finger.
“Perhaps we could.”
With a rustle of silk, her gown parted on either side of her bosom, revealing a thin chemise and beribboned corset beneath. He could make out the dark shadows of her n**ples through the chemise. Her br**sts rose and fell slightly with each breath. She was so lovely. Without conscious volition, his hand claimed her softness. He pulled back immediately. He knew he didn't deserve her.
“Oh, Janie.” His gaze shifted from her br**sts back up to her wide eyes.
“Do you love me, Ian?”
“Aye, lass, more than me next breath.”
She took his big, rough hand and placed it back over her right breast. “Then show me.”
Jane splayed her hand on his chest, palm over his galloping heart, then slid down to the buttons at his waist.
“If you ...” Even through the marquess's thick wool trousers, when her hand brushed against his hard cock, he thought his eyes might roll back in his head for a moment. He wanted her so badly, he didn't know how many teasing strokes he could take before he disgraced himself. His tongue felt suddenly thick in his mouth. “If you want, I can do that.”
“And ruin my fun?” Jane leaned forward.