The Rogue (12 page)

Ethan
grinned. Perhaps it was not such a gamble after all.

As
he turned to put his cheroot out with a sense of olfactory relief,
Ethan happened to glance idly up at the opposite wing of the house,
the one that Maywell had mentioned was rarely used.

A
candle flickered in one window.

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Jane
was frustrated. There was nothing of interest in the tiny room. It
was obviously meant for linen storage, but the shelves were nearly
bare and the built-in drawers were empty.

There
was a tiny hearth with a kettle hook jutting out from one side, so
that one could swing a kettle over the coals to heat. Perhaps it was
a sort of staging area for tea trays and such?

All
was empty now. So what had someone been doing in here, skulking
during the ball?

From
the unswept floor, something tiny gleamed in the candlelight. Jane
knelt to pick it up, rolling it in her fingers close to the light of
her candle.

It
was nothing but a shimmering clear glass bead, the tiny sort that was
sewn onto ladies' gowns. Well, this house was full of ladies, so that
wasn't much of a clue. This could have landed in here months ago.

Abruptly
Jane realized she'd been in here long enough. She covered the candle
with her hand as she moved past the bare uncovered window on her way
to the door. Her eye was caught by a figure standing out in the lawn,
dimly visible by the light of the house behind him.

It
was him, Ethan Damont, renowned gambler and rogue, midnight rescuer,
and generally delectable individual—and he was gazing directly
up at her with his arms folded disapprovingly.

Jane
stepped into the library and carefully closed the door behind her.
Mr. Damont stood staring at the cold hearth with his back to her, a
looming shadow against the candelabra he'd lit. With her back to the
door and her hand still on the knob, she waited.

"Lady
Jane Pennington—one can find her in the oddest places,"
Mr. Damont said without turning.

Jane
took a breath. "Yes, well, I do live in this house."

He
turned and grinned at her with his hands stuffed in his pockets. "So
what is it you were doing in the empty wing—" He took in
her attire and raised an eyebrow. "In your wrapper, yet?"

"You
look worried, Mr. Damont," Jane said. "Is that a problem?"

"Damn
it, it is if anyone finds us together and you know it!"

Jane
nearly laughed at his discomfort. "Are you a prude, Mr. Damont?"

With
a flash of annoyance in his eyes, he folded his arms. "More so
than you, apparently. Although I ought not to be surprised, I
suppose."

She
stiffened. "Oh, really? Why is that?"

"Why?
Your penchant for high places, I suppose. Not to mention states of
undress."

She
blushed and looked away. "You may remember the occasion, Mr.
Damont, but it is indelicate of you to remind me of it."

"Indelicate?"
Ethan thought a moment. "Yes, I do think that is one of my
attributes."

"Well,
what do you want from me? Your pantomime 'Meet me in the library' was
quite good by the way. I especially liked the motion you made for
'book.' Why did you wish to meet me here?"

"To
warn you, of course."

"Warn
me? About what?"

Ethan
rubbed the back of his neck. "Well—"

"Yes?"

"Well,
for one thing, it isn't advisable for a young lady to be skulking
about in the dark!"

She
blinked and drew her brows together. "Whyever not?"

Ethan
found himself distracted by that surprisingly attractive expression.
She wasn't a beauty exactly, but she did possess rather striking
eyebrows. Fine, arched, and light brown, they perfectly expressed her
every irritation—

Ethan
blinked, pulling himself back to the moment. Idiot, mooning about
some irritating chit's eyebrows. He'd ordered her here for a
reason—he only needed to recall what that was.

She
did look utterly charming in her wrapper with her thick
reddish-blonde braid trailing strands of hair along her cheek. And
freckles? Adorable.

But
that was beside the point. The point was that she kept being where
she ought not to be, and that could be dangerous in this house.

He
could not tell her about the Liars' suspicions of Lord Maywell, not
without explaining all about the Liars—which, if he was any
judge of the ruthlessness in a man's eye, would cause Lord Etheridge
to give a very unpleasant order regarding poor old Ethan Damont. So,
no telling the girl.

No
explaining himself to her at all, now that he thought about it. He'd
meant to chastise her, to warn her, to scold her and demand that she
keep herself safe—

But
there wasn't one thing he could say.

Actions
spoke louder than words, did they not? Ethan picked up the candelabra
and, never taking his gaze from that of Lady Jane, blew out one
candle.

Ethan
Damont had ever been a creature of impulse. Looking back later, he
would definitely come up with a better reason for his next action
than the fact that she looked utterly charming in her wrapper. And
after he'd thought it over some more, he would come up with the idea
that getting himself driven out of Maywell House at the end of a
horsewhip for meddling with one of the young ladies would most
definitely make him useless to the Liars.

He
moved toward her, with a slight smile on his face. Her eyes widened
and she drew back, but there was nowhere for her to go. Her back was
pressed to the closed door. He blew out another candle, then another.
There were only two left.

Now
he could see the frank panic skittering across her face. One more
step. One less candle. Now he was a mere arm's length from her with
only a single candle standing between them and the intimate darkness.

Ethan
smiled at her, a purposely sensual, dangerous smile. "Lady Jane,
you ought to be in bed," he whispered softly, heavy on the
innuendo.

"If—if
you s-say so," she stuttered. Then, quick as lightning, she
pulled the door open—

Only
to hear Lord Maywell's voice in the distance. "We'll be in the
library. If you can find Mr. Damont, please have him join us there."

Within
seconds, the room was dark, the unlit candelabra was back on the
mantel, and the library was empty of anything other than books.

Jane
was quite breathless. Mr. Damont was a very efficient man.

Of
course, if she were inclined to be critical, she might find fault
with his choice of hiding place. There was a true lack of space for
one here under the cloth-covered library table. Two made for close
quarters indeed.

Behind
her, Mr. Damont shifted uncomfortably. "Are you sure it is quite
proper for us to be alone together here?" he whispered.

She
slid him a sideways glance. "Worried for your virtue, Mr.
Damont?"

"You
ought to be worried for yours, my lady."

"From
you? Hardly." She turned her attention back to the slit in the
fabric that showed the library most clearly. Uncle Harold was
lingering in the hall with someone. She could hear their voices but
not their words.

Ethan
was oddly affronted. "What are you implying?"

"Hmm?"
That other voice didn't really sound like any of the younger men who
had been at dinner. Who was Uncle Harold talking to?

He
tapped her on the shoulder. She turned her head again. "What do
you mean, 'hardly'?" he insisted.

Jane
sighed with resignation, then twisted her body slightly in order to
look at him fully. "I imply nothing but that my virtue is
utterly safe in your hands," she reassured him in a low voice.

"It
is not!" he burst out in a loud whisper. "Take that back!"

She
was surprised into a soft laugh. She felt him stiffen with affront.
Oh, dear, Mr. Ethan Damont was getting testy. Jane made a tiny
scoffing sound.

"I
heard that," he hissed. "Now take that back!"

"Very
well," she drawled. "I take it back. I live in fear that
your manliness will overcome me," she chanted dutifully. "Pray,
control your magnificent steed."

He
growled. "Snot."

"Lecher,"
she retorted. "Better now?"

"Just
you wait, Lady Pain-in-the-arse," he growled. "One day you
and I will be alone together in a dark room—"

"Like
now?"

He
made a noise like a frustrated bear. Jane stifled another chuckle.
"Honestly, men can be such—"

He
dipped his head and kissed her. It was a swift kiss, with only the
slightest lingering on the parting. Still, it sent a bolt of mingled
fire and fear through her.

"What?"
he whispered against her lips. "Men can be such—what?"

Jane
turned away, back to her vigil at the slit, and drew her shoulder
high between them. Mr. Damont said no more, though Jane could feel
his warm breath stirring the small curls on the back of her neck. She
bit her lips together, trying to erase the lingering memory of his
warm mouth on them. It did no good. There was something growing
within her, a newly awakened heat that she had no idea what to do
with.

Now
the darkness was no longer comfortable. Now his presence behind her
was no longer that of a companion in distress.

Now,
he was a man, and Jane had never felt more like a woman in her life.

The
library door opened at last. The butler entered bearing candles, then
Uncle Harold and another, smaller man entered. "I have the
information, my lord," the other man said, standing with his
back to Jane.

"Fine,
fine," Lord Maywell said carelessly. "I'll look at it
later." He sat before the fire, leaving the other man standing
without an invitation.

Jane
slumped. Obviously the new man was just a servant of some kind. The
door opened and the butler reentered with a pot of coffee.

"Mr.
Damont is nowhere to be found, my lord, but his hat and walking stick
are still here," the butler informed him.

Jane
turned to give Mr. Damont a disbelieving look.
Walking
stick
?
she mouthed. He grimaced, obviously not open to criticism of his
personal style. She grinned.
Flash
,
she accused silently.

"He's
a slippery fellow," Uncle Harold said to no one in particular.
The visitor merely nodded politely.

Uncle
Harold waved the coffee away. "If Damont isn't joining me, then
I'm off." He rose heavily. The smaller man did nothing to help
him, which rather surprised Jane. A servant would have. The fellow
might be something more. A man of business, perhaps?

She
would ask Serena tomorrow. The lovely thing about Serena was that she
always answered truthfully, yet never asked why you wanted to know
something. Jane knew without a doubt that she herself had never been
that trusting, likely not even as an infant.

Uncle
Harold strode from the library, followed by the smaller man, then by
the butler carrying the untouched coffee tray.

Jane
started to move immediately, but Mr. Damont put a restraining hand on
her arm. She went very still, her heart thudding. The heat of his
touch through her clothes plunged her directly back into that kiss.

They
waited a moment longer, then they crept out into the empty room. Jane
straightened her skirts with shaking hands. She clasped them behind
her to hide the trembling.

"Well,
Mr. Damont, I fear it is time for me to say good evening and allow
you to take your leave."

His
lips quirked. "So formal. Very well, then, my lady. I will take
my leave, as you so subtly request."