My Lady Below Stairs (11 page)

“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 nipples through the chemise. Her breasts 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 breasts 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.

The tips of her breasts brushed against his chest through the thin fabric of her chemise. The light touch sent his groin into spasms.

Pressing honeyed kisses across his chest, she tackled the buttons at his waist by feel alone. The flap front fell away and she delved in to follow the narrow strip of hair that led downward from his navel to spread over his groin.

The trousers sagged down his hips. Jane avoided contact with his throbbing cock as she tugged them down the rest of the way. He toed off his shoes. A few chestnut curls that had escaped her neat bun brushed over him as she bent over.

Ian gritted his teeth.

Jane paused, crouching before him, her eyes widening as she looked him over. He tipped her chin up to meet his gaze. Her red lips were mere inches from his cock. A tiny pearl of fluid formed at the tip of him.

Take me in, love,
he wanted to say.

But when she drew a timid finger down the full length
of him, a shock of need coursed through his body and the power of speech deserted him completely.

He raised her to her feet, pressing flush against her. Jane's curves molded to his hardness. He ran his hands down her spine and stayed to dally with the crevice of her buttocks through the thin silk.

When he heard her breath catch, he pulled back. Her eyes were heavy-lidded, her mouth kiss-swollen. He'd made her want him. There wasn't a
no
left in her.

Dear God, he hoped not. Else he was a dead man.

Ian lowered his mouth to her breasts, dampening her lace-trimmed chemise with wet kisses. He suckled her through the cloth and bit down on her nipple enough to send a wicked streak of pleasurable pain knifing through her. What would it be like without the thin layer of muslin?

As if he'd heard her thoughts, he tugged at the lace tie,
the anticipation on his face like that of a boy unwrapping a Christmas present. Her skin shivered in excitement. Ian bared her breasts above the stiff fabric lip of her corset. He nuzzled the hollow between them and then suckled one nipple while he strummed the other with his thumb. Jane's whole body sang.

How many nights had she lain awake wishing for this?
A spurt of warmth moistened the folds between her legs. She imagined their bodies entwined on his lordship's bed, writhing on the brocade counterpane. Her body throbbed with pulsing life.

But when he started to unbutton her gown further, sanity gripped her. “Please, no. What if someone should come and catch us here?”

He stopped, but he fretted against her no as if it were
an invisible tether and he Lord Somerville's stallion when
the mares were in heat. “Janie, do ye love me or no’?”

She took his face in both her hands and pressed a kiss on him. “I love you, Ian Michael. More than
my
next breath.”

“Then trust me, lass. I'll never see ye shamed.”

He covered her with kisses as she tumbled with him willingly onto the marquess's fine featherbed.

Lord Eddleton mopped his brow with his last good hand
kerchief. He'd been skulking from one clump of revelers to the next, trying to hide among Lord Hartwell's guests. He hadn't spotted Lady Darvish for the past quarter hour. His sense of gratitude nearly led him to reconsider his opinion on the existence of God.

Of course, he hadn't seen his soon-to-be betrothed either, but he wasn't overly concerned. Lady Sybil was probably gossiping in the lady's retiring room about her trousseau and whatnot with the other hens.

Thank God,
he thought, forgetting for a moment he was still entertaining doubts about the deity's existence.
Somerville's daughter isn't the horse-faced drudge I feared
she'd be. A tempting armful with a father who has deep pockets! I couldn't have arranged matters better!

Eddleton decided to celebrate his good fortune and reward himself with a smoke on the marquess's veranda.

After all, when a man marries for money, he expects to have to do more than look the gift-horse in the mouth,
he
thought as he pushed through the double doors that led out to the frigid garden.

The wind had died, but brittle stars shivered in the clear night sky.

“Cold as a witch's tit.” He lit a cheroot and puffed a trio of smoke rings into the frosty air.

A
tsking
sound came from behind him and he turned to find the woman he'd been avoiding.

“Cold as that, is it, Bertram?” Lady Darvish strode up to him, bold as any bit of muslin in Haymarket, and leaned forward. Her bosom threatened to spill over the bodice of her canary gown. “Perhaps you'd rather try a
widow's tit, dear boy. Guaranteed to warm you right up.”

Her creamy breasts thrust up toward him, pert as a girl's, and he nearly reached for them out of habit.

Probably some clever trick of whalebone and padding,
he
told himself, as he shoved his free hand into his pocket and took a pull on the cigar with the other. Soon he'd be engaged to a lovely young lady and her even lovelier dowry. No need to throw a rub into his own carefully laid plans by following his cock into trouble.

“Tempting as your offer is, madam—”

“Leticia,” she corrected.

“Lady Darvish,”
he said pointedly. “I'm very nearly en
gaged to be married.”

“But you're not very nearly dead, are you?” She rested her gloved palm on his chest and then walked her fingers
down to his groin.

Despite his better judgment, his body roused to her.

“No, I can tell you're not dead.” Lady Darvish caressed his trouser front lightly. She made another pass, running her hand directly over his erection this time, and frowned. “You're also not as gifted as Lady Martin-Featherwight led me to believe.”

Eddleton grabbed her wrist and pulled her hand away. “
In case it's escaped your notice, madam, it's deucedly
cold out. No man is at his best when his jewels are frosted
over.”

“Well then, Bertie, we'd best get you inside where it's
warm and I'll give you an opportunity to prove yourself,”
she said, rubbing herself against him like some fawning tabby cat.

“I have nothing to prove to you.”

“
Ah! As I thought. You have nothing. My condolences.
I don't blame you, Bert. It must be difficult for a man to be so cruelly underequipped.” She cocked her head and
pursed her lips. “However, I will have a few choice words
for Lady Martin-Featherwight when I see her next for
feeding me such a load of twaddle about you.” She turned
to go. “Hmm. I wonder if she's in attendance tonight?”

“That settles it, madam!” he said through clenched teeth. Eddleton grasped her arm and swung her back around to face him. “Kindly accompany me to his lordship's library and you'll see for yourself just how 'gifted' I am. Then, by Jove, I shall swive you 'til your teeth rattle.” He flared his nostrils at her in what he thought was a sufficiently masculine display of contempt. “And after that, you may tell Lady Martin-Feather-whatever any
thing you damn well please!”

Lady Darvish's mouth curved in a feline smile. “Ah,
Bert, when a gentleman asks that prettily, how can a lady
say no?”

She grabbed his hand and nearly dragged him back through the double doors, through the festively draped corridor and down the main staircase in search of Lord
Hartwell's library.

Sybil paid the cabby and clambered down without any
help from the rude fellow. In fact, he pulled away so
quickly, the hansom threw a fresh dusting of snow on
her half sister's threadbare cloak. As she made her way up the walk to Lord and Lady Hartwell's gaily lit front door,
she promised to see that Jane got a new one after this
night's work. Heaven knew, she'd earned it.

“Sorry, miss,” the porter said. “Servants' entrance in
the back.”

Sybil's spine stiffened and she bit back the urge to blister the man with a stinging set-down. Then she re
membered that in Jane's clothes, she must appear the meanest sort of house drudge. She turned away.

“Go you on the south side, ducks,” the porter said in a
kindlier tone, “and you'll be out of the wind.”

She followed his advice.

After Sybil had sneaked away from Giovanni's garret,
she'd made her way home, hoping to don her ball gown and arrive at Hartwell House in fashionably late style. A tongue-tied Agnes had explained that Jane was already wearing the red gown, acting in Sybil's stead so the betrothal could go forward. Sybil had decided the best way
for her to switch places at the ball was to wear Jane's rags
there.

The idea had made sense at the time.

Now Sybil shivered against the cold as she tromped around to the back of Lord Hartwell's grand manor.

“Suppose I'll have to go through the kitchens,” she muttered irritably. “God knows what sort of greasy mess that'll make of these slippers.”

She'd steadfastly refused to don Jane's holey ones. At least she'd be able to give her half sister a decent pair of shoes when they made the trade.

Once she rounded the last corner, a pair of footmen in
rose-colored livery came through a door, sending a long shaft of light dancing across the snowy ground. The aroma of braised beef and spiced rum wafted out the opening. One of the footmen held the door for her, not
with the sweeping leg she was used to receiving, but with an appreciative wink and leering grin. Footmen were the comeliest male servants in any household, and this fellow
was no exception.

But his dark hair and eyes only reminded her of Giovanni. Now she wasn't so sure how he'd take her change of plans. She imagined him ripping up her note in a glorious Italianate rage. She wished she could've seen it!

“Jane, I say, Jane Tate!”

Sybil realized with a start that someone was calling the name she should answer to. She turned to see one of her own footmen working his way around the crowded table toward her.

Charles or Edward?
She never could keep them straight.
Now that she'd walked a bit in a servant's shoes, she was determined to pay more attention to the people who filled her life with comfort from now on.