My Lady Below Stairs (10 page)

Now, looking around the sorry collection of cast-off furniture and half-finished canvases, she could only see
its seediness. And the neighborhood was so dicey he even
had to lock the much-dented trunk that held his spare clothes. She wondered how Giovanni could bear this
place alone.

Sybil drew the blanket up to her chin. When he had left, he'd taken the only source of heat with him—his body. Once he returned, she wouldn't give his pitiful room another thought. She could live anywhere, so long
as Giovanni was with her.

But what about Father?

Her conscience hadn't troubled her in so long, Sybil was surprised when she heard its small voice in her
mind.

“He'll be fine,” she said aloud.

She replayed their last, crockery-smashing argument in her head. His angry tirade hadn't moved her, but when
her indomitable father finally sank into his leather desk chair and held his gray head in his hands, his shoulders
shaking with suppressed sobs, Sybil had been completely
overcome.

Only the threat of her father's utter ruin made
her agree to let Mr. Roskin arrange a lucrative match for her. But then the earl had left for a season of hunting, as
if her sacrifice were nothing.

It had been easy to climb out the window this morning without a backward glance.

What will happen to Father?

The small voice began chanting the question. A snippet of memory rose up to torment her.

^“
Oh, Father, you remembered!” An eight-year-old Sybil squealed with delight as the earl lifted her onto the back of a fat pony. She'd hounded her father for months about a mount of her own and now, he took as much pleasure in it as she did. Her father’s eyes lost that look of carefully guarded emptiness for a few moments as be watched her trot around the small
pen.

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 keep
ing 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 cou
pling 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 dis
creet.

But that meant Sybil had to appear at Lord Hartwell's Christmas Ball this night to accept Lord Eddleton's pro
posal.

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.

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 breasts. “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 re
member 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 un
like 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 cock 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 cir
cle 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.