My Lady Below Stairs (12 page)

“Oh, er, hello.”

“Come now, Jane. You can do better than that for old Ed! Happy Christmas, girl.” Edward gave her a quick kiss on the cheek and pointed up at the sprig of mistletoe dangling between the hanging pots and meat hooks above her. Then he presented his cheek to her.

“Happy Christmas.” She returned his peck. “Have you seen Ja—Lady Sybil?”

Edward raised a quizzical brow. “Not since we escorted her to the front door. Ladies don't make a habit of celebrating Christmas with us salt-of-the-earth folk, you know.”

“I've got to find her.”

“Why?”

“I…I've a message for her.”

Edward sighed. “No rest for the weary, I see. Well, let's have it and I'll see she gets it.”

Drat!
How could she have forgotten that delivering messages was part of a footman's duties?

“No, it's a... a private message. One they didn't want to commit to paper.”

“Nothing amiss, I hope,” Edward said, now far too interested for her comfort. “His lordship made it back to town, didn't he?”

“
I... don't know,” she said, swallowing her surprise.
Father wasn't back from the country? She'd dressed in Jane's clothes so quickly, Agnes evidently hadn't thought to share this little tidbit with her. What would keep Lord Somerville from being present at her betrothal?

“Well, it's probably nothing,”' Edward said, with a comforting pat on her shoulder. She must not have schooled her face as well as she'd thought. “Reckon he's
doing something important. You know how folk of qual
ity are. Everything they do is important, from an audi
ence with His Majesty to an audience with their chamber
pot.” He laughed hugely at his own wit, then sobered
when she didn't join him. Edward had obviously enjoyed the rum punch. “This is a mighty big house to find Lady
Sybil in. Shall I go with you then?”

“No, no, I'll be fine,” she said quickly as she turned
away. Sybil had been a guest at Hartwell House countless
times for soirees, interminable recitals, and sumptuous
dinners. She'd be able to find her way easily enough once
she reached the public areas.

She pushed out of the crowded kitchen and down the dark hall toward a better lit T, where the hall
ran perpendicularly in both directions. Now, if she could avoid being seen in Jane's horrible homespun by anyone
she knew, she just might make it through the evening.

Jane stared at the gilt ceiling, her vision going in and out of focus. A fresco of nude little cupids cavorted above Lord Hartwell's bed. She'd convinced Ian to let her re
main more or less fully clothed, but her soul was stripped
bare as the naughty cherubs.

Ian's naked body was stretched out beside her, his hard
ness rocking a slow knock against her hip. He'd parted the
thin chemise enough to free her breasts and was doing
totally wicked things to them with his mouth.
A small voice in her head whispered that this was mad
ness, but Jane wouldn't stop him. Couldn't. No more than she could fly.

“Janie, love, have ye any notion how fine ye are?” He drew a slow circle around one of her aching nipples with the tip of this tongue.

She gasped at the zing of pleasure that streaked from her breast to her womb. He rolled her nipple between his
thumb and forefinger and she arched her back reflexively.
The man knew how to make her want.

“Say ye're mine,” Ian prodded.

With what she knew she still must do this evening, Jane couldn't bring herself to lie. “I belong to myself,” she said between gasps.

“Do ye? Perhaps I'll have to persuade ye different.” To prove his point, he trailed his fingertips down past her ribs, over the mound of her belly, and hiked up her gown. His thick fingers found the lacy slit in her pantaloons and played with the curls between her legs.

The ache grew deeper. She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from crying out as she crossed her ankles and clamped her thighs together, trapping his hand. He didn't try to free it, but he couldn't torment her with it either.

‘Not fair,” he said.

“Not fair? You're the one who forced me to come up here with you.”

“I'll not force you now. But open to me, love. I'll make
you glad you did.”

When she didn't budge, he bent to nuzzle her nipple, sending another jolt of longing to her core. Her legs parted of their own accord.

His fingers slid deep into her wetness. Equal parts delight and despair shivered through her. He stroked her, teasing, featherlight touches. She raised her hips to meet him.
His blessed hand stopped moving and settled over her
hot mound, just holding her. She throbbed in an agony of need. Someone whimpered. She was too far gone to
feel shame when she realized it was her.

His hand moved again, his fingers circling and stroking, whipping her into aching fury. “Admit ye're mine,
girl.”

His lips closed over her nipple, suckling in rhythm
with his hand. His fingers danced over her flesh. Helpless little sounds escaped her throat. Jane's breath hissed over
her teeth. The wanting was so sharp-edged, she fisted
Lord Hartwell's fancy counterpane with both hands, her
eyes squeezed shut.

Then Ian stopped. Her eyes flew open. Her body screamed in frustration, but he left her throbbing with
heat He withdrew his hand and sat up.

“Say it.”

She shook her head, not trusting her voice. If she spoke at all it would lead to pleading and she couldn't
bear that.

“Can ye not? Then I'll try again,” he said, lowering
his head to nip again at her breast. “Do ye no’ love me?”

“You know I do.”

“I belong to you, love. I'll not deny it.” He kissed her neck, teasing her earlobe with his tongue, while his fingers found that special spot that threatened to unravel
her again. Her body shuddered with anticipation. “Try again. Are ye mine?”

Only all I am.
He moved down between her legs and kissed her, open-mouthed. His tongue took over for his
talented fingers.

“I... have mercy!” she gasped, propping herself on
her elbows.

“There's none in me.” Ian looked up to meet her gaze
for a moment, then returned to savaging her with his lips, teeth, and tongue.

She was losing herself. Bit by bit, little pieces of her were breaking off and floating away. Ian, too. With each
of his growls of need, she sensed him letting go, releasing
his tight rein on himself and joining her in this madness.

They were creating a special place together where there was no right or wrong, where there was only the dance of light and insanity of sensation, of need and heat and blessed friction. Of warm skin gliding on silk and fevered kisses. Of—

Ian moved up and slid his full length home.

A pinch of pain lanced her, then disintegrated in the bliss of holding him inside her. “Oh, Ian.”

Jane had led such a controlled existence 'til now.
Do this. Don't go there. Touch not.
She accepted that the circum
stances of her birth had denied her certain things. Now
unbridled life roared in her veins and she welcomed it.

No one would deny her here. There was no one else in this place apart, none but they two. She wrapped her legs
around him, drawing him farther into their private world of push and pull, rise and fall.

“Say ye are mine, love,” he urged, thrusting deep with
each word. Then he stopped and raised himself on his elbows to look down at her. “Say it. Even if it's a lie.”

She was so close to some unseen edge. One more time,
just one, and she'd unravel completely, like a spindle of yarn tossed across the floor, whipping free.

“I am yours, Ian Michael MacGarrett.” She rocked her
pelvis, pressing her sensitive spot hard against him. The contractions began. She convulsed around him, urging him to join her. He moved with her. She bucked beneath him, holding him tight and wishing she'd never have to let him go.

“
I'm yours,” she repeated. She didn't care if he used her words against her later. “Body and soul, bone and
breath.”

A groan escaped his lips. Ian's body stiffened and he
poured his seed into her, hot and steady, shuddering with
the force of his release. Then he settled his cheek be
tween her breasts and lay still as a dead man, except that
his breath feathered warmly over her tight nipple.

“I am yours.” She pressed a kiss on the crown of his
tousled head. “And it is no lie.”

Jane slid her fingertips along the indentation of Ian's spine. His breathing was so slow and even, she began to suspect he'd fallen asleep. She didn't care. Their bodies were no longer joined, but she still reveled in his weight on her.

She sighed in contentment. All her joints felt loose and she suspected she'd be a little sore in the morning. It didn't matter. She wouldn't trade this moment for—

The strains of a waltz drifted up to her ear.

“Oh, no!” She squirmed and Ian rolled off her. Jane scrambled from the bed, pulling her chemise top closed and knotting the lace tie. She fastened the buttons marching down the front of her gown and toed on her slippers. Thank God she'd insisted on remaining more or less clothed.

Ian sat up on the bed, his legs thrown over the side. “What the—”

“I must go.”

One look at him almost broke her resolve. Broad shouldered, deep-chested with the slightest dusting of
dark hair whorled around his brown nipples—Jane sighed
and yanked her gaze from him. There was no help for it. The last waltz was playing. Jane ran to the mirror in the corner of Lord Hartwell's chamber, trying to finger-comb her coiffure back into some semblance of order.

She could hear the music more clearly now. How many
bars was that? Eight? Sixteen already gone?

“
Where do ye think ye're going?”

“To accept Lord Eddleton's proposal.” She strode to
ward the door.

He beat her there and splatted a thick palm against the English oak. “Jane, I beg ye. Dinna do this.”

“I gave my word.” She tugged on the handle but Ian
held the door fast.

“And what of your word to me? Does that mean noth
ing?” Barely bridled anger rolled off him in scalding
waves.

“I'm still yours. Now more than ever.” She put a palm
to his cheek and his black scowl softened. “But this is
something I must do for—”

“For Lord Somerville,” he finished.

“Yes, and for Sybil, too. Don't forget. If not for her
needing to run off from time to time, neither of us would
be able to read or write.”