Authors: Arpan B
As
had the Liars. Ethan's gut went cold. Etheridge and Collis and even
Rose had known what precious cargo they had carried from that
dungeonlike cellar. Known all the while and never told Ethan, though
his life was every bit as endangered as theirs.
Not
a word, not even yesterday after he'd sweated blood and bullets to
pass their bedamned tests—
They
still didn't trust him enough to welcome him in truth. He could
almost have laughed if it hadn't hurt so badly. So much for brotherly
camaraderie. So much for belonging. It turned out Ethan was just a
tool after all.
"It
was a whim," he told the Prince dully, betrayal writhing like
hot lead in his belly. "It was only a whim."
When
Jane stepped into the carriage with the help of Robert, she took one
look at Ethan waiting there for her and turned right around. "I
am suddenly feeling a bit ill, Robert—"
Ethan
leaned forward to touch her gloved hand where it rested on the
doorframe. "Lady Jane, please… I would very much like to
escort you to your supper this evening."
Jane
hung there for a moment, undecided between stepping down and stepping
in. Finally, what decided her was the thought that here was perhaps
her last opportunity to detach Mr. Damont from her uncle's web of
deceit before Mother removed her from the house.
She
sat down and eyed him warily, for fresh in her mind was that
fascinating, disturbing moment in the second parlor. They would be
every bit as alone together now in the carriage, for the footman
clung to the back and the driver remained on the fore.
"Light
the lantern, if you please, Robert," she ordered. Robert leaned
in to fiddle with the small carriage lantern that hung down from the
ceiling to light the interior.
"Sorry,
my lady, but it's empty of oil. It will take a few moments to fill
it."
Jane
blew out a breath. "Then never mind. Thank you, Robert."
She arranged herself carefully on the seat, head high, gloved hands
clasped demurely before her. When Robert had closed the carriage door
and they felt the carriage shift as he boarded the boot, Jane could
not resist a suspicious glare at Mr. Damont.
"Did
you arrange this?" Her gesture indicated everything from his
presence as her escort to the empty reservoir of the carriage
lantern.
He
laughed darkly. "Why, Lady Jane, I must protest! I hate to
disappoint you, but I am neither as nefarious nor as clever as you
seem to think. Although I shall be sure to remember the bit with the
lantern in the future, should I ever wish to accost a lady in a dark
carriage—"
Jane
moved to knock on the ceiling of the carriage to get the driver's
attention. She found her fist cupped in Mr. Damont's palm, his
fingers gently caging hers.
"I'm
sorry," he said quietly. "I find I'm in a black mood
tonight." He released her hand and leaned back. She lost sight
of him in the shadows of the carriage. "So, my lady, where are
you off to this evening?"
Jane
sighed. "I am representing the family at Sir Arnold's musicale
this evening. Aunt Lottie and the girls decided not to venture out
tonight and it was left to me, since we had already accepted the
invitation."
Actually,
the girls had been forbidden to attend by their father for some
unfathomable reason and had spent the evening drowning each other in
tears of protest.
Except
the reason suddenly wasn't unfathomable, was it? Mr. Damont's
presence as escort explained a great deal. Uncle Harold was throwing
them together, hoping to use her to further draw Mr. Damont into his
traitorous snare.
"What
is your explanation for being here, Mr. Damont?"
He
shifted slightly but she still could not see his face. "I
believe I have become something in the way of a family retainer to
his lordship," he said. "I am not to accompany you inside
as a guest so I believe my role is to be something of a guard through
the city streets."
"Ah."
It sounded plausible enough, but for the fact that no guardian would
ever submit his ward to being unchaperoned in a carriage with an
attractive young bodyguard. Mr. Damont did not seem quite clear on
that point, however, and Jane decided not to enlighten him.
She
made a face. "I'm beginning to believe that one's level of
impropriety depends solely on if anyone is watching," she
murmured to herself.
"You're
becoming as cynical as I am," Mr. Damont said.
"Impossible,"
Jane shot back. Then she sighed. "Still, I do wish we had not
such a plethora of rules governing us. I trust you, but this
arrangement—"
"You
trust me?"
She
gazed at him for a long moment, a small smile playing on her lips. "I
find you entirely trustworthy, Mr. Ethan Damont. Does that truly
surprise you?"
It
did surprise him. It shook him to his very soul. "But—but
why? You know who I am… you know very nearly everything about
me!"
She
crossed her arms. "What would your point be?"
"No
one trusts me! Not after the first quarter of an hour, anyway!"
He ran a hand through his hair. "Nor should they—and nor
should you!"
Jane
gazed at him, true perplexity on her face. "Ethan, what are you
talking about?"
"I'm
talking about my being a cad, that's what I'm talking about!"
"You?
A cad?" She laughed in disbelief. "Where did you get such a
notion?"
Only
from everyone he'd ever encountered in his life— apparently,
with the exception of Lady Jane Pennington.
Disturbed,
he turned to look out at the passing night. He did not deserve her
trust—did not even want it! After the way he'd practically
assaulted her yesterday, how could she claim to have such faith in
him?
The
silence stretched between them as the carriage moved slowly on,
making Jane feel every shift and jostling of her thighs. She forced
her awakening body to desist and turned her attention outside.
There
was a great deal of traffic out tonight. She could have walked to Sir
Arnold's in half the time of course, but ladies did not walk the city
at night, not even in the rarefied area of Mayfair.
She
felt restless with the physical tension between them. Did he feel it
too? He seemed not to, for he sat motionless and silent in the
shadows opposite her. She, on the other hand, could not seem to keep
still. She found herself leaning forward to peer through the small
square window every few seconds and her fan was going to be in shreds
long before they reached their destination.
"You
look very nice tonight, Janet." His voice came low and velvety
across the darkness to her like a touch.
Yet
how could he see—
Jane
looked down at herself to realize that her constant leaning forward
had pressed her breasts high into the neckline of her gown until they
nearly spilled out. The square of light from the passing of other
carriage lanterns threw her bosom into high relief framed by the
black outline of the window.
She
quickly pressed herself back against the seat, out of the light, but
it was too late. Those few words, in that softly suggestive voice,
had set her pulse to pounding. She could feel his eyes on her. She
knew he was admiring her breasts, probably thinking about how he'd
held one in his hand—
She
closed her eyes against that memory, but she could not shut it down
the way she had over the past day. Now, here, with him, the heat came
flooding back, washing over her, melting her deep down inside until
her thighs relaxed involuntarily in response to the pressure within.
"Ethan…"
Hearing
his name murmured in Jane's husky voice sent bolts of arousal
ricocheting through Ethan. She'd never called him that before.
"Say
it again," he urged, his voice low and hard with heat.
"Ethan,"
she said obediently, coating his name with a sensual obedience that
promised much, if he dared to take it.
If
he dared…
If
he dared to make her hate him. After all, she was a lady, gently born
and sheltered. It shouldn't be too hard to offend her so deeply that
she'd never claim that ridiculous level of trust again. He was a cad,
by God, and he was quite prepared to prove it.
"Lean
forward, Jane," he ordered in that same heated murmur. "Lean
forward and let me see you."
She
did, slowly, so that the light crept over her bodice and dipped
gently between her breasts, turning that perfect skin to milk in the
lamplight.
Ethan
leaned forward as well, and watched distantly as his own hand reached
to trail one finger along the lace edge of her bodice. He halted just
before making contact with her skin, then drew back. She swayed
forward as if to follow his touch.
"Milk
and satin and strawberries, Janet," he murmured.
He
could hear her deep longing breaths. He had power over her at this
moment. In her innocence and trust, she had handed him the keys to
make her wish she'd never laid eyes on Ethan Damont.
"Touch
your skin, Janet," he coaxed. "Let your fingers be like the
light that travels over it."
Slowly,
hesitantly, she raised her hand to her neck. Ethan wished he could
see her face, but she was half in shadow. He was forced to imagine
the way her closed lashes lay on her pale cheeks, or how the pink tip
of her tongue might come out to moisten her parted, panting lips.
His
arousal surged at that but he made no move to touch her. "That's
right, stroke that place just there, below your ear. I want to kiss
you there. I want to move behind you and lift your hair to press my
lips just there."
He
watched her fingers trail slowly over her own skin, imagining his own
there, or his mouth. "Let your hand trail down now." His
own breath was coming fast now. "Touch the soft valley between
for me, Janet."
Jane
followed his every direction slowly but willingly, entranced by his
low voice and by the fact that she knew he watched every motion. It
was a wicked, tantalizing game that fell just within the bounds of
decency. Not truly wicked, really, at least not yet. And she was so
warm inside, so liquid smooth and dreamy, as if she were asleep in
her bed and this was all some blameless midnight imagining…
"The
lace is covering too much, darling. I cannot see. Tug the lace down,
just a bit…"
Jane
inhaled deeply as she obeyed, knowing that her breasts would swell to
the limits of the bodice. She wanted to tantalize him, wanted him to
see, wanted him to watch.
She
heard his breath catch and felt power surge through her. She was the
one he wanted, the one he watched, the one making him take broken
breaths.
"More,"
he begged, and she obeyed. She pulled the lacy edge of the bodice
down to her nipples, going weak at the feeling of the cool evening
air on her sheltered skin.
"Yesss,"
he hissed urgently. "Show me, Janet. I want to see."
Almost
without thought, she tugged ever so slightly more and allowed her
hardened nipples to spring free of the bodice.
"You're
so beautiful, Janet. So fine and lovely, like a goddess in a garden.
I love to look at you."
Jane
dropped her head back, letting him look his fill. She could hardly
bear the need that pulsed within her but she could not break the
erotic spell he cast. She wanted him to tell her what to do, how to
tantalize him. If he told her, if she was only obeying his
mesmerizing voice, if he stayed there in the darkness—then it
was only a dream, only a wicked, luscious dream of what might be.
"I
can't touch you, Janet. I want to, but I can't. You must touch
yourself for me, darling. You must put your hands on yourself once
more, just for me."
Jane
felt her own chilled fingers move to rest over her own heaving
breasts. The sensation made her shiver.
"Does
that feel good?" His voice was so urgent, so full of dark
command, yet so gentle she could not resist him. She could only make
a tiny obedient sound of agreement, a small animal cry that seemed
distant and alien to her own ears.