Authors: Arpan B
Ethan
didn't take offense. He no longer cared for Etheridge's opinion. He
shook his head. "I'm not interested in marriage," he said
flatly.
Surprisingly,
Etheridge grinned, a swift friendly flash. "I've heard that
before. In fact, I'm quite sure I've said it."
Then
he went back to the cool lordly manner of before, to Ethan's relief.
"An offer like that could sway many men. So… which side
are you on now?"
Ethan
met his gaze. "England's." Jane's England. Not Maywell's,
not the Liars'. The one where a certain bright candle could burn safe
and long.
Etheridge
nodded shortly. "Is there anything more?"
"No."
Ethan donned his finest poker face. "What more would there be?"
The
spymaster tilted his head. "I see."
Ethan
looked away. Those damned silver eyes…
"I'm
due at Maywell's now. You wish me to accept his proposal, I take it?"
Etheridge
smiled slightly. "I wish you to
appear
to accept it. I'm not sure actually wedding the niece would be wise."
Ethan
stood. "I told you." He spread his hands. "I'm not the
marrying kind."
As
he walked up the steps to Maywell House, Ethan prepared himself. It
would be nearly as difficult to he to the perceptive Lord Maywell as
it had been to Lord Etheridge.
"I
am bloody tired," Ethan muttered to himself as he stood at the
door, "of lords."
He
took a deep breath, then lifted the knocker.
Simms
answered and regarded Ethan coolly. "His lordship is not
receiving at the moment," he informed Ethan. "This evening
will be more convenient for him."
Ethan
nodded pleasantly. "Then please tell his lordship that I will
see him then." He turned on his heel and trotted down the steps
once more. "Bloody damned tired," he muttered, "of
lords."
Back
at Diamond House, Ethan found himself eagerly mounting the steps. He
had all the day to be with Jane—
Except
that would not be wise. He had already proven several times that he
was incapable of being alone with her without someone having their
clothing tampered with.
No
longer. He had vowed he would not harm her, and ruining her would
most definitely count as harm.
Jeeves
had the door open, of course, so Ethan breezed by him with a swift
greeting. "Is the young lady in her room?"
"Yes,
sir. She and the young master wore themselves out with a bit of
string earlier. The young lady decided they could both use a nap."
Ethan
smiled and climbed the stairs eagerly. He wanted to see Jane—just
to see her. He wanted to know how she'd spent her morning and if Zeus
had made her laugh. He opened his door, eager to see if she had
suffered any ill effects from her ordeal and if she—
Jane
sat on his bed with an unconscious Zeus in the dip of her skirts,
stretching a sheep-gut penis sheath between her fingers. She looked
up at him, her brow furrowed. "I've been at it for an hour,"
she said, frustration in her tone. "But I cannot fathom what
this is for!"
Ethan
had been introduced to sheepskin sheaths at the tender age of
fourteen by his most memorable tutor, a young man named Luther.
Luther had been hired for his pedigree—he was the youngest son
of the youngest daughter of the old Earl of Gatwick. To all
appearances, Luther was a model young gentleman, courtly of manner
and articulate when Ethan's parents were about. It was not until
Luther proposed to take Ethan on their first excursion to view the
masterworks hanging in the Royal Academy that the young pupil saw his
new teacher's true nature. They only bothered to view the nudes.
Luther
was as dissolute a wastrel as Ethan had ever met, then or since. Fond
of the darkest of pleasures and strongest of spirits, Luther gave
Ethan a day and night he'd never forget.
They'd
started at one of the more ordinary pleasure houses. Luther had
chosen a buxom redhead for himself and a pert blond miss for Ethan.
Her name was Tilly and her nature was enthusiastic. Ethan had left
her presence feeling quite pleasantly corrupted.
In
retrospect, Tilly had been a virtuous nun in comparison to their
further adventures. Jessamine was next, with her love of being
spanked with the flat of a hairbrush. Then there was Lisette of the
black lace stockings and odd-smelling cheroots—she was an
expert in the fine art of erotic bondage, she told him, and proceeded
to demonstrate for him with another woman.
On
it went, that twenty-four-hour fall into sin and depravity. From one
house of pleasure to another, with a brief stop at one house of pain,
where Ethan learned that even he had his limits.
Still,
it was overall a very satisfying experience. In the course of one
rotation of the earth, young Ethan Damont experienced more than most
men did in a lifetime. Not all of it did he deem repeatable, but some
of it he did practice enthusiastically, again and again as his
fortunes allowed.
But
not accompanied by Luther. All it took was one event of Ethan coming
home smelling of smoke and sex and sin for his father to fire Luther
immediately. Ethan still remembered his tutor's parting words.
"There
are men who live and there are men who simply think about it. Promise
me you won't think too much." Luther had picked up his satchel
and moved toward the front door, only to turn again. "And wear
the damn sheaths, lad. They'll keep you from catching bastards and
the pox!"
Ethan
had taken that advice to heart. With the aid of very little thinking,
a great deal of living, and a rather impressive hoard of sheepskin
sheaths, young Ethan Damont had set out to conquer the world—or
at least the female portion of the population.
And
yet, somehow he had forgotten about the sheaths in the side table
drawer when he'd established Jane in his chamber.
"Ah…
that is a…"
She
looked up at him, blinking expectantly. "A what?" She
looked back down at the flimsy thing in her hands. "It reminds
me of sausage casing," she said, shaking her head. "But it
is closed at one end and it is very short."
Short
?
"It is not!"
She
nodded with great assurance. "Yes it is. Sausage casing is just
yards
long. Haven't you ever made sausage?"
"Ah…
no," Ethan said faintly. "I cannot say that I have."
Jane
laid the pale thing across her fingers, then—oh, God, he was
going to die—rubbed it sensually against her cheek. "It is
so soft. And flexible." She wiggled it at him. "Is it to
keep things in? Things that you don't want to get wet?"
"I
need to sit down," Ethan blurted. He bolted for the chair and
sat, lifting one ankle over his knee to hide his bulge.
"Are
you unwell?" Concern lit her eyes. She scooped the kitten to the
pillow and began to clamber off the bed toward him.
It
wasn't until then that Ethan noticed what she was wearing—a
very fine sprigged day gown that he would swear he had seen somewhere
quite recently.
"Where
did you find that dress?"
She
looked down at herself. "Mrs. Cook brought it to me. It's
lovely, isn't it?"
"And
where did Mrs. Cook find it?"
Jane
sat back on her heels and tilted her head. "I don't know, Ethan.
Why don't you ask Mrs. Cook if you're so interested?"
Ethan
exhaled, smiling slightly. "I'm sorry, my lady. I'm only
concerned that someone might question why I need a fine gown in a
very slender size for my cook."
Jane
shook her head quickly. "Sarah would never endanger us, Ethan."
Then she planted her fists on her hips. "And I thought you were
past calling me 'my lady'?"
Ethan
looked down at his hands. "I simply think it is wise that while
you're here—well, that we keep our distance from each other."
"Why?"
"Well,
because—" Ethan sputtered. "Because you could be
compromised, that's why!"
Jane's
jaw dropped and she gaped at him. Then she blinked. "Um, Ethan…
I do hate to break the bad news, darling… but you've seen more
of me than I have. I have spent the night in your house, in your bed.
I think I passed 'compromised' several days ago."
Ethan
shook his head, vehemently. "No. As long as you remain a maiden,
a man would be mad not to overlook those small objections."
She
gazed at him, her smile disappearing. "Because I am an heiress,
you mean."
"Of
course."
She
looked away. "Hmm." Seeming rather deflated, she climbed
down off the bed and walked to the door. "Uri has made up the
guest room for me. I believe I shall rest in there."
She
was unhappy about something, but Ethan knew he was right to insist on
retaining the formalities. Living with her was going to be hard
enough without exchanging tender pet names.
There
was one thing—
"My
lady?"
She
stopped at the doorway and turned eagerly. "Yes?"
Ethan
held out his hand. "I believe you have something of mine,"
he said.
"Really?"
She blinked at him innocently. "What would that be?"
Oh,
she was evil. Ethan pursed his lips so that he would not laugh. "My
sausage casing."
"But
I have no sausage casing. Sausage casing is just—"
"Yards
long, yes, I know." He wiggled his fingers. "Give me my
soft, flexible, thing-to-keep-things-in-so-they-don't-get-wet."
"I'm
sure I don't know what you mean." She turned to go out the door.
"I wonder if Uri knows what it is…" she murmured as
if to herself.
"Jane!"
Ethan stopped himself and began again. "My lady, may I please
have my… my…" He couldn't do it. He could not
stand here in his bedroom in the middle of the day and say "penis
sheath" to Lady Jane Pennington. "Oh, what the hell—keep
the damned thing!"
She
dimpled at him. "I know what it is, Ethan." She leaned
forward, her eyes twinkling. "I figured it out," she
whispered loudly. "About the time you had to sit down!"
With
that, she was gone, dancing lightly down the hall, her laughter
trailing after her like music.
The
day wore on, with Ethan keeping to himself for fear of giving in to
his constant impulse to kiss Jane. He had never done just that, he
realized. He had never simply kissed her breathless, with his arms
around her but his hands kept to himself.
He
wanted to, just once, just to prove that he could— except that
he was very much afraid he couldn't.
So
he dawdled in his study while Jane charmed his butler, cook, and
footman. Even Zeus deserted him, pattering after Jane's bright smile
like another willing slave, but with fur.
It
occurred to him that he had never seen Jane so lighthearted. It
almost seemed as though she felt set free from more than just Bedlam.
Finally,
after hearing trilling laughter for just a bit too long from
belowstairs, Ethan could not help but make for the kitchen. For the
first time since he'd hired Jeeves, no one had brought him his tea,
or his news sheets, or emptied his ashes. Of course, he had scarcely
been smoking—couldn't bear to, after suffering Maywell's
choking cloud—but his servants didn't know that, for none of
them had checked!
They
were playing a child's game. Uri was blindfolded with what looked to
be Ethan's handkerchief, turning circles with his arms outstretched.
Mrs. Cook and Jeeves sat in comfort at the kitchen worktable, while
Jane danced around Uri, pulling corn husks from where they stuck out
from his livery while avoiding Uri's reaching hands.
Ethan
scowled. Uri was a handsome bloke, if a lady liked her man oversized
and washed out. Of course, Lady Jane Pennington would never trifle
with a footman.