My Lady Below Stairs (9 page)

He smiled slowly at Jane. As she walked toward him, his crooked grin fisted her heart. She tamped down the flutter in her belly.

“Ian Michael MacGarrett,” she hissed. “What do you think you're doing here?”

“For a bright girl, Janie, ye're a bit daft this evening. It's plain as the nose on your face what I'm doing here. I'm looking at ye, of course.” Ian's hot gaze traveled down her form and back to meet her eyes again. “Ye're well worth looking at, lassie, all flushed and rosy. Ye should wear red all the time.”

“Never mind that.” Her voiced rasped with irritation, even though his admiration sent a tingle spiraling into her belly. She stepped closer to him so no one would
overhear them. Ian didn't smell of fresh stable straw now.
A solid whiff of sandalwood emanated from his fine clothes, along with his own masculine scent. “How did you get that suit?”

“Same way you got what you're wearing.” He folded his arms across his broad chest and leaned toward her to whisper, “I borrowed it.”

“That much I figured,” she whispered back, so she had
to move even closer. Or was he drawing her in? “From whom?”

“Well, it was more trouble than I expected, I'll grant ye. I counted on being able to waylay one of these dandies hereabouts. These fancy gents make frequent trips out to the garden to smoke and... other things, but most of them are on the puny side and for the longest time I
didn't see any whose clothes I thought I could fit into,” he
said, clearly enjoying stringing out the tale. “Then I re
membered that Lord Hartwell is a goodly-sized fellow—”

“
Oh, Ian!” Jane's stomach turned a backflips. “Tell me you did not steal from the marquess.”

“Borrow,” he corrected. “Borrow from the marquess.”

“Borrow then, you stupid, big Scot.” Jane suppressed the desire to pound her fist on his chest beneath the messily tied cravat. That sort of violence might be
frowned upon in polite society, though if any would dare
flout society's rules, it would undoubtedly be Sybil. Jane struggled with the urge for another couple of heartbeats,
then continued in a furious whisper. “Why would you do
such a thing?”

The musicians started a softly yearning tune in three-quarter time. Ian's eyes darkened as he looked at her.

“Maybe I wanted to dance with ye, love.”

His husky voice sent a shiver over her. Her heart pounded as if she'd run up three flights of stairs with an armload of washing. With infinite slowness, he slid a hand along the side of her waist, the silk of her gown rustling, almost purring, beneath his touch. Ian took her hand and the fight sizzled out of her.

“Waltz with me, Jane.”

She didn't speak. She didn't need to. Her body answered for her. Jane found herself swirling around the
dance floor. Ian pulled her closer so their bodies brushed
each other on the dipping first beat of each measure.

The rest of the ball guests whisked by in a colorful blur at the edge of her vision. They blended with the greenery and scarlet bows and the blaze of tapers, but she couldn't tear her gaze from Ian's face. When the
waltz slowed to a stop, Jane realized that he'd danced her
out one of the large double doors and down the hallway that ran alongside the ballroom. The next man on her dance card was unlikely to find her. Not that that troubled her at all at the moment.

They came to a stop with a final slow turn before one of the tall Palladian windows that overlooked the ice-spangled garden. Snow had drifted onto the lower right corner of each pane of glass, a sparkling frozen triangle in every little rectangle.

Ian made no move to release her, even though the mu
sic had stopped. Jane couldn't bear to pull away.

“I didn't know you could dance, Ian.”

A smile crinkled his eyes. “Even a stupid, big Scot can
count to three.”

His words reminded her she was angry with him. “But a stupid, big Scot apparently can't tell whose wardrobe he
shouldn't be raiding.”

“This is no’ a raid,” he said. “I dinna even intend to take his lordship's fine things out of his house. If it's a raid we're talking of, I could tell ye of some beauties! Me ol' grandsire once made off with thirty head of the neighboring clan's best Angus beeves. Now
that
was a raid.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Aye, lass, I ken your meaning. But a real raid means taking something of value with no intention of giving it back. I fully intend to return his lordship's fancy getup.” He leaned down, his dark eyes searching her face. “But I
do mean to take ye, Jane. And I have no intention of giv
ing ye back.”

There was no mistaking the tilt of his head as he bent toward her. She forced herself not to stand tiptoe to meet him halfway.

“No.” She splayed her fingers across his chest but couldn't bring herself to push against him very hard. “Lady Sybil is supposed to be accepting a proposal of
marriage this night. How would it look if she were found
kissing someone else?”

“Like she'd been caught under the mistletoe,” he said, pointing upward to the clump of greenery Jane had missed. “A perfectly innocent situation. None can fault Lady Sybil for a bit of Christmas spirit.”

“But—”

“Besides,” Ian said, as he tugged her closer. Her body melted against him, her softness conforming to his hard
ness. “What if my Lady Jane were offered a proposal this
night for herself?”

She gasped a quick breath. Did he mean it? The soft gleam in his eyes said he did. Still, it was a backhanded way to ask her to marry him.

^“
I guess,” she said slowly, “it would depend on who was doing the offering.”

“Let me show you.”

His lips brushed hers, a teasing kiss. Then he covered
her mouth with his. Jane's lips parted and he accepted her
welcome, sweeping in with his tongue.

Jane arched against him. His warmth penetrated the
silk as if she were naked. Heat settled low in her belly and
the strange dull ache she always felt when Ian kissed her
began afresh. It wasn't painful exactly. But it was an odd
sensation, a wanting, hollow feeling, a craving more potent than hunger, more urgent than thirst.

She was certain Ian could make it better, if she let him.

But she didn't dare. There was too much at stake. She had to fulfill her role as Sybil this night and that meant she had to stop needing Ian so desperately.

She pushed against his chest until he released her
mouth, but Jane didn't have enough willpower to pull out
of his arms. She laid her head against his chest and felt his heart pounding beneath her cheek.

“Why must everything be so hard?” she whispered.

“I dinna ken, lass,” he said, stroking her spine. “But there are some things that come easily if we let them.”

Her body throbbed an
Amen.

A group of gentlemen suddenly spilled out one of the doors from the ballroom, talking in low murmurs.

“Oh, no!” Jane spotted Lord Hartwell at the center of
the moving circle. “If the marquess recognizes that suit of clothes you're wearing, you're done as a Christmas
goose.”

Jane grabbed Ian's shoulders and turned with him to face the tall windows. He slipped an arm around her waist, and she leaned into him. Maybe if they stood still,
Lord Hartwell and his entourage would overlook them.

“If you'd only consider the plight of these children,” the marquess was saying, “you'd not think twice about
voting with me.”

“But what of the factory owners? Who'll compensate them for loss of laborers?” another man asked. “I can't see raising taxes on account of these snot-nosed raga
muffins.”

“Come, Richland.” Lord Hartwell's tone was still calm and reasonable, as though Lord Richland had agreed with him already. “I've discovered an exceptionally fine case of Spanish port. Let's discuss this further
down in my study, shall we?”

Jane held her breath until the last click of their heels
on the hardwood faded in the distance.

“That's it, Ian,” she hissed. “You must get out of those
clothes right now.”

“I thought ye'd never ask,” he said with a chuckle. “
Only if ye help me.”

“This is serious. His lordship might come back at any moment.”

“Then we'd best hurry.” He took her elbow and started
leading her down the hall.

“Ian!”

“Those are me terms, love.” He stopped and
looked down at her. “I canna leave ye to the likes of Lord
Eddleton.”

Jane laughed mirthlessly. “My sham betrothed. I can't think why you're bothered about this little farce.”

“I know ye think this is some sort of game ye're playin',
but if Lady Sybil never comes back, his lordship's pro
posal is as good as real. Ye'll be a lady in truth, Janie.” He settled his big hands on her shoulders and leaned to touch
his forehead to hers, their breaths mingling. “I'm mindful that it's a big choice I give ye now. But I do give it. Choose.”

She closed her eyes, scrunching her brows together in
thought. The string quartet started up a stately sara
bande and Jane mentally ticked off the remaining dances
on her card. There were at least twelve or thirteen until the final slow waltz she'd promised Lord Eddleton. And maybe a break or two for the musicians. She doubted it was enough time to talk sense into Ian's thick Scottish skull, but she ought to at least be able to see him safely back into his footman's livery.

She opened her eyes. “Let's go.”

Sybil peered through the grimy window to the snow-
rutted street below. A fancy equipage rattled past, throw
ing slush on the foot traffic that scurried out of its way.
Was it someone she knew riding inside that gilded coach?
Lord Hartwell's grand Christmas Ball made it almost worth staying in London. No one of quality left in the city would think of missing it.

Cold seeped through a crack in the glass and reached its icy fingers toward her. With a shiver, she drew the woolen blanket she was using in place of a bedshawl tighter around her shoulders.

“I must go for a little while.” Giovanni came up be
hind her, lifted her hair, and planted his lips on her nape. Pleasure and warmth spread down her spine. She arched,
catlike, into him.

“Go? Where?”

“To bespeak passage for us,
cara mia,”
he said. “We cannot hide here forever.”

She turned and twined her arms around his neck. "It would be nice."

“But we must come out sometime, and I would have us
make for someplace safe, before your father catches up to us.” He pecked her cheek and turned away to tug on a heavy jacket. “The mode of travel, she will not be in the style you are accustomed to, I fear. It's steerage class for a poor painter and his lady.”

“I brought some jewelry.” Sybil turned away from the window and rifled through her small satchel. “We can sell these earbobs and travel in style.”

She pressed the pair of sapphire and pearl studs into his open palm. He studied them so intently, she wondered if he was considering adding them to a still life composition.

“No, my
selfish
little heart,” he said with a laugh as he
returned them to her. “Your trinkets you must keep.
Giovanni will take care of you. Perhaps I will sell a paint
ing on the way to the wharf and we can move up to a second-class berth. Would you like that?”

“I don't care,” she said fiercely as she hugged him, hooking one leg around his and rocking against him.
Selfish?
Well, it was what she'd called herself, wasn't it? “
As long as I'm with you, it doesn't matter where we are.”

He kissed her long and deeply, cupping her bottom to lift her against him. Sybil moaned into his mouth. Just when she thought she'd persuaded him to stay, he pulled away.

“If I do not go now, we miss the morning sailing.” He wound a thick muffler around his neck. His southern blood had never thinned enough for England's cold,
damp winters. “Go back to bed and keep warm. I will
join you soon.”

Once he had latched the door behind him, Sybil
slumped on the edge of the bed. Over the last six months, she and Giovanni had made love in his little garret apart
ment so many times, she'd lost count. Fear of being
caught stealing away from her father's house had added spice to the adventure. The tiny space was magical when Giovanni was with her, a fleshly pleasure garden.