The Rogue (20 page)

Her
eyes widened and she drew back. He raised his other hand—

—
and
gently cupped her cheek in his palm. She froze but he could feel a
trembling begin deep within her. His fingertips slid into her silky
hair and suddenly Ethan passionately wanted to see it down around her
shoulders, streaming over her bare breasts, splaying over his pillow—

He
stroked his thumb down her cheek to her top lip. So pink, although he
was positive she wore no lip rouge. "You're all milk and satin
and strawberries, do you know that, Janet?" His thumb caught her
full bottom lip down and her lips parted.

Jane
could not move. Never, never in her life—oh, dear God, she
couldn't breathe, couldn't think—

His
palm was hot on her cheek, his thumb leaving prints of fire on her
lips. Without will of her own, her tongue flicked out to taste the
salt on his skin. He was brandy and fire and male… and had she
really done that?

His
eyes went hot at her tiny permission. She couldn't take her gaze
away. Oh, God, she'd done it now—

His
hand slid to the back of her neck and his mouth came down on hers.

«
^
»

She
melted in his hands. Virtuous, wholesome Lady Jane Pennington turned
to hot wax at his touch. She flowed against him, surrendering to his
kiss as if his mouth on hers were all she'd ever wanted in her entire
life. It was bloody intoxicating, that's what it was.

Victory
and arousal pumped through Ethan's veins, roared in his ears, drowned
out his reason. He let go of her wrist and wrapped his arm hard about
her waist, pulling her to him, needing to feel her body against his.
She was lithe and liquid and willing, oh, so willing—

She
kissed him back, awkwardly and fervently. Her hands came up to dive
into his hair, clinging to him, pulling him closer. He groaned into
her mouth, her hot, sweet, untutored mouth—thank God, she was a
quick study. Her kiss deepened, her lips plumping and her tongue
venturing to mesh with his—closer, he had to get closer.

The
wall came up against Jane's back and she was grateful for its
pressure molding her more closely to Ethan's hard, hungry body. His
knee pressed between her thighs, pinning her with her own skirts to
the wall. She gladly rode his hard thigh astride, the pressure of it
jolting through her. Soon she would sink into him, for she was
dissolving in his heat. Her bosom was pressed hard to his chest—she
ached, needed to rub away the ache— she writhed against him.

He
made an animal sound at her motion. His hand left her neck to wrap
around her breast—yes, that was what she wanted, his touch, his
rough demanding caress, his fingertips plucking at her nipple through
her bodice. No, she wanted him closer, touching her, she wanted her
breast to be as bare as her cheek, to feel the heat of his palm, the
coarse texture of his thumb, the hot, wet suction of his mouth—

What
am I doing ?

Cold
reality rushed through Jane. Ethan Damont had his tongue in her mouth
and his hand on her bodice in her aunt Lottie's second-best parlor in
the middle of the afternoon.

Jane
placed both hands on his shoulders and shoved with all her strength.
Mr. Damont went staggering backward, his eyes wide with surprise. He
caught himself instantly and straightened, his chest heaving. She was
breathing hard herself, as if she'd run a race when she'd never taken
a step.

Actually,
she'd taken a rather large, unwise, regrettable step… one she
was quite sure she couldn't take back. "I—I cannot—I
do not—" Her heart wouldn't stop racing. Her body ached.
All she wanted was his touch. All she wanted was to find a dark room
and submit to his every caress. She scarcely recognized herself.

"I
fear I no longer know who I am," she said quietly.

Her
admission went through Ethan like a shot, overpowering his own anger
and ardor. The note of loss and confusion in her voice—he had
done this to her. He had wanted to break her, he realized. He'd
wanted to batter down her barriers.

He'd
wanted to win.

Looking
at her standing there, breathless, her priceless composure in pieces
about her feet, her hands visibly trembling, he felt no victory, only
shame.

He
passed one hand over his face. "Janet, I'm—"

"Please
do not address me so." Her demand was quiet this time, soft and
defeated. Her tone made his chest ache.

He
exhaled, then bowed slightly. "My deepest apologies, my lady,"
he said formally, without a trace of mockery. He straightened. "I
fear I have overstayed my welcome. Please excuse me."

She
nodded graciously but silently, gazing somewhere just over his right
shoulder. Ethan left the parlor feeling as though he had viciously
kicked Zeus.

Simms
was standing in the front hall. "His lordship has been expecting
you, sir." Although the butler must have known that Ethan had
been alone in the parlor with Lady Jane, the man gazed at him without
comment.

As,
of course, any butler should. Only Jeeves felt it necessary to
criticize him. Right now, Ethan rather felt he deserved a good
dressing-down. Unfortunately, there was no one to condemn him.

No
one but himself, that is.

Lord
Maywell lounged in his chair like a prince on a throne. Ethan had to
admit that the man had a certain air about him. In fact, he reminded
Ethan of his own father— watchful and exacting. The only
difference was, he would never have seen that light of assessing
approval from the eyes of his father.

Ethan
reminded himself to be wary. If Lord Maywell was, indeed, some sort
of espionage mastermind, then it wouldn't do to underestimate the
man. Just because someone was a lord didn't mean he was necessarily
useless. Just look at Etheridge.

So
Ethan assumed a careless air of his own, lounging in his own chair as
if he were still the detached gambler with no ties and no loyalties.
It was a comfortable and familiar skin to live in.

Now
that he was out of the environment of the club, he was beginning to
forget that brief sensation of belonging. One afternoon did not a
family bond create, after all.

"Tell
me something, Damont—where do you stand on this issue of
pulling British troops out of the Americas?"

Ethan
twirled his unlit cheroot in his fingers. After spending time wrapped
in the endless haze of smoke that surrounded Maywell, he was
beginning to lose his taste for the things. He stared at the ceiling.
"America… America…" He shrugged. "Isn't
that where the tobacco comes from?"

Maywell
narrowed his eyes. "You have no opinion on the American war?"

Ethan
waved his cheroot at his lordship. "Too bloody right I do! I say
it's time to end that bloody mess and get the price of tobacco back
down!"

Maywell
chuckled at that. "I'll bring that up at the next meeting of the
House of Lords. Maybe that'll light a fire under some of those old
sticks." He drew on his cheroot, making the tip glow in the dim
room.

Ethan
wondered if he was supposed to laugh at that, or if Maywell even
recognized his own pun. Abruptly, he found himself wearying of the
cat-and-mouse wordplay between them. He wasn't going to play.

"I
have to admit, my lord, that I don't give a monkey's arse about the
war, or Napoleon, or the Americas. Not only do I have no opinion, but
I don't really want to hear your opinion either." He leaned
back, eyeing his host.

Maywell
eyed him narrowly. "You don't care at all? You have no patriotic
passion? No fervor for the preservation of Mother England and the
status quo?"

Ethan
spread his hands. "What has the status quo ever done for me?"

The
fact that it was the truth did nothing to ease how hollow it sounded
in Ethan's own ears. If this was no pose, if this was no act…
then he must truly be the most worthless, parasitical lout that ever
walked the earth. He was beginning to think Etheridge was right about
him all along.

"Hmm.
Interesting." Maywell blew out another cloud of smoke, obscuring
his face except for those glinting eyes. "Let us change the
subject then, shall we? Tell me, have you ever frequented one of the
bordellos located near Westminster?"

Ethan
knew there were some "shops" near the palace that sold more
than cravats and Chinese tea. He shook his head. "I've always
favored Mrs. Blythe's establishment, myself."

Maywell
grunted. "That's not one of mine."

"Yours,
my lord? Do you mean one of your favorites?"

Maywell
pursed his lips. "I mean, I don't own that one."

Oh-ho.
Ethan's ears pricked, although he was careful not to show it. "I
had no idea you were in the business, my lord." The man had five
daughters, for God's sake! "Have you found it profitable?"

Maywell
grunted. "Financially they have yet to truly pay out, but
otherwise…" He spread both hands, his smug expression
implying some great profit other than monetary.

As
in… what? Surely the man didn't find it spiritually rewarding?
Ethan decided to bite. "What other sort of profit is there?"

"Information."
Maywell pointed at Ethan with his lit cheroot. "The only real
power in the world lies in controlling information. He who knows the
most, wins."

Ethan
could not hold back a disbelieving snort. "So this is a
scholarly pursuit? Do you have naked ladybirds reading aloud to their
clients?"

Maywell
smirked. "You'd be surprised what some of these gentlemen pay
for."

Ethan
thought back to his own history of energetic sexual exploration. "I
sincerely doubt I would be." He smiled. "So if the
information is not being disseminated by the ladies, then it is being
collected. Am I correct?"

Maywell
nodded smugly. "And who do you think is spouting all this pillow
talk?"

Westminster…
the center of the British government. The two Houses of Parliament,
the Guard, the Home Office, which ran national security and the war
effort—

"I
say," Ethan breathed. "That's brilliant." It was, in
an entirely evil way. All those overworked, frazzled officials—
a clever, sympathetic woman could get a great deal out of such men.

Careful!
You're not supposed to know Maywell's a traitor!

Ethan
examined his nails. "So you are a blackmailer, then?"

That
even surprised Maywell. His lordship started and went rather pink
with indignation. "I am not a blackmailer!"

"So
then why? What do you need all this information for?"

Maywell
said nothing for a moment. Then he leaned forward and placed his
folded hands in the precise center of his desk blotter. "Damont,
you are a man of many talents. You have experience in certain aspects
of the world that I do not. You are clever and clear-sighted,
unclouded by soggy sentiment."

"Thank
you," Ethan drawled. "I think."

"I
could use a man like you, Damont."

Oh,
no. Here it came, despite his efforts. In fact, it seemed almost as
if his declaration of apathy had sealed Maywell's opinion of him—in
precisely the opposite way Ethan had intended.

"I'm
sure I don't know what you mean," Ethan said uneasily.

Maywell
smiled, a toothy predator's grin. "I think you do. You came to
me, don't you recall? Why do you think that was? Do you think it was
mere happenstance that you came to my house the evening of the ball?"

Ethan
shrugged. "I had my reasons."

Maywell
smiled slightly. "As well I know. Luckily, all that your friends
from the Liar's Club found were the records of a mission I have
little faith in anyway."

Maywell
knew
,
Ethan went cold. Nevertheless, he kept his expression unconcerned.
Never had he needed his poker face more. "What friends? I don't
frequent the Liar's Club."

Maywell
steepled his fingers before him. It reminded Ethan eerily of Dalton
Montmorency, although one could not imagine two men more different in
make and manner.