Authors: Arpan B
Female
companionship was something else that had lost its previous glow this
past year—at least as far as the sort of women Ethan had once
fancied.
There
had been a time he'd liked his entertainment enthusiastically
shameless, the more so the better. Wine, women, and song. When money
ran thick like honey through his fingers, he'd had no trouble finding
playmates aplenty. And when times were lean, his charm had been
enough for at least an occasional tumble.
Then
one day the wine turned to vinegar, the women became loud and blowsy,
and the song began a discordant resonance deep within him. It
suddenly felt as though he could see far, far into his future—and
all it held was more of the same.
He'd
kept up the pretense for a while, but then lost interest even in
that. It wasn't until he'd been dragged from his house a few weeks
ago by a dark-haired beauty on a mission that he had felt his own
heart beating in excitement once again.
Of
course, who could blame him? She was a fine and revitalizing
creature, was Rose Lacey—that is, Rose Tremayne, for she was
now married to quite possibly the last friend Ethan had left in the
world.
Which
was probably for the best. Ethan had little to recommend himself to a
woman so principled. Ethan could honestly claim that his own life was
devoted to the redistribution of wealth—into his own pockets.
He
wondered without much interest if it was going to be a very long
life.
Then
he heard it.
Sniffle
.
"Oh,
no," he groaned to himself. "Not that." His spine
weakened. He tried to stiffen it by sheer will.
Sniffle.
"Bloody
hell," he whispered, slumping in resignation. Turning around, he
retraced his silent steps until he was opposite where he believed the
woman to be. The hedge was old growth and sparse between the thick
gnarled trunks. Ethan wriggled through with commendable lack of
noise.
The
grounds here were dark, but Ethan could see the black trunks of trees
silhouetted against the better lit area nearer the house. The earth
was soft under his feet, so he was able to approach the ladylike
sniffling unheard.
Finally,
Ethan was treated to such a sight that he simply had to pause. With a
deep breath, he took a moment to appreciate it fully. Long,
bestockinged, truly superior legs were wrapped firmly around a
jutting tree branch. It was damned erotic, that's what it was. Ethan
felt like letting go a bestial growl of his own.
He
stepped closer. In the light from the house he could see the milky
gleam of thigh skin peeking over the tops of the pair of rather
battered stockings. The calves that were crooked over the limb looked
plump and fully strong enough to hang on to him—er, the tree
branch—all night long.
There
was nothing else to see but yards of muslin swathing the rest of her.
No difficulty there.
Ethan
had ever been a leg man.
Just
then, the branch Ethan had been envying gave out a loud, groaning
crack!
Ethan
lunged forward, grasped the muslin bundle by what he judged to be a
waist and tugged the whole lot, legs and all, into his arms. His
damsel in distress let out a yelp of surprise and sent an elbow deep
into his stomach.
"Oof!"
That had hurt! Just for that, Ethan put her down far more slowly than
he otherwise would have. After all, one didn't happen onto this sort
of view every day. With his arms wrapped around her, the act of
turning her over caused a few "unavoidable" liberties to be
taken.
"So
sorry. Do forgive me," Ethan said without much urgency. He let
the luscious legs down first and watched wistfully as the muslin
shifted allegiance and tumbled down to bide them. He was left with a
struggling, protesting bundle of fallen hair and slapping hands.
"Get—off!
Oh!
Oh
!"
The woman gave him a last hearty shove and Ethan released her.
"You're
welcome," he drawled, and dipped a low ironic bow, then turned
to walk away. Heroism never paid. "I do hope the branch doesn't
fall on your head," he called to her, his tone not terribly
concerned.
Red-faced
and gasping, Lady Jane Pennington, well-known Society heiress and
recent rescuee, straightened and brushed her hair partially out of
her eyes. The light of the house was behind her, shining on a broad
back that was swiftly disappearing into the darkness.
Oh,
thank heaven he was leaving! If one could catch fire from
embarrassment and humiliation, she would certainly be a living torch
right now. The fact that someone had seen—oh, she could die!
Still,
a lifetime of taking pride in her good manners forced the words from
her throat. "Thank you, sir," she said. The words choked a
bit, but fair was fair.
He
turned to look at her, then slowly stalked back toward her. Jane
abruptly doubled her embarrassment as the light fell onto his face.
He was not only tall and strong, but manly and handsome as well. All
in all the worst possible candidate for rescuer she could imagine.
He
came close, then closer still. Jane backed up a step in alarm. Her
hair still hung over her eyes and her face was in shadow, but it
wouldn't do to be recognized.
The
fellow came so near that she had to tilt her head back to look into
his face. Her breath caught at the impact of his fine face and form.
So near…
Only
then did a shiver of alarm pass through her. She was alone, in the
deserted garden at night with a man who had seen her drawers.
Even
the most gallant of rescuers might gain the wrong impression.
His
gaze was narrowed as he cast it down on her. "I'd rather an
honest 'get-thee-gone' than that grudging thanks, gazelle," he
said, his voice low.
Jane
twitched. She'd had a long night and was in no mood for this man's
opinion. "And I would rather you be on your way than coming back
to mock me."
"Ouch."
He smiled slowly. "You have teeth. Perhaps you aren't a gazelle
after all." He dipped his head near hers, until if she turned
her neck she could brush his cheek with her lips.
"Are
you a predator?" His voice feathered warm and soft in her ear.
"Is that why you were in the tree, waiting to pounce on some
unsuspecting male?" His tone made it clear that he was more than
willing to be that male.
Oh,
bother. He was one of
those
men. Jane snorted. "Does that load of horse apples actually work
on women? Or am I the first one you've practiced it on?" She
folded her arms. "Because I must inform you that it will never
succeed."
He
pulled his head back to look at her. His eyes were in shadow. Jane
could not tell his reaction. Was he offended? Did she care?
"Of
course not." His tone was flat, almost bored. "What was I
thinking? I'm awaited at home, in any case."
Then
he plucked a leaf from her hair and tucked it into his weskit pocket.
"My token, fair maiden," he said mockingly.
He
turned his back on her and strode away. Just as he stepped into the
deeper darkness of the rear garden, the stranger sent her a flashing,
wicked grin over his shoulder and pointed up to "her" tree.
"Nice
limbs," he called. "A fellow could lie among them all
night." With an insouciant salute, he turned away again and was
gone.
Jane
clapped one hand to her mouth at his shocking jest—then snorted
with laughter despite herself. He was a wicked, wicked fellow.
She
picked up her skirts and ran for the house. She hoped she could make
it to her room before anyone saw the condition she was in. As she
scurried through the dimness, she wondered about her handsome, wicked
rescuer…
Perhaps
she wouldn't tell Mother about this one.
Ethan
was not awaited at home. That had been a lie. There was no one to
greet him but his silver-haired butler and his looming sour-faced
male cook. Ethan Damont descended from the hired carriage to the
front steps of his prized Mayfair house. Despite the lateness of the
hour, his ground-floor windows blazed with light, as did the
rectangle of open door that waited him.
If
he wasn't mistaken, his new butler had somehow known to open the door
before Ethan had even been driven into his own square. Such
punctilious attention to duty was a bit alarming. Ethan certainly
hoped he wasn't expected to reward it with timely pay and Christmas
bonuses. Gambling was a chancy career, at best.
Things
were fine now, of course. It would take even a devoted hedonist like
Ethan a long while to run through the generous reward he'd received
for helping to rescue Collis Tremayne's stout old uncle…
It
occurred to Ethan for the first time that he'd never caught that
uncle's name. Then he shrugged the thought out of his fogged mind. He
wasn't drunk, of course. One couldn't cheat well if one was drunk.
Well,
that wasn't necessarily true. Ethan could and had, more than once,
but it was very bad form. The marks didn't like it when they couldn't
blame their losses on their own relative inebriation. It caused
suspicion, which was very bad for business.
But
he wasn't drunk tonight. Merely tired, tired of the whole bloody
game.
He
let out a breath and climbed his own steps with much less enthusiasm
than the lovely house deserved. He'd won it in his salad days, from a
man so rich he'd simply shrugged and bought another, finer one the
next day.
Ethan
loved his house, loved every scrap of gilded molding, every square of
marble on the floor, every mouse in the cellar, and every damned bat
in the attic.
He
might not be a gentleman, and he might not be a worthy—or even
a vaguely good—man, but he had a bloody fine house.
In
the front hall of said house, Ethan's butler stood at the ready in
dignified if nauseating splendor, all tricked out in the hideous new
official pink and violet livery of Diamond House. Ethan had picked it
out rather facetiously when pressed past his patience by the man's
insistence on proper uniform—well, he hadn't dreamed the bloke
would take him seriously!—and now it seemed he would be staring
at it forever.
Oh,
well, what was one more mistake in a life that held so many? The
butler wore it with imperturbable dignity all the same.
He
gave the butler his gloves and hat. "How did you know it was me?
It was a hired carriage."
The
butler didn't shrug like another man might have. He merely nodded
respectfully. "I simply knew, sir."
"Yes,
but how?"
The
butler blinked slowly, his gaze never faltering in its level, mystic
calm. "I knew because it
was
you, sir."
"That's
frightening, do you know that?"
"Yes,
sir."
Ethan
shrugged out of the greatcoat he'd worn against the September fog
outside. "Well, stop it. You'll give me nightmares."
"Indeed,
sir."
Ethan
shot the man a sharp glance, but the cool reserve remained in place.
That had not been humor. With a barely concealed shudder, Ethan took
himself off to his study.
Although
it was nearly morning, he didn't even attempt to go to bed. Sleep
never came until he was so bloody tired his eyes wouldn't stay open.
He might as well stare at the fire and sip brandy until that
happened.
The
brandy decanter was nowhere in sight.
"Jeeves!"
The
butler appeared miraculously at his study door, making Ethan jump.
"Sir, my name is P—"
"Jeeves,
do I pay you well?"
"Obscenely
so, sir."
"Too
right." For the moment, anyway. "So, if I want to call you
Jeeves, and you have no objection to Jeeves other than it isn't
really your name—you didn't have a dog named Jeeves, or an
enemy, or any such thing, did you?"