not—"
"Why
not? You've quite a case against me. I've held your hand, held you in
my arms, touched you in all sorts of improper ways. I've even seen
you in your knickers, lovely legs and all, haven't I?"
Jane
swallowed. She hadn't meant to inspire such a rage—
Lovely
legs and all?
Shocking.
Bawdy. And very gratifying, in a secret feminine way that she would
never admit. Did she have attractive limbs? Perhaps she did. How
would she know, after all?
Ethan
drew a deep breath. Calm down, old man. If the wench were going to
call down the law upon him, she could have done so already. One
scream and the house would have descended upon them and hauled him
off her.
Instead,
she had tricked him, lied to him—
Well,
that wasn't strictly true. She hadn't spoken at all, but Ethan was in
no mood to be charitable. Lies by omission were lies all the same. He
ought to know, he'd practically invented the method.
Damnation,
all he had wanted was a moment where he wasn't who he was…
Perhaps
that was all Lady Jane Pennington had wanted as well.
Ethan
wasn't willing to allow complete forgiveness, but his anger settled
slightly. He turned to her. "I think it is time you went home.
I'll have a footman fetch your carriage—"
"I
live here," she interjected. "I am Lord Maywell's niece."
Ethan
closed his eyes in complete surrender. "Of course you are."
This was going to make his bloody blasted "mission" even
more difficult. Ethan found himself very near laughter. "You are
a lady, an heiress, the daughter of a marquis, the niece of Lord
Maywell—and I've seen your knickers."
Lady
Jane Pennington folded her arms. "I fan to see what you find so
amusing, Mr. Damont."
Ethan
laughed out loud. "Of course you don't!" He swept her a
deep, mocking bow. "Back into the house with you, Lady Jane, or
I'll tell every man in there what color your garters are!"
"Oh!"
She
had the pure gall to be affronted. The lying schemer. She drew up to
her full height—which was rather nicely tall, in fact, for she
nearly reached his chin. Ethan had ever preferred tall women—and
stalked away from him, shutting the terrace doors behind her with a
decided slam.
Ethan
let his head hang and rubbed one hand over his face. His fingers left
a damp trail on his cheek.
Her
single tear. Lady Jane Pennington, who had nothing to weep over as
far as he could see, had left a single, hot teardrop in his hand.
Ethan
touched his dampened cheek with curious fingers and wondered what he
had said that would bring a woman like that to tears.
Ethan
expected supper to be excruciating. These things usually were. Now,
with the addition of the "matter of Lady Jane Pennington"
to make him feel the breath of aristocratic retribution on the back
of his neck, it looked to be a nightmare from hell.
Ethan's
usual manner of passing the time at boring events was flirtation, but
that would be impossible at the Maywell table. With the Maywell Mob
making up nearly the entire list of attending ladies, there would be
no safe targets for his charm.
Flirting
with a young Society girl would mark him as unsafe—ending his
parasitic career with one fell blow of the hammer. So far he was
tolerated, even encouraged, because he'd never crossed that line. Oh,
he'd had some playful encounters with married women, and a few
memorable widows, but he knew what he was—and he knew what he
wasn't.
So
the Society daughters he treated with cool politeness, careful not to
allow the slightest hint of attraction even to the most stunning of
them. They weren't for the likes of him. They weren't even supposed
to be breathing the same air.
When
he was ushered into the main salon of Maywell House, Ethan saw that
his fears were realized. The only ladies present were the five
daughters of Lord Maywell and their cousin, Lady Jane Pennington.
After
leaving the terrace, he'd returned to the smoking room and listened
more carefully to the discussions floating about him. His impression
was that Lady Jane
"Why
not? You've quite a case against me. I've held your hand, held you in
my arms, touched you in all sorts of improper ways. I've even seen
you in your knickers, lovely legs and all, haven't I?"
Jane
swallowed. She hadn't meant to inspire such a rage—
Lovely
legs and all?
Shocking.
Bawdy. And very gratifying, in a secret feminine way that she would
never admit. Did she have attractive limbs? Perhaps she did. How
would she know, after all?
Ethan
drew a deep breath. Calm down, old man. If the wench were going to
call down the law upon him, she could have done so already. One
scream and the house would have descended upon them and hauled him
off her.
Instead,
she had tricked him, lied to him—
Well,
that wasn't strictly true. She hadn't spoken at all, but Ethan was in
no mood to be charitable. Lies by omission were lies all the same. He
ought to know, he'd practically invented the method.
Damnation,
all he had wanted was a moment where he wasn't who he was…
Perhaps
that was all Lady Jane Pennington had wanted as well.
Ethan
wasn't willing to allow complete forgiveness, but his anger settled
slightly. He turned to her. "I think it is time you went home.
I'll have a footman fetch your carriage—"
"I
live here," she interjected. "I am Lord Maywell's niece."
Ethan
closed his eyes in complete surrender. "Of course you are."
This was going to make his bloody blasted "mission" even
more difficult. Ethan found himself very near laughter. "You are
a lady, an heiress, the daughter of a marquis, the niece of Lord
Maywell—and I've seen your knickers."
Lady
Jane Pennington folded her arms. "I fan to see what you find so
amusing, Mr. Damont."
Ethan
laughed out loud. "Of course you don't!" He swept her a
deep, mocking bow. "Back into the house with you, Lady Jane, or
I'll tell every man in there what color your garters are!"
"Oh!"
She
had the pure gall to be affronted. The lying schemer. She drew up to
her full height—which was rather nicely tall, in fact, for she
nearly reached his chin. Ethan had ever preferred tall women—and
stalked away from him, shutting the terrace doors behind her with a
decided slam.
Ethan
let his head hang and rubbed one hand over his face. His fingers left
a damp trail on his cheek.
Her
single tear. Lady Jane Pennington, who had nothing to weep over as
far as he could see, had left a single, hot teardrop in his hand.
Ethan
touched his dampened cheek with curious fingers and wondered what he
had said that would bring a woman like that to tears.
Ethan
expected supper to be excruciating. These things usually were. Now,
with the addition of the "matter of Lady Jane Pennington"
to make him feel the breath of aristocratic retribution on the back
of his neck, it looked to be a nightmare from hell.
Ethan's
usual manner of passing the time at boring events was flirtation, but
that would be impossible at the Maywell table. With the Maywell Mob
making up nearly the entire list of attending ladies, there would be
no safe targets for his charm.
Flirting
with a young Society girl would mark him as unsafe—ending his
parasitic career with one fell blow of the hammer. So far he was
tolerated, even encouraged, because he'd never crossed that line. Oh,
he'd had some playful encounters with married women, and a few
memorable widows, but he knew what he was—and he knew what he
wasn't.
So
the Society daughters he treated with cool politeness, careful not to
allow the slightest hint of attraction even to the most stunning of
them. They weren't for the likes of him. They weren't even supposed
to be breathing the same air.
When
he was ushered into the main salon of Maywell House, Ethan saw that
his fears were realized. The only ladies present were the five
daughters of Lord Maywell and their cousin, Lady Jane Pennington.
After
leaving the terrace, he'd returned to the smoking room and listened
more carefully to the discussions floating about him. His impression
was that Lady Jane
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