A Christmas Ball Read online

  Now there was a hint of puzzlement playing on his features. He cocked his head at her.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “I told you I am a man of no property, but—”

  “Yes, that may be, but you are a man of amazing talent,” she said, rocking her pelvis into him. Why did he insist on dwelling on the difference in their stations? It made no difference to her that she was a lady and he a commoner. The man was as well-hung as her father’s Thoroughbred stallion and he was rock hard yet again. “You’re even a fair-to-middling painter.”

  “Ah, for that outrage, you will pay!” Giovanni began tickling her ribs.

  She squealed with mirth, trying in vain to free herself.

  “Mercy, Giovanni,” she gasped. “Per piacere.”

  “Admit it! I am an outstanding painter.”

  Her laughter was growing desperate, but she managed to choke out her belief that yes, Giovanni Brunello was indeed a master with canvas and oil.

  And a veritable wizard with his blessed hands and mouth and cock.

  “That’s better,” he said, mollified. “And now you shall be rewarded.”

  His head disappeared under the blanket again. Bliss tickled along her ribs and over her belly. The small hairs between her legs swayed in the heat of his breath. She arched into his mouth. His tongue circled her sensitive spot, drawn tight and tender. A helpless moan escaped her lips as she clung to the bedstead for support.

  Then suddenly Giovanni pulled back the covers so he could look at all of her. He replaced his mouth with his brilliantly talented hand and continued to massage her wanting into white-hot need.

  “You were to be engaged this very night, cara mia,” he said. “And yet you ran away with your Giovanni. Why did you do it, Sybella?”

  She bit her lower lip. Her father would demand the very same thing. And with more cause. Lord Somerville needed the money her future husband had agreed to funnel into his faltering estate. Lord Eddleton had promised to give up his shares in the Pearl, a whaler combing the Pacific, as Sybil’s wedding portion. When the ship came to port, heavy with ambergris and oil, all her father’s financial troubles would be over.

  Sybil’s conscience pricked over abandoning her sire, but at least she was saving Lord Eddleton the trouble of trying to shore up her father’s debt-riddled estate. Lord Somerville had even had the gall to offer one of his unentailed properties as Sybil’s dowry. Viscount Eddleton had no idea the bridal gift was mortgaged to the rafters.

  Giovanni changed rhythm, stroking her harder. Thoughts of her father and his solicitor’s schemes receded into a dark corner of her heart. The wanting was knife-edged now.

  “Why, cara mia? Why did you agree to come with me?”

  “Because I’m selfish!” Her voice was ragged with need. His touch threatened to unravel her, despite the niggling guilt. Her father would just have to think of some other way out of his predicament. “Because I want you and I must have you, devil take the hindermost. There. Are you satisfied?”

  One corner of his mouth lifted. “Not yet.”

  He covered her body with his and she shattered into spasms as he entered her.

  “Now, il mio cuore,” Giovanni said as her inner walls fisted around him and her mouth hung slack with spent passion. “Now, I am satisfied.”

  Chapter Four

  “ ‘Be a love and fetch the eggs, there’s a good girl,’ ” Agnes mimicked under her breath as she slipped Jane’s woolsey cloak from the peg by the back door and wrapped the thin garment around her shoulders. “If Jane’s lolling about in a tub like the bloody Queen of Sheba, her ladyship ought not begrudge me the use of her wrap.”

  Agnes pulled the hood up and tied its rough tabs under her chin. She hated to admit it, but Jane was right about the eggs. If no one could find the real Sybil, no one must miss the real Jane.

  No one had missed Jane yet. Her work kept her in out-of-the-way places about the massive residence.

  So far, so good, Agnes thought as she slogged across the alley. She’d gather the eggs and leave the basket on the counter for Cook to find. But someone was bound to notice when the chamber pots went unemptied and the washing piled up.

  Then Agnes would have to come up with some story to explain why Jane had gone missing, something people would accept without question.

  Agnes lifted the latch and entered the dim, dusty chicken coop. She’d expected a terrible, acrid stink, but the stable lads must have changed the hens’ bedding recently. It was no more unpleasant than beating a featherbed during spring cleaning.

  Agnes reached under the first biddy, darting her hand in quickly to avoid a pecking. She came up with a warm brown egg to tuck into her small basket.

  Can’t use a sick grandmother for an excuse, she thought. Jane had no family on her mother’s side that anyone knew of. Maybe Agnes could invent some for her. Not a grandparent. They would likely be dead already. An uncle. A rich uncle. A rich uncle who’d just learned he had a niece and wanted to shower her with his wealth.

  “If a body’s going to invent relations, they may as well have deep pockets and open hands.” Agnes shrugged philosophically.

  No, that’ll never do, she mused. Jane would never come into money and run off without sharing her good fortune. Maybe a dying uncle. A kindly old vicar with no one to tend to him and Jane drops everything to rush to his side.

  Yes, that was more believable.

  “There ye are, love,” a deep voice drawled behind her. “I knew ye couldn’t stay away.”

  Agnes hadn’t even heard the coop’s door open. A pair of hands grasped her shoulders and spun her around.

  “Ian Michael MacGregor!”

  He’d bent to kiss her but caught himself just in the nick when he recognized her. He scuttled backward as though Agnes were a snake in the straw.

  “Miss Agnes! What’re you doing here? And wearing Jane’s cloak? Where is she?”

  There’d never be a better test of her fib, so Agnes launched into the tale of the dying vicar while she worked around each roost, scrupulously avoiding Ian’s gaze. She could spin stories with the best of them, but the telling of them was an art she’d not quite mastered yet. Not if she had to look someone in the eye.

  Who knew gathering eggs would be good for something besides making omelets?

  “And after the sad passing, Jane says she’ll be back, quick as ever she can,” Agnes said, trying not to sound too pleased with herself. Really, this story was ideal and she told it well, if she did say so, adding a neat little flourish at the last moment about how the unhappy illness had all begun with a toothache. Like Mr. Roskin, Agnes suspected Jane’s stint as Sybil might be a long one while they searched for the real lady. This tale would serve them well. Who knew how long an old vicar with a rotting tooth might linger? “So it just goes to show, it don’t pay a body to neglect his teeth.”

  Ian Michael’s even brows lowered and he crossed his arms over his broad chest. “What’s his name?”

  “Who?”

  “Jane’s mysterious new uncle.”

  “Oh!” Agnes hadn’t thought of that. Her gaze darted about the coop and fell on an old tin of snuff that had been wedged into a knothole to keep out the wind. She recognized the Rasp and Crown on the label that proclaimed the contents came from the tobacconists Friburg and Treyer.

  “Treyer,” she said, thinking Friburg sounded too foreign by half. “Reverend Treyer,” she added for good measure.

  “Och! And I suppose once the good reverend’s gone on to his eternal reward, the care of his parish will fall to his faithful sexton, Mr. Friburg.” Sarcasm made Ian’s burr even more pronounced.

  Drat the man! He’d noticed the snuff tin, too.

  When guile failed, there was always the pecking order of the manor to fall back on and as an upstairs maid, she outranked a stable hand, even the head groom, by several rungs on the household ladder. Agnes made a dismissive little hmph-ing noise and tried to push past him.

  Ian blocked her wa
y with a long arm across the door.

  “The true tale now, if ye please, Miss Agnes,” he said, pleasantly but firmly. “And take your time, lest ye forget any details of importance. Where is my Janie, and why are ye stooping to do her chores?”

  Jane leaned back in the copper tub, luxuriating in the treat of a hot bath. She’d washed her hair and scrubbed her body with Pear’s Transparent Soap. Once again, she doubted Lady Sybil’s sanity for leaving this snug haven to run off with an itinerant painter.

  Agnes burst back into the room, windblown and ruddy-cheeked.

  “What? Not out yet?” Agnes demanded. “You’ll have prunes for fingers, I shouldn’t wonder.”

  “And I won’t care a bit.” Jane stood and let the soap slither down her clean skin in little runnels. She stepped out of the tub and began to towel herself off. “So far, being Lady Sybil is a slice of paradise.”

  “We’ll see if you’re of the same mind once I lace you into that ball gown this evening.” Agnes busied herself tidying the already clean room. “Milady had it made on the smallish side and that corset will give you a tight squeeze.”

  But it was not yet time to dress for the ball and since Jane was playing at being a lady, she must dress according to the clock and expect to change her entire ensemble several times in a single day. It was too late for her to don a morning dress, but the casually elegant half-dress Agnes helped Jane into was deliciously comfortable. Jane had never worn such white linens and the silk Empire dress was so light and airy, it might have belonged to a nymph. The kid slippers looked as if they’d never touched the ground.

  Since she had been a small child, Jane had imagined floating down the curved staircase to the dining room. She managed it with more grace than she expected. Descending steps was ever so much easier without a load of crockery or soiled laundry in one’s arms. There was little to be done about the calluses at the base of her fingers, but the lotion Agnes had rubbed on her hands had left her skin so smooth, she couldn’t bear the thought of donning gloves. Jane would have to wear them for the ball, but for now, she enjoyed the smooth wood of the showy banister beneath her palms.

  Since Lord Somerville was not yet in residence, she’d dine alone, but just the thought of sitting on one of the mahogany chairs at the long table made her slightly giddy. Simple Jane Tate, the scullery maid who sat at the foot of the servants’ table, was about to dine in the honored place as the daughter of the house.

  “Don’t look at any of the servants directly,” Agnes had advised her. “Or speak to them other than to give an order. And for pity’s sake, don’t thank them. They’ll think Lady Sybil’s taken a knock on the head.”

  So Jane didn’t spare more than a glance at the liveried footman who stood behind her seat. She bit her tongue to keep the “thank you” from her lips when he pulled the chair out for her.

  Somerville Manor boasted two footmen. Was it Edward or Charles who ladled her white soup from the china tureen? It was difficult to tell when she’d only allowed her gaze to bounce over the man for a moment. All footmen were required to wear powdered wigs and frock coats, a stately, old-fashioned getup that made them all look rather the same.

  Though this one seemed taller than she thought either of the Somerville footmen were.

  In silence, Jane ate her soup and sliced her cold mutton. The white mushroom fricassee was especially tasty. Jane was unable to name one of the vegetable curries. The herbs and spices used to flavor the meal were richer and far more exotic than she was used to. Jane found herself longing for the friendly banter and plain fare she enjoyed in the kitchen with the rest of the help.

  Was Lady Sybil lonely? Is that why she ran away? Jane wondered. She wouldn’t have thought so. Not with all the comings and goings, the callers and their cards and—

  “Oh!” Jane said aloud. She had just realized she might be called upon to play hostess if any members of the upper crust dropped by that afternoon.

  “Is aught amiss, milady?” the footman behind her asked, his tone restrained, but his accent unmistakably Scottish.

  “Ian!” she exclaimed, then sank to a furious whisper. “What are you doing here?”

  “I’m thinking I might ask ye the same, my Lady Jane,” he said, leaning down to pull out her chair. Instead of gently sliding the chair backward so she could stand, he whipped it around to face him and rested his hands on its gilt arms, pinning her in place. “Appears to me there’s more than one person out of place in this fine dining room.”

  Chapter Five

  “Ian, stop it. You’re going to ruin everything.”

  “Which part is it you’re most particular about me not ruining?”

  He leaned down far enough that a little of the powder from his wig fell like snow on the tip of her nose. Jane stifled a sneeze.

  “What is it you fancy most? Attending a snooty ball in a borrowed gown or accepting a proposal of marriage from some other blighter?”

  “I notice you’ve not troubled yourself to offer for me,” she said stonily.

  “That’s another matter altogether.”

  Jane arched a brow at him. If Ian wasn’t prepared to marry her, why should he care if she accepted a suit on Lady Sybil’s behalf?

  “I’m not doing this for myself.” She was doing it for him, blast the man! Mr. Roskin had threatened to sack Ian without character if she didn’t cooperate. But she wouldn’t tell him that. Knowing how much she’d dare for him might make him even more full of himself than he already was. She pressed herself against the padded back of the chair to put some distance between herself and the powder that still drifted from his wig. “I’m doing this for Lady Sybil and for Lord Somerville and for the good of the estate.”

  Ian narrowed his gaze. “And when has Lord Somerville ever done good for you?”

  Jane knotted her fingers in her lap. Trust a stupid, big Scot to cut to the heart of the matter. As soon as she had agreed to the plan, she had realized this might be a chance to win approval from the man who had given her his chestnut hair and hazel eyes, but not his name. Was it so horrible to want Lord Somerville, at least once in her life, to look upon her as a father should look upon his daughter?

  Even if he didn’t know it was her.

  The rice powder tickled her nose again and this time, she wasn’t able to keep from sneezing. She caught the blow in one of Lady Sybil’s fine lace handkerchiefs. Ian straightened to his full height and glared down at her.

  “So ye still intend to go through with this farce, to let this Lord Eddleton paw ye and compromise your virtue—”

  “Nothing of the sort. I’ll simply attend the ball and accept his proposal in Lady Sybil’s stead. Gentlemen don’t try to ruin women they intend to marry,” she said through clenched teeth.

  “Ye know little enough of men. Ye’ve no idea what gentlemen are capable of.”

  “If anyone’s trying to compromise me, it’s you.” There’d be no more fancies dancing in her head about his string bed. Not after this.

  He shook his head. “Ye canna go, Jane. I’ll not have it.”

  “You’ll not have it? And just what makes you think you have any say in the matter?”

  That settled it! The man was demanding a husband’s due when he wasn’t willing to submit to the yoke. If only he’d admit that he loved her…she shoved away that hope with force. Jane stood and struck a pose that was pure Lady Sybil at her haughty best.

  “If you try to expose me, I’ll denounce you,” she promised. “Who will people believe, you think? A stable hand in a borrowed wig or the daughter of the house? Mr. Bottlesby and Mr. Roskin will back me up, if needs be.”

  “Janie, love—”

  “Don’t think to sweet-talk me out of this.”

  Ian’s lips drew together in a grim line, but he stepped back a pace. Then he made a less-than-elegant leg to her. Hostling did not lend itself to mastering the finer points of etiquette, after all.

  “Verra well. Will there be anything else, milady?” His demeanor was def
erential in case another servant entered the room, but when he lowered his voice, his whispered tone bristled with fury. “You’ve had me heart for luncheon, Janie. Mayhap ye’d like me manhood for dessert.”

  Jane’s eyes flared in surprise. A true gentleman was never vulgar to a lady. She flashed a deceptively sweet smile at him. “Only if you let Cook roast it on a spit first.”

  Jane turned on her heel and flounced out of the dining room before he could speak another word.

  The brass knocker on Lord Eddleton’s town house banged against the English oak as if an invading army were trying to batter down the portal. Wigram, the last of Eddleton’s remaining servants, started for the door.

  “Hold a moment.” Eddleton slid a finger between the thick damask curtains and chanced a glance down on his front stoop. “No point in answering if it’s only a bill collector.”

  “Milord, I don’t think any of them would be so bold as to accost you at your home,” Wigram said. “Not by day, at any rate. And chances are very good the word hasn’t gotten ’round to all of them yet.”

  “Thank heaven for small blessings, Wigram. Who knew the randy old goat still had it in him?”

  Viscount Eddleton had been heir apparent to Lord Pemworthy for years. Then, less than a fortnight ago, his ailing uncle had felt well enough to wed his pregnant nurse. If the child she carried turned out to be a boy, Eddleton would be cut off without a shilling. The impending disaster—he couldn’t view the imminent birth as anything less—wasn’t public knowledge yet, but his creditors seemed to have caught wind of it through the back channels of his uncle’s staff. Eddleton’s credit had been pinched off like an overripe pimple.

  Wigram loosed a long-suffering sigh. “Lord Pemworthy has led a retired life for some years—”

  “Evidently not retired enough.” Eddleton closed one eye and peeped through the small slit in the curtain, again trying to see who was pounding on his door.

  “What I mean to say, milord, is His Grace, your uncle, did not often show himself in public. It will surely be some time before the change in your disposition with regard to the inheritance becomes common knowledge among the beau monde.”