Chapter 11

Chapter Eleven

" T here is no need to fuss," Ethan said.

"I am the housekeeper. It is my job to fuss."

"I relinquish you of that duty."

"It's too late for that," she said. "I already went to the trouble of gathering the supplies from the stillroom. Now sit."

She pointed at the chair as if she were a governess and he a wayward schoolboy. Perhaps she felt comfortable asserting her authority because they were in the servants' hall. He decided to go along, mostly because he didn't wish to fight with her. The aftermath of violence still simmered in his veins, and he didn't trust himself to give rein to his emotions.

Especially where she was concerned.

As he sat, the image of that bastard Harlow groping her, choking her flashed in his mind's eye, and his insides tightened like a coil. She'd looked so small and vulnerable…though not powerless. Despite her assailant's grip on her throat, she'd fought like a wildcat. Thus, he'd discovered another fact about Jane Wood.

She had courage. In spades.

He tucked away the pebble of knowledge along with the others he'd collected. It had become a hobby, trying to figure out his housekeeper.

More like an obsession, and you know it.

She intrigued him, he realized. She was like Beethoven's Grosse Fuge : intricate, paradoxical, at times indecipherable. Although critics had panned the maestro's composition, Ethan loved it for its unapologetic embracing of chaos and complexity and all the tender moments in between. It was music that he would never grow tired of listening to.

Mrs. Wood fiddled with the objects she'd set on the table before turning to him. Given her petite stature, she barely had to bend to touch his jaw, examining the injury. Her scent wafted to his nostrils, herbal and feminine and clean. The gentle brush of her fingertips sent a sizzle to his loins; he inhaled sharply.

"Does that hurt?" Behind her spectacles, her eyes were that of a worried doe.

I ache like the devil. But not because of the scratch on my face.

"No," he said.

"Thankfully, the cut on your jaw looks shallow, but I'm going to clean it with witch hazel. This may sting."

What stung was how close she was, practically standing between his splayed thighs. What stung was how he burned to pull her closer and how he had to grip his thigh to prevent himself from doing so. The minuscule burn of the witch hazel?

That was nothing.

To distract himself, he said, "You seem to have experience dealing with injuries."

"They were…um, commonplace in my family."

He wondered why she'd hesitated in her reply. "Do you have brothers?"

"I have no siblings." She gazed at her handiwork. "That's much better."

She seemed satisfied; at least one of them was.

"Now I'll have a look at your hands," she went on. "Remove your gloves, if you please."

"That isn't necessary."

Her forehead pleated as she peered at his hands.

He wondered if she noticed that one was balled while the other was barely curled. In the time that she'd been working for him, he hadn't been around her all that much. During those times, he realized with a twinge of humiliation, he'd taken pains to hide his condition.

"I'll be gentle," she coaxed. "There is no need to worry."

"I am not worried," he said tightly. "I said I'm fine."

"You punched the living daylights out of that brute." Her voice had a new, husky edge…lingering nerves, no doubt. "No one has ever come to my aid in such a fashion. It was the most heroic thing I've ever seen."

Heroic? His chest expanded. At the same time, he was outraged that she'd gone this long without anyone to protect her.

"Why were you in the alleyway?" he said suddenly. "Did that bastard lure you there?"

"Not exactly. He was harassing an acquaintance, and I went to help." A quiver entered Mrs. Wood's voice. "But once she got free, she ran off and left me to fend for myself."

"No good deed goes unpunished," he said bitterly.

Bloody hell, how he understood the truth of that adage.

"In this instance, I cannot argue." She heaved a sigh. "But as your knuckles suffered for my folly, I ought to take a look at them."

He yanked his hands out of her reach. "Leave it."

"Why won't you take off your gloves…"

He saw the instant comprehension hit her. Her eyes darted to his left hand, and her lips parted. Fury surged, but it wasn't aimed at her. He was angry at himself—at his shame and inability to move on. Why in blazes did he bother hiding his injury? Why did he care that Constance had swooned the first time she glimpsed his hand without its glove? Or that the sight of it had once brought Mama and Gigi to tears? Even Papa had had to clear his throat and look away.

Suddenly, Ethan was tired of concealing his disability. Tired of caring about how it affected others around him. Tired of pretending that he was like everyone else…that he was the man he used to be.

"You want to heal me?" he clipped out. "Have at it."

A perverse part of him wanted to strip off his left glove with dramatic flair…like a magician revealing a sleight of hand (a pun—wasn't he the clever one?). Instead, he had to inch the snug black leather off his stiffened fingers one by one. During Ethan's initial recovery, the physician had fashioned a glove to support his healing hand. He had continued to wear the covering, partially because the compression eased the contracture and aching, but mostly to keep away prying eyes.

In London, his ploy hadn't worked. Polite society stared at his hand anyway, whispering about his infirmity behind waving fans and in the private rooms of the gentlemen's clubs. Instead of hiding his changed state, the gloves became a magnet for curiosity and gossip. For scurrilous speculation about the nature of his damage and what had caused it.

To this day, only a few people—his physician, family, and trusted servants—knew how he'd injured his hand. Even Constance hadn't been privy to the full details. Since she'd never asked, he'd spared her delicate sensibilities.

He managed to remove the glove, and he saw with grim surprise that Mrs. Wood had been correct: during the fight with Harlow, he had wounded this hand as well. Due to his dulled sensation there, he hadn't felt the swelling or broken skin. Even though he'd punched with his right, in his rage he must have gotten in a few licks with his left too.

The torn skin was nothing compared to the permanent mutilation. Thick, pinkish scars welted his palm and the back of his hand. They were accompanied by the tracks of the stitches that had put him back together again. Like Humpty Dumpty of nursery fame, he was never again as he was before. His fingers were gnarled; he couldn't fully straighten them or move them with anything near his former dexterity. Parts of his hand were numb yet still ached. He couldn't grip, carry out fine movements, or play the piano.

The physician had told him that he was fortunate to have kept his hand. He knew he ought to be grateful, but at times he struggled. Bloody hell , he struggled.

Looking at his left hand, which felt like a dead weight, he saw more than mangled flesh and bone. He saw everything he'd once been. Everything he'd lost.

Xenia's throat clogged as the pieces came together.

Lord Ethan hadn't worn gloves to be fashionable. What she'd believed to be vanity on his part was, in fact, an attempt to conceal an injury. Looking at his damaged hand, it was obvious that he'd been in a dreadful accident. She thought of his hidden piano, that beautiful unfinished sonata… Her chest squeezed as she began to comprehend what the tragedy might have taken from him.

"My right hand bore the brunt of today's fight. If you wish to tend to it, I'll need help getting the glove off. The left being what it is."

His stoic expression made the anguish in his eyes that much more obvious.

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

"The last thing I want is your damned pity."

She didn't react to his snarl because she understood that she wasn't the target of his rage.

"That is not what I meant. I'm not sorry for your injury—though I am, of course," she said haltingly. "I'm apologizing because I made you remove your glove when it was not my place."

"You do not have the power to make me do anything, Mrs. Wood." He was testy now, and who could blame him? "Are you going to deal with the scrapes or not?"

But his wounds were more than the broken skin of his knuckles. More even than the damage done to his left hand. They went deeper, straight to the soul of a man who'd lost his ability to express his passion, his art… himself .

How I would feel if I lost my voice and my ability to tell stories.

Emotion overwhelmed her. Instinctively, she lifted his large hand in both of hers and brushed her lips gently over the scars. He jerked but didn't pull away. When she let go of him, his turbulent gaze locked with hers. In that moment, she saw how raw and exposed he was and couldn't let him feel that way alone.

"I'm sorry for playing your piano," she said, her voice serrated with emotion. "And your composition. I shouldn't have violated your privacy."

"Forget it."

"I can be impulsive, and I have a bad habit of not doing what I'm told to," she plunged on. "My mama wasn't one to give proper guidance, and my papa tried to teach me right from wrong, but he…he died when I was young. I had to figure things out on my own. Although I try to act the way a good and respectable person would, I make bad decisions all the time."

"We all make mistakes," he said roughly. "You are a good woman."

A pang hit her chest. "You wouldn't think that if you truly knew me."

If you knew I was lying about who I am. If you knew about my past and the things I've done. If you knew that people have died because of me.

If you knew… me .

"You are a woman who convinced servants to work here even though every idiot in the village believes this place is haunted."

"We don't know that Bloody Thom isn't real," she felt obliged to say.

He aimed his gaze heavenward before continuing.

"You're also a woman who villagers greet by name, even though you've been here less than a fortnight. You put yourself at risk to help others—something we will be discussing, by the by. And you win over grumpy butlers and even grumpier masters."

Her heart fluttered. She couldn't believe that he'd noticed these things. That he was saying these things.

"Brunswick isn't grumpy," she blurted.

Lord Ethan stared at her. Then he did something she'd never seen him do.

He smiled.

It wasn't a big smile and looked like it required effort. Yet it transformed him; in a blink, he went from broodingly handsome to utterly irresistible. His next words knocked her wayward heart farther off course.

"I'm sorry," he said gruffly. "For what I said to you when I found you at the piano. It was unpardonably rude, and I didn't mean it."

"I deserved it. I had no right to intrude—there or in the attic room."

"I had no right to tear into you like that." He drew a breath. "I can have a devil of a temper, but I hope you believe me when I say that I would never lay a hand on you. I would never do you harm."

"I believe you." She'd been around enough brutes to know that he wasn't one. "But I am at fault as well. In both cases, I should have known better than to trespass, but I did so anyway because I…I was so curious, you see."

"About what?"

She could have said that her curiosity had been of the idle sort. She could have lied and had done so for lesser reasons. Yet she couldn't bring herself to do so now.

"About you." Her cheeks warmed.

"What have you discovered about me thus far?"

The warmth in his eyes unraveled her good sense.

"To start, you are gallant and protective. You came to my aid with the bats even though I failed to heed your warning. Then you rescued me from that brute today. No one's ever defended me like that before," she said earnestly.

"Any gentleman would have done the same," he said dismissively.

Life had taught her that was untrue. She'd been accosted by more than her fair share of so-called gentlemen. Since she couldn't say that without giving away too much of her past, she kept the focus on him.

"I've also discovered that you are artistic and creative," she said. "A brilliant musician."

The warmth fled his eyes.

"Once upon a time that might have been true," he said starkly. "Now I can no longer play."

Her heart ached for him. "I cannot imagine how difficult that must be."

He scrutinized her, and she was careful to keep pity out of her expression. It wasn't what she felt, anyway. She felt for his situation, but she didn't feel sorry for him…not with his talent and abilities.

"The change hasn't been easy," he said wryly.

"But surely that shouldn't stop you from composing? That piece you began, it is lovely and full of such passion and feeling?—"

"I don't wish to talk about it."

"You cannot allow your talent to go to waste," she persisted.

"My personal affairs don't concern you. Kindly drop the matter."

Even though she probably deserved it, the harshness of his tone hurt. You're just a servant, a nobody. Your opinion means nothing to him.

"I overstepped," she mumbled. "I'll, um, just leave you to?—"

She took a step back, but he caught her wrist. Startled, she met his gaze. Frustration turned his irises a smoky violet, but there was something else there too.

Longing. It elicited a shivery, electric awareness in her.

"Devil take it, I'm sorry," he said hoarsely. "Don't leave."

Their eyes held.

In the next instant, he pulled her onto his lap. Stunned, she didn't react quickly enough when he removed her spectacles and set them on the table. She blinked, her heart racing as his gaze roved over her upturned face. When she tried to turn away, he caught her chin between his finger and thumb, holding her steady.

"You have freckles," he murmured.

Blooming hell, my face paint must have rubbed off.

Panic thrummed. "I, um, yes. I can't seem to get rid of them?—"

"I like them."

Startled, she said, "You do?"

"I like a lot of things about you."

She gaped at him, no words emerging.

He cupped her cheek, his thumb sliding along the slope of her cheekbone.

Dazed, she said, "I…I, um, like you too, my lord."

"Ethan."

"What?" she asked.

She was distracted by the way he traced his thumb over her lips. Soft and tender, his touch conveyed a world of feeling. A musician's touch.

"I like you, Ethan ," he prompted.

"Oh," she said shyly. "I like you…Ethan."

His nostrils flared, then he bent and covered her mouth with his. His kiss was everything she'd dreamed a kiss could be. Commanding yet courting, firm yet gentle. He gave even as he took, and her shock gave way to dizzying pleasure. So this was what passion felt like. This was why poets wrote sonnets and musicians composed songs. This was what she'd imagined when she spun her wicked tales.

Heat licked through her as Ethan deepened the pressure, his lips coaxing hers to open. His tongue entered her with a sensual authority that made it easy to yield. To melt. Her thoughts liquified like honey left in the sun, and she floated in the sweetness of his kiss. His flavor was rich and deep, his need undeniable. She was ravenous, too. When he licked inside her, she intuitively sucked on his offering.

His groan reverberated down her throat. His maleness made her quiver from head to toe, his spicy musk and bunching strength engulfing her senses. His mouth left hers, searching out her ear, and the hot, wet lick set fire to her blood. In theory, she'd known that the ear was a sensitive organ. But abstract knowledge did not prepare her for the reality of being suckled by Ethan. He flicked her lobe with his tongue, then drew it deep into his mouth, the moist tug seeming to pull at her core. Her nipples pulsed, her blood rushed, and she whimpered.

"You're responsive," he murmured.

That was one way of putting it. She would go out of her skin if he didn't kiss her again. So she kissed him. Throwing her arms around his neck, she smooshed her mouth to his. Hungrily, desperately. The world spun, and suddenly she was sitting on the table while he stood between her spread thighs. He tilted her head back, plundering her mouth while she clung to his rock-hard shoulders.

He cupped the side of her neck, running his palm over her shoulder and to her breast. He squeezed gently, and she gasped as her nipple rubbed against the stiff fabric of her corset. He did it again, the blissful sparks coalescing between her legs. The throbbing ache in her pussy grew, and she felt as if she might come apart if something didn't give.

"Please." She wetted her lips. "I want you."

His expression was dark with craving. "You'll have me," he vowed.

With thrilling dominance, he pushed her back onto the table?—

Crack.

She felt something crumple between her shoulder blades.

The next instant, Ethan pulled her up again. Reaching behind her, he grabbed something…her spectacles. They were mangled, cracks spreading like spiderwebs through the lenses. He stared at them, and his expression hardened.

"Forgive me," he said in a low voice.

"It's nothing…"

The rest of her words died in her throat. Even her desire-fogged mind recognized the look in his eyes. They were no longer bright with passion but…disgust? Her breath lodged.

"This should not have happened." He clenched his jaw. "You work for me. You are my housekeeper."

She nodded, trying to breathe. To fight back the heat pushing behind her eyes.

He doesn't want you. Why would he? You're just a stupid, worthless girl no one loves.

"What I did was unpardonable. Especially after what you've just gone through." His gaze was locked on her spectacles. "I will, of course, replace these. As for the rest?—"

"Do not concern yourself." She forced out the words. "Mistakes happen, my lord."

He might regret kissing her, a lowly servant, but she would hold her head high.

His eyes hooded. "It was a mistake. Right."

"We'll forget this happened," she said as briskly as she could.

"Is that what you want?"

"It is the sensible option, sir."

A crease appeared between his brows. "And you will stay? Be my housekeeper?"

Of course that is his priority. Having someone to manage his blooming house.

Even if she had somewhere to go, the fact was that she liked her current situation…except for the humiliating incident that had just taken place with the lummox across from her. An ember smoked beneath her breastbone. While she might not be good enough to be his lover, she had earned the right to keep his house.

She lifted her chin. "I am not going anywhere."

"I am glad to hear it," he said softly.

Needing to get away, she hopped off the table. Unfortunately, she'd used up her starch, and her knees wobbled. He caught her, and the contact with his hard length did not help her equilibrium at all .

"Have a care, Mrs. Wood."

"I'm fine." She pushed him away. "If you'll excuse me, I have duties to attend to."

She exited the servants' hall, feeling the burn of his gaze.