Chapter 14

Chapter Fourteen

" C ome in."

Xenia's heart beat a nervous pitter-patter as she obeyed her master's summons. The sight of Lord Ethan standing by his desk weakened her knees. He'd returned to the manor an hour ago, and this was the first she'd seen of him since their scorching encounter last night.

Since he'd used her name in his fantasy.

"Put your hands on my thighs, Jane. You're to keep them there until I tell you otherwise."

His depraved command had twisted her insides with yearning. To be desired by her brooding-yet-protective master was the most potent of aphrodisiacs, and moreover, he'd tapped into her naughtiest fantasies: to surrender to a powerful lover and belong to him fully. To service him while he watched with a proud gaze that declared, You are mine.

Lord Ethan had said those exact words. Better yet, he had growled them.

Of course, he didn't know that she knew of his feelings. Or that she wanted him just as badly. Last night, their passion had turned from make-believe to real, and she still couldn't believe that she'd made herself climax in front of him. Or that he'd done so in front of her. After he departed, the lingering scent of his pleasure had filled her with satisfaction.

She had to face the truth: Lord Ethan Harrington was the lover she'd been waiting for.

She would give anything to have an affair with him…including undoing some of her deceptions. To that end, she'd lightened her use of hair dye, allowing some of her natural red to show through. Recalling that Ethan had expressed a preference for redheads during his first visit to Sirena, she hoped he would like the new shade and her looser, more flattering chignon. She'd also left off her face paints, allowing her real complexion to show, freckles and all.

"Good morning, Mrs. Wood."

Lord Ethan met her halfway, and her breath hitched at his resplendence. He was in shirtsleeves, his sapphire-blue waistcoat accentuating his vivid eyes. Beneath his freshly shaven chin, his grey silk cravat was knotted with casual elegance, and his buff-colored trousers hugged his sinewy legs.

She wished she had something prettier to wear than her drab bombazine.

Stop being a wilting violet. You've never worn anything fashionable around him, and by some miracle, he wants you. Don't make excuses...it's now or never.

"Good morning, sir," she said.

"You look different today." He studied her, his head tilting.

"I, um, tried something different with my hair."

"Ah. Well, the new style suits you. And the color is quite…becoming."

The violet smolder in his gaze heated her cheeks. He did like redheads, after all. Her gaze darted behind him to his chair, and she flashed to the scenario they'd dreamed up together. Of him discovering her doing a naughty deed and delivering the delicious punishment she'd taken on her knees. Desire fluttered, warmth leaking from her core.

Focus. Say something, you ninny.

"I have something for you."

She blinked because they'd said the words simultaneously. She realized that their postures mirrored one another, and they both had one hand behind their back.

"May I go first?" he asked.

Entranced by his tentative smile, she would have agreed to most anything. She nodded, and he revealed what he'd been hiding: a rectangular case made of black leather. The words C. W. Dixey I ordered thinner lenses since you said you only need them for reading."

She felt a prick of guilt since she, in truth, didn't need spectacles at all. They were merely part of her disguise. But the fact that he'd paid attention—that he'd given her this marvelous present—filled her with giddy delight.

"This is the finest gift anyone has given me," she said. "I shall wear them with pride, my lord."

"Ethan, remember?"

"Ethan," she said shyly.

Saying his name somehow felt more intimate than all the erotic words she'd used with him. Probably because she'd been Sirena then, and their steamy banter had been part of a fantasy. In this moment, however, she was Xenia…she was herself in a way she'd seldom allowed herself to be. From the start, he'd had a way of eliciting her genuine reactions, and while she couldn't share her past, she didn't want to keep up all the false pretenses either. Thus, she'd decided to compromise.

I'll be as honest as possible, but I won't put either of us at risk.

"I, um, have something for you as well."

Setting the beautiful spectacles on a table, she removed his present from her pocket.

He took the glass jar with a puzzled look.

"It's a salve." She was aware of how paltry her gift was compared to his. "I made it specially for you. It contains some healing herbs."

"So this is the salve Brunswick keeps talking about." Ethan's mouth curved faintly. "He swears it performs miracles."

"This is a different formulation. One that I thought might, um, help with your hand."

She bit her lip, wondering if she'd made a mistake. With good reason, he was prickly about his injury, and she'd already angered him by repeatedly poking her nose where it did not belong.

Yet here you are bringing up his wound again. Are you a glutton for punishment?

She held her breath when he studied her with inscrutable eyes.

"There is one way to find out," he said. "Will you apply the salve, Mrs. Wood?"

Relief flooded her, along with elation.

"I would be pleased to," she said softly. "If you would call me Jane."

As Ethan led the way to the sitting area, he noted the improvements Jane had brought to his life. The carpet was a lustrous sage green, the windows sparkled, and lemony polish scented the air. The oak surround of the fireplace gleamed; with the dirt removed, a delicate, leafy pattern had emerged along with the elegant Tudor roses affixed to the panel. The leather sofa had been buffed to a shine.

"You've worked miracles in my absence," he said.

He could tell his compliment pleased her. As they sat on the sofa, her eyes sparkled, and her cheeks were flushed. Her skin had the dewy ripeness of a fresh peach. Recalling her comment about her freckles, he concluded that she'd probably tried to conceal them with powder, which explained her formerly pallid complexion.

Today, she looked young and fresh. Her hair seemed brighter and more lustrous, the reddish gleam beneath the brown raising his temperature several notches. He'd always been partial to red hair. Jane was already temptation itself, but if she had fiery locks too…

He warned himself to slow down. He knew what he wanted, but he had to make certain that she wanted the same thing. If she did indeed return his interest, then he had to figure out a way to put them on equal footing. For he refused to take advantage of a woman in his employ—a woman who, he thought with a jolt of anxious arousal, now looked younger and more innocent than a typical twenty-seven-year-old widow.

"Shall I help you with your gloves?" she asked.

He nodded, for no reason other than a yearning to feel her touch. He watched her expression as she stripped off the casings of leather. Constance had tried to mask her revulsion the few times she'd seen his hand, and looking back, he would have preferred her honesty. It was mortifying to realize that he'd been willing to accept his former fiancée's politely averted gaze and martyred expression because he hadn't felt he deserved better.

Jane, however, showed no sign of pity or disgust as she worked off his left glove. Her touch was efficient and gentle as she bared his monstrous hand and placed it on her lap. Opening the jar, she scooped out some salve with her fingers. When she applied the creamy white ointment to the back of his hand, he felt a cooling sensation.

"It tingles," he said.

"It's supposed to. That means the peppermint and lemon balm are working. When I rub in the salve, it should dull the ache and improve circulation as well."

Her head bent over the task, she held his hand in both of hers, massaging his contracted muscles with soothing strokes. Despite his dulled sensation, he felt the pressure of her touch. She pressed into knotted tendons and stiff flesh, easing the contracture of his fingers.

"That feels nice," he admitted.

Her gaze flew to his, and a smile tucked into her cheeks.

"I'm glad." She hesitated. "I know it's not my place, and you don't have to answer if you don't wish to but?—"

"You want to know what caused the injury."

Outside of his family, no one had directly asked him the question—out of politeness or fear, he didn't know. Even Constance hadn't inquired, likely because she didn't want to be privy to grisly details. Her preference had always been to sweep unpleasant things under the carpet, and truth be told, he'd thought he wanted that. He'd liked that she never pushed him, that they never fought, that she would abandon him to his moods, returning only when he'd battened down the hatches on his emotions.

I shall return when you are ready to be a gentleman again, she would say in cultured tones.

He'd never blamed her. Who wanted to be around some snarly beast of a fellow who wasn't good for anything? Who would understand what it was that he'd lost? Who wanted to sit with him when he was swamped with self-pity, rage, and anguish?

His family was the exception. They would do all those things, but he couldn't unburden himself without causing them pain. His animosity toward Owen threatened to destroy everything the Harringtons held dear. Ad Finem Fidelis felt like a curse. How could he be loyal to a brother who'd ruined his life? Yet how could he make his family members choose between him and Owen, who'd suffered his own unspeakable tragedy?

Ethan couldn't do either of those things. Instead, he withdrew.

"Forgive me." Jane's tremulous voice brought him back. "I shouldn't have asked."

"It's all right." He forged on before he could regret it. "I injured my hand during an altercation with my brother."

"With the earl?" she asked, wide-eyed.

"No. My younger brother, Owen. He…he's troubled."

"How so?"

Jane's matter-of-fact tone, combined with her relaxing massage, permitted him to continue.

"Owen was part of the 44th Regiment, which served under the command of Major-General Elphinstone in Kabul."

Seeing the horror in Jane's eyes, he didn't say more. He didn't need to. Everyone knew about the retreat from Kabul, one of the worst military defeats in British history. Of the 16,000 British and Indian soldiers and camp followers who'd tried to make the disastrous journey from Kabul to a British garrison in Jalalabad, only a handful had survived; the rest had been killed or taken hostage by local Afghan tribes. Ethan recalled his desperate fear for his younger brother and his grief when Owen had gone missing and was presumed dead. Then his indescribable relief and joy when Owen was later discovered alive and brought home.

"Your poor brother," Jane said softly. "I cannot imagine what he must have endured."

Shame constricted Ethan's chest because she was right. Intellectually, he knew that Owen could not be held responsible for his actions after everything he'd suffered. Yet there was also no denying the damage Owen left in his wake.

"Since his return, Owen hasn't been himself," he said starkly. "He drinks too much. Gets into fights and other bad situations. Then he disappears, causing the entire family panic."

"Was it during one of the fights that he injured your hand?" she asked keenly.

He concentrated on the kneading motions of her hands. The way she was locating the knots and loosening them. Words rose inside him, emerging in a rush.

"Since Owen's return, Papa, James, and I have had to take turns bailing him out of trouble. That night, I was the one who found Owen at a gaming hell. He'd lost a fortune already and was sinking into debt with moneylenders. I forced him to come home with me. He was drunk—drunker than I'd ever seen him—and belligerent too."

Remembering Owen's red, militant face caused acid to churn in Ethan's gut. The scene was like a nightmare he used to have. One in which he was performing before an adoring crowd. He was on stage, and he played each note with crisp precision. Yet as the crescendo built, his fingers gained their own momentum. They began striking the wrong keys, moving at an uneven tempo…and he lost control. The audience began to boo and hiss, but he couldn't stop himself—couldn't stop the approaching disaster of the coda.

"I tried to reason with Owen," he said tightly. "Tried to calm him down. But when he insisted on leaving, I physically restrained him. He just needs to sleep it off , I thought to myself. I wrestled him away from the door, and he suddenly pulled out a pistol."

Jane gasped. "He…he shot you?"

"I don't know that he meant to."

That was the truth, which didn't torment him any less than if Owen had intended to shoot him. Maybe it tormented him more. If Owen had done it on purpose, then Ethan would have been utterly justified in his rage. Instead, he found himself in limbo: he had to come to terms with the fact that his brother had taken everything away from him…by accident.

"Owen was drunk and shaking like a leaf." His jaw clenched, and he had to force the words out. "Even when sober, he's not always in his right mind. He startles easily, seeing danger where there is none. Most likely, he pulled the trigger by accident."

"But he shot you. In your hand. And you are a pianist."

The tears that welled in her eyes brought heat to his own. Ashamed, he blinked away the moisture and drew a calming breath.

"My brother lost himself fighting for our country," he said. "I lost the ability to play an instrument. How is it fair for me to blame him…especially when he didn't do it on purpose?"

"Even if your brother did not intend to hurt you, don't you dare minimize what happened," Jane said fervidly. "Playing music is not a trivial matter. To an artist, making art is everything ."

Her understanding smashed through some inner dam, and the truth burst from him.

"I cannot be angry at Owen," he said roughly. "But I cannot not be angry at him either."

The conundrum had eaten at him for the last three years. Even now, he saw no solution. No way to reconcile his love and rage toward his sibling.

Jane sighed. Then she shrugged. "Family is complicated," she said with feeling.

He stared at her.

"Why are you looking at me in that fashion?" She returned his gaze like an inquisitive doe. "Am I wrong?"

She wasn't. In three words, she'd summed up the problem that had consumed him for years—that had turned him into a brooding, grumpy bounder because he'd felt no one could understand his experience. But somehow she did, and her empathy made him feel almost…normal.

The rumble started deep inside him. It traveled from his gut to his chest and up his throat, emerging as a shout of laughter. He couldn't stop, the guffaws coming out of him until tears ran from his eyes. Jane went from looking puzzled to giggling, and then she was laughing too. She looked so sweet and adorable that he couldn't resist kissing her.

She kissed him back.

He clenched his hand in her hair, tilting her head back so he could ravage her as he wished. She whimpered, pulling him closer, parting her lips for him like the wanton girl she was. He thrust his tongue inside her, and she let him, moaning into his mouth. When she sucked on his tongue, he went hard as a rock.

He pushed her back onto the sofa, his hand going up her skirts. Her stockinged legs were enticingly curvy, and when he touched the slit in her drawers, he groaned aloud.

"You're drenched," he rasped.

She bit her lip. "I want you."

Her honesty unraveled him. Burgeoned him with pride and desire.

"Devil and damn, how I want you, Jane."

He kissed her, lingering when she sighed. He couldn't help fingering her a little, marveling at her passionate response to him. She was slippery and hot, her moans making his cock throb with anticipation. By Jove, he wanted to make love to her.

But…he couldn't.

Not until they had settled some things.

Inhaling for control, he lowered her skirts and pulled her into a sitting position. His fingers glistened with her dew. Despite his own advanced state of arousal, he hid a smile at how dazed she looked.

"If we are to move forward, there are matters we must discuss." He tucked a stray curl behind her ear. "You are in my employ, and I will not take advantage of you, Jane."

"I know you won't. I make my own decisions, and I want this as much as you," she said earnestly. "I am fully aware that our affair will not come with commitments: anything that happens between us will be temporary, with no strings attached."

Even though he'd been about to propose a casual liaison, her reply annoyed him.

"Why do you assume that?" he asked.

"You're a peer, and I'm a housekeeper." She shrugged. "We come from different worlds."

"I don't give a damn about that."

"Not when it comes to a temporary affair, perhaps. But for a permanent relationship?"

She lifted her brows knowingly, and he felt…trapped. He hadn't been thinking about marriage. But not for the reason she supposed. Having recently been jilted, he wasn't considering matrimony again…with anyone. As he was trying to figure out an explanation that didn't expose his mortifying rejection, Jane chuckled.

"Rest easy, my lord," she said. "I'm not about to spring the parson's mousetrap on you. I have no interest in marriage."

"Because you've been married before?"

She averted her eyes. "Because I cannot commit to a permanent arrangement. There are things you need to know?—"

A scream from the hallway cut her off.

"It's Bloody Thom! Lord have mercy, he's on the rampage again!"