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 male member.
“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 to 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 MacGarrett!”
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 procuring the wherewithal to make 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 way 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 deliriously 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.