He poured his heart into the kiss. If he could just show her how much she meant to him, how much he'd dare for her, maybe he could turn her from this path that led her away from him.
She moaned softly into his mouth and tugged his lapels, urging him closer. He wrapped both arms around her, his hand slipping beneath the ermine cloak to the unbearably soft silk of her gown. So thin, this shield of fabric that separated them. He savored the weight of her on him, her softness against his hardness.
He longed to pull the pins from her hair, but he knew she wouldn't thank him. Ian settled for kissing his way along her jaw and nuzzling her ear. An earbob dangled from her soft lobe, a filigreed fancy of diamonds and emeralds. He pulled back and looked away.
Another reminder of what he couldn't give her.
Maybe... the thought took a while to form because just the thinking of it stabbed his brain... maybe it was wrong of him to hold her back.
“Ian?” Jane palmed his cheek and turned his face toward hers.
She was so lovely, all decked out like a lady. If they never found Sybil—and they probably wouldn't if she didn't wish to be found—-Jane could keep up this pretense for the rest of her life. She'd never want for anything ever again.
Ian couldn't even promise her a full belly. Unless a body counted filling it with another brat every year. What could he offer Jane but a life of hard labor at the side of a workingman? He'd hoped to dazzle her with that new position he'd been offered only this morning. A wee cottage on a country estate didn't seem so grand a thing now. And if he somehow lost that post, the thought that she might know hunger because of him made his gut roil.
“Keep kissing me like that,” she said softly, her hand massaging his chest, “and I'll be of a mind to listen to whatever sort of sense you want to talk into me. But believe me when I tell you, I have to do this. For a little while, at least.”
He clasped her hand and held it still over his heart.
“Why?” He hated himself for not leaving the bouncing carriage the same way he had come, but she was the finest thing he'd ever seen, let alone had sitting on his lap. He couldn't bear the thought of leaving her until they rounded the last corner before Lord Hartwell's grand estate. “Why must ye, Janie? Ye dinna owe his lordship a thing.”
She drew a deep breath. “It’s not that. It’s because Mr. Roskin threatened to give you the sack if I didn't.”
Anger burned in his chest. “And ye think I'm not man enough to take care of meself?”
“No, Ian, it's not like that—”
“Then what is it like?” She didn't trust him to fend for his own neck, let alone hers. “By heaven, woman, ye've no faith in me at all.”
And maybe she was right. He ground his teeth together, lifted her off his lap and across the narrow space to the opposite seat. The carriage made a sharp turn and began to slow. Ian caught a glimpse of Hartwell House at the end of the block, every window ablaze with light. Lady Sybil's future husband waited inside that festive manor.
Maybe his Lady Jane's future husband.
“Happy Christmas, love,” Ian said as he swung open the carriage door. “Do what ye think ye must, but I'll be leaving Somerville House after the first of the year.”
“Ian, wait.”
“I'm not a man to be hiding behind a woman's skirts.” In truth, he couldn't bear the thought of tending the stable while Jane slipped deeper into her role as Sybil, spiraling farther and farther out of his reach. “I wish ye well of your choice, Janie.”
Ian Michael vaulted out the open door and trotted alongside the slowing carriage. He hauled himself up beside Edward on the rear rail as the brougham came to a halt before the columned, arched front of Lord Hartwell's imposing edifice.
Edward hopped down and opened the carriage door with a flourish. He extended his hand to help her alight and Jane emerged from the enclosed carriage. From her graceful movement to her elegant costume, her transformation into Lady Sybil was flawless.
Only Ian noticed that her expression was strained and the tip of her nose was redder than the cold should have made it. She was fighting back tears.
Keep fighting, Jane, he thought fiercely. If he saw a tear fall, he'd disgrace them both by swooping her up and carrying her away.
Instead he fell into step with Edward behind her as she walked up to the tall double doors. Liveried porters swung them open at her approach, and light and heat spilled out into the frosty air. Strains of a string quartet pierced the night.
The massive doors thudded closed behind her, swallowing Jane up and shutting Ian out.
Ian cleared his throat before he trusted his voice. “Now what do we do?” he asked Edward. Normally his work ended once the horses left his master's stable.
“Now's when we nip round to the kitchen. There'll be food and drink aplenty on a night like this.” Edward nudged him with a sharp elbow. “Bound to be a comely maid or two hereabouts, if you can catch one what ain't busy serving at table.”
Ian's gaze shot back to the closed doors.
His Jane belonged to the glittering world behind them now. And she was as far above the likes of a stable hand, or even a Man-of-All-Work, as the waxing moon over his head.
Chapter Seven
Ian dogged Edward around the massive residence, past spots where long shafts of light spilled onto sparkling snow. They passed a spreading oak with a heavy branch stretching near one of the tall windows on the upper story. Before he thought better of it, Ian put his foot in a low crotch of the tree and shimmied up the rest of the way to peer through the wavy glass at the revelry inside.
“What are you doing?” Edward said, hugging himself and hopping from one foot to the other against the cold. “If you're caught playing peep-Tom, we'll both be in for it.”
“No one's looking this way. I'll only be a moment. Just remember that tin of tobacco I promised ye.” Ian leaned in to improve his view.
The dancing had begun, stately and elegant. The fine ladies and gentlemen moved through the prescribed steps with grace and refinement. Along one greenery-festooned wall, seated matrons gossiped behind their fans. A few young bucks were gathered around a steaming wassail bowl, sipping from silver cups and eyeing the row of wallflowers in speculation. One of them screwed up his courage and approached a slender miss in a pink gown so pale it seemed only a ghost of the color.
In stark contrast, Janie was a splash of red silk, making a dipping curtsey to a man and woman Ian decided must be the host and hostess of the affair, the Marquess and Marchioness of Hartwell.
“What do you see?”
Ian couldn't very well admit he was watching Jane. “I think I see Lord and Lady Hartwell.”
“Good man, that. So they say.”
“Aye,” Ian agreed as he took the marquess's measure. Robert Braithwaite, Lord Hartwell, was a tall man, powerfully built, his dark hair shot with silver. “He wants to put an end to child labor, ye know.”
Ian had read some of his lordship's impassioned speeches on the subject in the tabloids. A formidable man with a good heart, despite his lack of understanding, he decided.
“Mayhap someone should remind his lordship that poor families will be even poorer for the lack of their children's wages,” Edward pointed out with practicality.
Ian nodded. He couldn't remember a time when he hadn't worked, mucking stables or polishing saddles for one fine lord or another.
“The poor work, and the rich play,” Edward said, blowing on his hands to warm them. “It's the way of the world.”
The marchioness was leaning forward to kiss both of his Janie's cheeks in greeting now. The smiling lady had no idea she was welcoming a scullery maid, someone who would normally be beneath her touch, to her grand fete.
Ian had advanced himself through hard labor. He'd struggled to learn to read in the hope of a better life. The position waiting for him in Wiltshire was as high as he could aspire. Being Man-of-All-Work was heavy responsibility, to be sure, but it came with a decent salary and a private cottage. It was every workingman's dream.
But Janie could dream higher. She could be a lady in truth. She was smiling and nodding to the marchioness now. Jane fit seamlessly into the picture of elegance.
He was right to let her go.
A stiff wind whistled past.
“Come on, man,” Edward urged. “There's Christmas pudding waiting, I shouldn't wonder.”
Bitter cold settled on Ian's heart. He swung himself down from the branch, dropped into the snow, and trudged after the other footman. As they neared the corner of Hartwell House, Edward raised a hand to signal a halt.
“What—”
“Shh!” Edward hissed, and pointed toward one of the porticoes opening onto Lord Hartwell's frozen garden. There in the shadows, Ian could make out the forms of a man and a woman. The woman was pinned against the gray stone, her skirt hiked to her waist while the man pumped vigorously against her. The woman moaned.
Ian started forward, thinking the cad was using her against her will, but Edward stopped him with an arm across his chest. “It's all right. Give 'em a moment. Won't be long now. Not in this weather.”
The man stiffened with a groan and the woman gasped in pleasure. Feigned or real, Ian couldn't tell, but it was obvious the woman was a willing party to this cold tryst.
The man stepped back, and moonlight struck them full on. The woman was wearing a mobcap and apron, but the man was a dandy with a high collar, mutton-sleeved jacket and slim dark trousers.
“He's decked out like a lord,” Ian whispered.
“That's because he is,” Edward whispered back.
The man tucked himself back into his trousers, without so much as a glance at his partner.
The woman leaned toward him. “Oh, I never dreamed it’d be so grand with a titled gent.” She giggled. “Just imagine. Me, taking a tumble with a viscount.”
“Yes, well, don't allow yourself to become accustomed to the idea,” the man said coldly. “It was not so grand an occasion from this end. Rather ordinary, actually.”
He turned on his heel and strode away, leaving the woman gaping after him. Then she loosed a sob, covered her mouth with her hand and broke into a stumbling run toward the scullery door.
“Right-o,” Edward said, as if this sort of thing were hardly surprising. “Now for the kitchen.”
Anger burned in Ian's belly. It was bad enough the rich had all the good food and drink and fine things. Did they have to despoil the help as well? “Who is that gobble-cock?”
“That,” Edward said with a shrug, “is the Lady Sybil's future husband, Lord Eddleton.”
“The devil ye say!”
“Almost, according to the rumors.” Edward crunched through the snow toward the fragrant kitchen door. “But he’s a well-connected devil by all accounts, and that, my young friend, covers a multitude of sins.” Edward sniffed the air. “I think I smell beef. Can't remember the last time I wrapped my choppers around a good brisket. We'll make out like a pair o' brigands tonight.”
Edward slapped Ian on the back companionably and strode forward. When Ian didn't follow, he stopped and looked back. “Coming?”
“Go ye ahead,” Ian said. “I'll be along.”