“Waltz with me, Jane.”
She didn't speak. She didn't need to. Her body answered for her. Jane found herself swirling around the dance floor. Ian pulled her closer so their bodies brushed each other on the dipping first beat of each measure.
The rest of the ball guests whisked by in a colorful blur at the edge of her vision. They blended with the greenery and scarlet bows and the blaze of tapers, but she couldn't tear her gaze from Ian's face. When the waltz slowed to a stop, Jane realized that he'd danced her out one of the large double doors and down the hallway that ran alongside the ballroom. The next man on her dance card was unlikely to find her. Not that that troubled her at all at the moment.
They came to a stop with a final slow turn before one of the tall Palladian windows that overlooked the ice-spangled garden. Snow had drifted onto the lower right corner of each pane of glass, a sparkling frozen triangle in every little rectangle.
Ian made no move to release her, even though the music had stopped. Jane couldn't bear to pull away.
“I didn't know you could dance, Ian.”
A smile crinkled his eyes. “Even a stupid, big Scot can count to three.”
His words reminded her she was angry with him. “But a stupid, big Scot apparently can't tell whose wardrobe he shouldn't be raiding.”
“This is no’ a raid,” he said. “I dinna even intend to take his lordship's fine things out of his house. If it's a raid we're talking of, I could tell ye of some beauties! Me ol' grandsire once made off with thirty head of the neighboring clan's best Angus beeves. Now that was a raid.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Aye, lass, I ken your meaning. But a real raid means taking something of value with no intention of giving it back. I fully intend to return his lordship's fancy getup.” He leaned down, his dark eyes searching her face. “But I do mean to take ye, Jane. And I have no intention of giving ye back.”
There was no mistaking the tilt of his head as he bent toward her. She forced herself not to stand tiptoe to meet him halfway.
“No.” She splayed her fingers across his chest but couldn't bring herself to push against him very hard. “Lady Sybil is supposed to be accepting a proposal of marriage this night. How would it look if she were found kissing someone else?”
“Like she'd been caught under the mistletoe,” he said, pointing upward to the clump of greenery Jane had missed. “A perfectly innocent situation. None can fault Lady Sybil for a bit of Christmas spirit.”
“But—”
“Besides,” Ian said, as he tugged her closer. Her body melted against him, her softness conforming to his hardness. “What if my Lady Jane were offered a proposal this night for herself?”
She gasped a quick breath. Did he mean it? The soft gleam in his eyes said he did. Still, it was a backhanded way to ask her to marry him.
“I guess,” she said slowly, “it would depend on who was doing the offering.”
“Let me show you.”
His lips brushed hers, a teasing kiss. Then he covered her mouth with his. Jane's lips parted and he accepted her welcome, sweeping in with his tongue.
Jane arched against him. His warmth penetrated the silk as if she were nak*d. Heat settled low in her belly and the strange dull ache she always felt when Ian kissed her began afresh. It wasn't painful exactly. But it was an odd sensation, a wanting, hollow feeling, a craving more potent than hunger, more urgent than thirst.
She was certain Ian could make it better, if she let him.
But she didn't dare. There was too much at stake. She had to fulfill her role as Sybil this night and that meant she had to stop needing Ian so desperately.
She pushed against his chest until he released her mouth, but Jane didn't have enough willpower to pull out of his arms. She laid her head against his chest and felt his heart pounding beneath her cheek.
“Why must everything be so hard?” she whispered.
“I dinna ken, lass,” he said, stroking her spine. “But there are some things that come easily if we let them.”
Her body throbbed an Amen.
A group of gentlemen suddenly spilled out one of the doors from the ballroom, talking in low murmurs.
“Oh, no!” Jane spotted Lord Hartwell at the center of the moving circle. “If the marquess recognizes that suit of clothes you're wearing, you're done as a Christmas goose.”
Jane grabbed Ian's shoulders and turned with him to face the tall windows. He slipped an arm around her waist, and she leaned into him. Maybe if they stood still, Lord Hartwell and his entourage would overlook them.
“If you'd only consider the plight of these children,” the marquess was saying, “you'd not think twice about voting with me.”
“But what of the factory owners? Who'll compensate them for loss of laborers?” another man asked. “I can't see raising taxes on account of these snot-nosed ragamuffins.”
“Come, Richland.” Lord Hartwell's tone was still calm and reasonable, as though Lord Richland had agreed with him already. “I've discovered an exceptionally fine case of Spanish port. Let's discuss this further down in my study, shall we?”
Jane held her breath until the last click of their heels on the hardwood faded in the distance.
“That's it, Ian,” she hissed. “You must get out of those clothes right now.”
“I thought ye'd never ask,” he said with a chuckle. “Only if ye help me.”
“This is serious. His lordship might come back at any moment.”
“Then we'd best hurry.” He took her elbow and started leading her down the hall.
“Ian!”
“Those are me terms, love.” He stopped and looked down at her. “I canna leave ye to the likes of Lord Eddleton.”
Jane laughed mirthlessly. “My sham betrothed. I can't think why you're bothered about this little farce.”
“I know ye think this is some sort of game ye're playin', but if Lady Sybil never comes back, his lordship's proposal is as good as real. Ye'll be a lady in truth, Janie.” He settled his big hands on her shoulders and leaned to touch his forehead to hers, their breaths mingling. “I'm mindful that it's a big choice I give ye now. But I do give it. Choose.”
She closed her eyes, scrunching her brows together in thought. The string quartet started up a stately sarabande and Jane mentally ticked off the remaining dances on her card. There were at least twelve or thirteen until the final slow waltz she'd promised Lord Eddleton. And maybe a break or two for the musicians. She doubted it was enough time to talk sense into Ian's thick Scottish skull, but she ought to at least be able to see him safely back into his footman's livery.
She opened her eyes. “Let's go.”
Sybil peered through the grimy window to the snow-rutted street below. A fancy equipage rattled past, throwing slush on the foot traffic that scurried out of its way. Was it someone she knew riding inside that gilded coach? Lord Hartwell's grand Christmas Ball made it almost worth staying in London. No one of quality left in the city would think of missing it.
Cold seeped through a crack in the glass and reached its icy fingers toward her. With a shiver, she drew the woolen blanket she was using in place of a bedshawl tighter around her shoulders.
“I must go for a little while.” Giovanni came up behind her, lifted her hair, and planted his lips on her nape. Pleasure and warmth spread down her spine. She arched, catlike, into him.
“Go? Where?”
“To bespeak passage for us, cara mia,” he said. “We cannot hide here forever.”
She turned and twined her arms around his neck. "It would be nice."
“But we must come out sometime, and I would have us make for someplace safe, before your father catches up to us.” He pecked her cheek and turned away to tug on a heavy jacket. “The mode of travel, she will not be in the style you are accustomed to, I fear. It's steerage class for a poor painter and his lady.”
“I brought some jewelry.” Sybil turned away from the window and rifled through her small satchel. “We can sell these earbobs and travel in style.”
She pressed the pair of sapphire and pearl studs into his open palm. He studied them so intently, she wondered if he was considering adding them to a still life composition.
“No, my selfish little heart,” he said with a laugh as he returned them to her. “Your trinkets you must keep. Giovanni will take care of you. Perhaps I will sell a painting on the way to the wharf and we can move up to a second-class berth. Would you like that?”
“I don't care,” she said fiercely as she hugged him, hooking one leg around his and rocking against him. Selfish? Well, it was what she'd called herself, wasn't it? “As long as I'm with you, it doesn't matter where we are.”
He kissed her long and deeply, cupping her bottom to lift her against him. Sybil moaned into his mouth. Just when she thought she'd persuaded him to stay, he pulled away.
“If I do not go now, we miss the morning sailing.” He wound a thick muffler around his neck. His southern blood had never thinned enough for England's cold, damp winters. “Go back to bed and keep warm. I will join you soon.”
Once he had latched the door behind him, Sybil slumped on the edge of the bed. Over the last six months, she and Giovanni had made love in his little garret apartment so many times, she'd lost count. Fear of being caught stealing away from her father's house had added spice to the adventure. The tiny space was magical when Giovanni was with her, a fleshly pleasure garden.
Now, looking around the sorry collection of cast-off furniture and half-finished canvases, she could only see its seediness. And the neighborhood was so dicey he even had to lock the much-dented trunk that held his spare clothes. She wondered how Giovanni could bear this place alone.
Sybil drew the blanket up to her chin. When he had left, he'd taken the only source of heat with him—his body. Once he returned, she wouldn't give his pitiful room another thought. She could live anywhere, so long as Giovanni was with her.
But what about Father?
Her conscience hadn't troubled her in so long, Sybil was surprised when she heard its small voice in her mind.
“He'll be fine,” she said aloud.
She replayed their last, crockery-smashing argument in her head. His angry tirade hadn't moved her, but when her indomitable father finally sank into his leather desk chair and held his gray head in his hands, his shoulders shaking with suppressed sobs, Sybil had been completely overcome.
Only the threat of her father's utter ruin made her agree to let Mr. Roskin arrange a lucrative match for her. But then the earl had left for a season of hunting, as if her sacrifice were nothing.
It had been easy to climb out the window this morning without a backward glance.
What will happen to Father?
The small voice began chanting the question. A snippet of memory rose up to torment her.
“Oh, Father, you remembered!” An eight-year-old Sybil squealed with delight as the earl lifted her onto the back of a fat pony. She'd hounded her father for months about a mount of her own and now, he took as much pleasure in it as she did. Her father’s eyes lost that look of carefully guarded emptiness for a few moments as be watched her trot around the small pen.