Any man who liked his life just the way it was wouldn’t dare open it. He’d turn around and walk away.
So that’s just what he did.
Determined to forget all about this night, Raven pivoted on his heel, stuffed his hands in his pockets and . . . found Jane’s glove.
His fingers clenched around it, cushioning the soft silk against his palm. Damn.
But only a fool would think about returning it.
Chapter 7
Jane wasn’t about to drive directly home with her intoxicated cousin in the carriage. It was far too probable that he’d accidentally let it slip that she hadn’t attended a perfectly respectable soiree at Upper Wimpole Street like she’d told her parents.
Of course, it was equally probable that the Viscount and Viscountess of Hollybrook would dismiss his drunken rambling. Their nephew rarely fell under their notice. In fact, they hardly knew their own children existed. For most of their lives, Jane and her seven younger brothers and three younger sisters—the horde, as she affectionately called them—had been very much on their own.
Nevertheless, there was one thing that Lord and Lady Hollybrook could never abide, and that was an unfavorable light shining on the family name.
As such, Jane had learned to embrace her invisibility since entering society. And until tonight, she’d never come close to ruination.
Newton’s apple! Who’d have thought that plain Jane Pickerington would ever be alone in a scoundrel’s bedchamber? A breath of astonishment escaped her lips in a puff of lamplight-gilded mist.
She drove by rote through the streets, distracted by her thoughts. With her hands gripping the reins, her fingertips tingled at the recollection of touching his warm, bare skin. And he had touched her too, in ways that no man—pink or otherwise—had ever done.
She should have stopped him, she knew. But the sensations had been so startlingly unfamiliar that she’d been unable to resist the opportunity to explore them further. Her pulse had reacted with a foreign and pleasantly labored arrhythmia. Her nerve endings had seemed to multiply beneath her skin, welcoming the heated press of his hands over her hips and midriff with exhilarated enthusiasm. Even her inner organs quivered in heady delight.
In fact, if not for the somewhat alarming giddiness—which surely had resulted from a series of shallow breaths—she may have decided to see what would happen next. For research purposes, of course.
In hindsight, however, she doubted Raven had any intention to do more. His flirtations had coincided too conveniently with her probing questions. It was clear he’d only meant to distract her. And, therefore, the guarded scoundrel’s caresses had been little more than a blockade.
She closed her eyes briefly, acknowledging this truth.
Then, all at once, the excitement of the night began to take its toll and weariness crashed over her on a great yawn.
It was no wonder, for she hadn’t slept in twenty-two hours. So she decided to drive to Upper Wimpole Street, toward the modest brick town house where she was supposed to have dined.
Seeing the pale golden glow of a lamp beyond the white framing of a narrow second-story window, she smiled with gratitude. Her friend was already awake. Then again, it was nearing five o’clock in the morning and Elodie Parrish was a notoriously early riser.
If there was anyone who would be eager to learn all about her findings on the habits of the primal male, it was one of her co-authors. Not only that, but a short visit would allow Jane to rest her eyes while her oblivious, slumbering cousin found sobriety.
Leaving Duncan to the land of Nod, Jane stole inside the town house through the servant’s entrance by way of the small back garden. She crept up the stairs to Ellie’s room, making certain not to disturb either of the spinster aunts whose chamber doors flanked the wainscoted hall just beyond the shadowed portraits of their niece’s late parents.
Scratching quietly on Ellie’s door, Jane turned the knob. She saw her friend at the vanity table, tucking a tortoiseshell comb into her twisted mane of glossy black hair, and already dressed in a morning gown of apricot taffeta even before the servants were about.
Catching a movement in the looking glass, Ellie turned with a start, amber eyes wide.
“Jane!” Then her breathless exclamation turned accusatory in a blink. “Whatever have you done this time? If I’m not mistaken, you’re wearing evening attire. Please don’t tell me you’ve stayed out all night . . . and without me.”
Jane held a finger to her lips and closed the door with a quiet click. “I had to this time.”
“Had to,” Ellie tutted. “You know very well that I had no engagement last evening.”
Crossing the room with familiarity, Jane ensconced herself in the window seat. As she spoke, she issued an inconsequential shrug to lessen the alarm she knew would follow. “Well, I knew you would not approve of this particular errand.”
“Surely, it cannot be worse than when you . . .” Ellie’s voice faded and her next words came out in the barest whisper. “You went through with it, didn’t you? That preposterous idea you blurted out last week about visiting a . . . a . . .”
“Take a breath, Ellie. It was only a brothel.”
In the steady blue flame of the oil lamp, Ellie’s porcelain skin appeared ghostly beneath her dark fringe, and a whimper of distress escaped her.
Jane sighed. “This reaction is precisely the reason I didn’t tell you that I’d already made up my mind about going. You do have a tendency toward fatalism, after all.”
“I should think it understandable in this particular instance. You just casually told me that you’ve broken into a house of ill repute—this very evening—as if it was nothing more than a shopping excursion for ribbons and gloves.” Ellie scoffed, her concern rapidly altering to irritation as twin spots of pink rose to her cheeks.
Accustomed to these diatribes, Jane eased back against the recessed shutters and tucked her feet beneath her. She was far too tired to argue. “Every subject requires a firmly established foundation of knowledge. Especially this one.”
“Perhaps that is the problem. You have convinced yourself that all knowledge is good.”
“And it is.”
“No, it isn’t. After years of listening to sermons about Eve, I’m sure of it,” Ellie said, lamenting. “Oh, couldn’t we return to a time when all I had to worry about was you setting yourself on fire? Or kidnapping Lord Holt off the street?”
Then Ellie stood and began pacing the floor while wringing her hands. Once she was in a dither, it was nearly impossible to get her out of it.
“That kidnapping was an accident and you were part of it,” Jane reminded on a yawn.
“Hmph. Well, it was your idea to tie him up and put a sack over his head. I wanted to release him straightaway.”
Jane flitted her fingers offhandedly and rested her heavy lashes against her cheeks for a moment. “It all worked out well enough in the end. After all, he married our Winn and they are still basking in the glow of nuptial bliss on their honeymoon.”
“But it could have been much worse. Oh, and I should hate to think about what might have happened to you tonight!” Ellie exclaimed, each breathy syllable enmeshed with fresh, well-rested dread. “A brothel, Jane? How could you! You might have been ruined just like our dear Prue then eschewed from London like a criminal. And all she had done was fall for the charms of a disreputable rake, certainly nothing compared to this. The loneliness in her latest letter should have served as warning enough for you to reconsider your foolish errand.”