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  Moving into the room, she stirred the coals beneath the kettle in the tiny fireplace. The water was hot enough, so she took her teapot down from the shelf and poured a bit into it to heat the pot. Then she fetched two tea cups and arranged them on the small table between the two chairs, going back to her dresser to arrange a plate of biscuits and fetch her precious little store of sugar.

  Every movement was an everyday one, domestic and nothing outside the normal routine, but, because Sergio would soon join her, the teacups rattled in their saucers and she almost burned herself when she turned to throw the water from the pot into the slop bowl.

  “Steady, there,” she whispered to herself. “Steady.”

  Getting worked up and excited was a waste of time, and it wasn’t just the knowledge of them coming from different worlds and having different stations in life that told her so.

  Jane turned to the small piece of mirror she’d hung on the wall beside the door, which allowed her to check her appearance before leaving the room. The face staring back at her was nothing above the ordinary. In fact, many would say her rounded cheeks, dishwater-pale eyes and pallid lips made her plain. Straight, mouse-brown hair, scraped back into a bun so severe it often made her eyes water in the morning when she pinned it into place, did nothing to improve her looks.

  Then she looked down and ran her palms over the plain, gray bombazine dress, which Mrs. Lowell had authorized as being suitable wear. It covered a dumpy, lumpy body, round in the middle but lacking the corresponding swell of breasts at the top. Definitely not a body a man—any man—would look at and lust after. Most certainly not the kind of body Sergio Fontini—himself so beautiful and graceful—would ever want.

  Taking herself in hand after that catalogue of her visible deficiencies was a simple thing. It was wonderful to have had the opportunity to meet him, to see and speak to him over these past weeks. In but a few more, the dance lessons would cease, and they would never meet again. Jane lifted her chin and moved with determined steps to measure out the tea. As she poured the now-boiling water into the pot, she could only regret she wasn’t a young, lovely signorina with dark, flashing eyes and the kind of beauty that would call to a man like Sergio. And then reminded herself, in the next thought, that had her life not brought her to this place, they probably would never have met at all.

  “Make the most of what you have,” John used to say, “for ’tis better than the lot of others.” She would do well to remind herself of that every day, every hour, and do nothing to jeopardize her current situation.

  She had just settled into her usual chair and arranged her skirt and petticoats when the knock came at the door, albeit several minutes earlier than she’d expected. At her quiet permission to enter, it swung open, and she couldn’t stop the jerk of her heart at the sight of the tall, broad-shouldered, magnificent Italian filling the portal. But she kept her face under control, and her hands, lying on her lap, remained relaxed.

  “Mrs. Rollins.” Sergio’s accent was really quite slight, as would be expected of a man born and raised in England, although he had said his parents spoke only Italian at home. “Good afternoon.”

  “And to you, signor.” She loved the way the word rolled off her tongue, as he’d taught her to pronounce it. “Won’t you come in?”

  Was it her imagination that made him hesitate for a moment before bowing his head and stepping forward? He turned to close the door, and this time, she knew he took longer to achieve the action than was necessary, for he lingered there, one palm pressed to the wood, his head slightly lifted, as though in contemplation.

  “Is there something amiss, signor?”

  He turned, and at once the sternness of his expression, the darkness of his gaze made her heart pound.

  “That is for you to tell me, Mrs. Rollins.”

  Stepping closer until he loomed above her seated form, he held her startled gaze, saying nothing more. A jumble of thoughts flew through Jane’s head. Had he seen her watching him from the minstrels’ gallery and thought she was spying on him? Or had he overheard some chance comment between the other servants and had attributed something they said to her?

  “Sergio—” Jane’s face went cold, then hot beneath his scrutiny and the realization she had just called him by his Christian name. “Signor—”

  Abruptly he stooped so his face was level with hers, his hands coming to rest on the arms of her chair, hemming her in. “I would know who you truly are, Mrs. Rollins.”

  Her heart stopped, then lurched back to life so abruptly she felt sick from the motion. “I don’t know what you mean.” How faint her voice sounded. How lost. She raised her chin and repeated the words, gathering what power she could and putting it behind them. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  Sergio Fontini shook his head slowly, just a faint back-and-forth movement, and his eyes never left hers. “Obviously you have fooled everyone else, Jane Rollins, but you cannot fool me. I know women. I know how they move, how they breathe, how they carry themselves.” Without warning, his hand shifted, coming to rest against her side, fingers squeezing so even through her corset and the padding beneath, she felt his power and strength. “Women of the size you pretend to be have their own grace, their own beauty, but the way you move gives lie to this padding.” He squeezed again, and Jane realized his hand had risen, was now cupped around where her breast would be, if it weren’t bound tight against her chest. “Tell me the truth. Who are you? What are you hiding?”

  Sergio watched the emotions flicker and flow behind Jane’s eyes—shock, fear, disbelief—but, although he regretted frightening her, he could not relent. Finding the answers he sought had become his obsession, the question that kept him awake at night, the need compelling him to press her now.

  He was not stupid. Sergio knew all too well how the members of the Lowell household viewed him—an outsider, a foreigner, neither truly a gentleman nor someone they could trust. It was the same almost everywhere. The English thought only their own kind could be any good, ignoring the fact he was, by birth, English too, albeit of Italian parents. All except Jane Rollins. When she looked at him, it was as a woman looks at a man she admires. When she spoke to him, he knew she saw him, Sergio Fontini, not an Italian, not a dance master, not a suspect stranger who may be capable of any manner of atrocities.

  Just a man.

  That had been what first made him look forward to their brief afternoon encounters, which were such a relief after Jemima’s heavy-handed flirting, her little sister’s shrieks and tantrums, Mrs. Moorecroft’s suspicious glares. How relaxing to sit across from the calm, charming Mrs. Rollins, to let her soft, warm tones soothe the frayed edges of his nerves and watch her capable hands, with their surprisingly delicious fingers, manipulate teapot and cups.

  He had started out thinking of her as an old woman, for that was his perception of what a housekeeper should be, and, at first, her demeanor did nothing to dispel his misconception. But by his third afternoon of taking tea with her, he realized his mistake. He would be surprised should she be even as old as his own twenty-nine years. In fact, if he were a wagering man, he would guess she was closer to twenty-five or -six, at the most. Very young, he would guess, to hold such a responsible position.

  It made him look at her in a different light. If she wasn’t as old as she tried to appear, what else was she hiding? Seeing her rise and cross the room, watching the way she got to her feet, the motion as she walked, brought another revelation. There was something wrong with the shape and movement of her body, a lack of cohesion between the two.

  He studied her, just as he had studied the stances and movements of dance, growing more intrigued with each visit, so obsessed he began to wonder what lay beneath her enveloping and deceptive clothing. Began to imagine that the glint in her eyes when she looked at him, the sweet curving of her lips when she smiled were the lowering of her mask—and just for him.

  His time at the Lowell house was drawing to a close. Now was the time to discover whatever
it was she hid.

  “Signor Fontini.” Her voice was low and steady, but he could see the frantic beat of her pulse just where her collar closed around her throat. “I believe you’re suffering under a misapprehension.”

  Sergio had let his hand remain where it lay, upon what should be her breast, but now moved it again, this time to her shoulder. There was no mistaking the heat of flesh under the stuff of her gown, the tiny tremor that chased through her body.

  “I am not fooled by these sleeves.” He’d long determined slim appendages, not heavy, lay beneath the stiffened and oversize sleeves. Now he proved it to himself, and to her, by gripping one, closing his fingers slowly over the fabric until, finally, his fingers tightened around a delicate arm. “How am I the only one to notice your disguise?”

  Jane shook her head, eyes wide, frightened. Her lips parted as though she were about to speak, then closed again without a sound passing through them. Sergio surveyed her carefully, hearing the rush of her breath, feeling the way she shook beneath his hand. It wrung his heart, and he instinctively clasped her other arm, let his fingers rub in gentle circles.

  “Cara, don’t be afraid. Nothing you say will be repeated. No one will know, but I must.”

  As though the caress awoke her from a stupor, Jane trembled. A wave of pink travelled up from her throat to stain her soft cheeks pink, and the tip of her tongue flicked out to moisten one corner of her mouth.

  “You are mistaken, signor.” The words were bold, the look in her light gray eyes bolder yet, and Sergio caught his breath. How arousing was her expression, that hint of dismissal in her tone. “Very, very mistaken.”

  “Am I?” He ran his hands down her arms until they covered hers where they lay in her lap. There was no mistaking the shift of her thighs, the heightening of the color in her face. “I am not, cara, as we both are aware. Your arms are those of a slender woman. Should I put my hands up your skirt, no doubt I would find legs as fine and trim as any.”

  That brought a response he could no more ignore than she could deny. Beneath his hands her fingers clenched into fists, her hips shifted, and a low sound of need broke from between her slightly parted lips.

  For an instant, time ceased to exist. Sergio allowed the rainwater-clear eyes to draw him in, to seduce him as effectively as any flirtation ever had. Those eyes, usually so cool, so contained, sparkled and yearned, as he yearned. They told him secrets he doubted she knew they reflected, whispered her need as clearly as words spoken into his ear.

  “Should I check to see if I am right, cara?” His throat felt rough, dry, his desire to touch this woman, to make her share her most hidden self with him, driving him beyond the bounds of decency. Yet he couldn’t bring himself to care. “I am going to find out your every secret, one way or another. I shall start with seeing if I am right about this one matter.”

  All she had to do was say no—even cry out—and he would stop, but she remained silent, pursing her mouth into a pale pink rosette, signally her determination not to speak. It made him desperate to kiss her, to coax those lips open, ravish them until they were swollen and damp from his attentions.

  This was a dance he knew well and loved above all others. She wanted him not just to lead but to take command of the situation, of her, and in so doing carry them both through to the ultimate pleasure. If he were skilled enough, demanding enough, along the way she would give up her secrets. If he lacked the finesse to give her what she truly needed, the information he wanted would be withheld and, along with it, her surrender.

  He would not allow that to happen.

  Chapter Three

  Slowly Sergio slid his palms from her lap to her knees, and then rippled his fingers along the crisp fall of her skirt down to the floor, knowing she’d feel the brush of the fabric against her legs. Still watching her face, he covered the arches of her feet with his hands to lightly squeeze the leather of her shoes.

  “Trim feet, which signifies nothing,” he said. “There are many larger ladies with the tiniest of feet.”

  “You are a connoisseur of ladies’ feet, signor?”

  Jane’s voice lacked its usual crispness and wavered slightly. Sergio allowed the edges of his lips to quirk upward as he replied, “I have been known to pay…particular attention to that part of a lady’s body, Mrs. Rollins.” He rolled the words out in a low, suggestive murmur, and her lashes fluttered. Yet her expression remained closed, only the darkening of her eyes telling the true story of her emotional reaction to his licentious implication.

  Raising his hands, he cupped her ankles, which were also encased in the leather of her serviceable high-topped boots.

  “Again, the ankles tell me nothing. I must seek higher for the answers I require.”

  As he spoke, Sergio traced the tops of Jane’s boots, brushing the worsted stockings covering her calves with the sides of his index fingers. Her legs shifted, the scuff of her soles on the floor unnaturally loud in the quiet room. Beyond these four walls, the world continued apace, and no doubt there were other folk indulging in waltzes of earthy delight similar to the one he and Jane danced. Yet Sergio was sure no other could want it more, be more enthralled than he was at this very moment, as he slid his hands over Jane’s linen drawers and caressed the gently trembling limbs.

  “Slim and lovely,” he growled, twisting his hands around the shapely contours of her lower legs. Crushing the linen beneath his hands, he explored the creases behind her knees with the tips of his fingers. “As I suspected they would be. And yet…” Letting the words trail away, he brought his palms to rest on her shins, began a slow, intent-filled upward journey toward her knees.

  The soft flush on Jane’s cheeks deepened, and she took a deep breath as though attempting to gather her control. “And yet, what, signor?”

  Breathy, far from her usual cool tones, her voice almost made him groan. The desire twisting through his blood, quickening his heart and tightening his muscles rose incrementally higher at the sound, and he raked the lust back, bringing it to manageable levels before he replied, “And yet, madam, it is the thighs that speak most succinctly about a woman’s true size.”

  “Is that so, signor?”

  “Indeed, it is, madam. Believe me when I say so.”

  “Why would I believe you, signor?” She lifted her chin slightly, but there was apparently no mastering the liquid, yearning cadence of her tone. “Is this another area in which you are particularly versed?”

  Her legs were set primly together, and now, with his hands firmly on her knees, Sergio urged them apart, keeping the pressure steady, unrelenting. In tiny, seemingly reluctant increments, they parted, wider and wider, until the outsides of her thighs pressed against the wooden uprights holding the arms of her chair aloft. Jane’s breath hitched, but Sergio didn’t move, simply held her there, open and vulnerable, as he looked deep into her now storm-gray eyes.

  “Would it please you if I were, Mrs. Rollins?”

  She tried to make a sound of derision, but it came out more like a gasp. “Why would I care about your interests in such a matter, Signor Fontini?”

  Slowly, deliberately, he licked his bottom lip, a rush of delight and triumph heating his belly when her gaze dropped to follow the motion and remained on his mouth as he replied, “Wouldn’t you want to know that I am capable of appreciating a woman’s most tender and delicate areas? That I am willing—no, eager—to treat those delectable parts of a woman’s body with all the care and concentration they deserve?”

  Jane’s eyelids drooped, and a fine sheen of perspiration made her face glow. At the base of her throat, just above the high, puritanical closure of her dress, a racing pulse was clearly visible. Beneath her skirts, heat rose from her skin to almost sear his palms, and the trembling of her legs grew stronger. No words passed her slightly parted lips, but she was unable to control the little gasp she made each time she exhaled.

  She was deliciously, audaciously aroused, and the sight was almost more than Sergio could bear. How simple
a thing it would be to toss her skirts up, sink into her, find release in her depths. Yet, that would be tantamount to a symphony unfinished, a measure tread only partway through and then abandoned. No. Oh no. This was only the beginning, and they had a far, far way to go before he would consider their encounter satisfactorily complete.

  Swallowing against the roughness in his throat, he asked, “So, what will I find, Mrs. Rollins? Soft, pillowy thighs? Or trim, firm ones? It matters not to me either way. What does matter is that you tell me, Mrs. Rollins. For if you make me have to find out for myself…”

  Once more he let his voice trail away, leaving the threat unsaid, letting her imagination supply the forfeit. It was one more step to be learned in their intimate dance, for how she responded would tell him much. Would she give in, answer the question herself and take the quick path to pleasure he offered? Or would she, as he thought she might, be difficult, leaving him no choice but to discipline her into submission?

  Jane turned her head away, and Sergio growled in soul-deep satisfaction, his balls drawing up, his cock aching with lust-filled anticipation of what was to come.

  “You will not answer?” He lifted his hands, tenting the front of her dress on their backs. “You prefer I make you answer?”

  Without waiting to see if she would reply, he slid his right hand forward, making sure not to touch her skin until his fingertips came into contact with the linen-shrouded crease at the top of her thigh. At the first touch, a soft, guttural moan broke from her lips, and Jane’s head rolled back.

  “I no longer wish to feel the contours of your thighs for myself. Only the surety of seeing them will do for me now. You will lift your skirt and show me your legs, Mrs. Rollins.”

  “No,” she whispered, her voice breaking over the word. “No. No.”

  “Yes,” he replied just as softly, but with all the weight of command behind the word. “Oh yes.”

  He tickled his fingers over the top of her leg, moving them back and forth, each time getting closer to the center. When he felt the slit in her drawers, the brush of fine hair beneath his fingers, he stopped.