Midnight Angel Page 10

  He was drunk, she thought wildly. He didn't realize what he was doing. “Sir…you're not yourself. You have been drinking.”

  “So have you.”

  He was close enough for her to smell the sweet wine on his breath. Tasia drew her head back, pressing her skull hard against the tree. Briefly the glow of a distant passing torch cast Stokehurst's face in dull red, and then they were submerged in darkness once more.

  His fingers caught beneath her chin, and she made a small sound, shrinking backward as much as possible. “No,” she whispered on a faint, terrified breath.

  “No?” he repeated. He sounded amused. “Then why did you come away with me?”

  “I th-thought…” Tasia struggled for breath. “I thought you were angry. I thought you wanted to shout at me in private.”

  “And you'd prefer that to a kiss?”

  “Yes.”

  He laughed at her fervent reply, and his hand slid to the back of her neck, gripping the tense muscles. The heat of his skin startled her, made her shiver. A cold breeze surged around them, but Stokehurst was large and warm. In spite of her teeth-chattering alarm, Tasia was almost tempted to draw closer to him, into the refuge of his body.

  “You're afraid of me,” he murmured.

  She nodded awkwardly.

  “Is it this?” He moved, and the hook gleamed before her eyes, like a silver fish darting through water.

  “No.” She didn't know precisely what she was afraid of. A strange feeling had taken hold of her, all her senses quickening, everything becoming painfully vivid. His soft, hot mouth grazed the wisps of hair at her temple, sending a shock through her body. Her fists came up against his broad chest, pressing hard.

  “What about a kiss for luck?” he suggested. “Somehow I think you could use some luck, Miss Billings.”

  A nervous laugh bubbled up, impossible to restrain. “I don't believe in luck. O-only prayer.”

  “Why not both? No, don't stiffen like that. I'm not going to hurt you.”

  She twitched in surprise as he leaned over her. “I must go,” she said desperately, and made the mistake of trying to push past him. Stokehurst moved swiftly, catching her against his hard body. He wrapped her long braid around his hand once, twice, pulling her head back securely. His dark face was just above hers, his knuckles digging into her nape. Tasia closed her eyes. She felt a gentle kiss at the corner of her lips, and she gasped in response.

  His hold on her tightened. He brushed another kiss on her closed lips, and another. Somehow she had expected violence, impatience…anything but the soft, burning imprints of his mouth. His lips slid across her cheek to her ear, and then to her throat. The tip of his tongue touched the violent flutter of her pulse. Suddenly Tasia wanted to press against him and lose herself in the dark rush of excitement. But she had never surrendered her control to anyone. The very thought of it was enough to startle her back to sanity. “Don't,” she said in a muffled voice, her hands coming to his dark hair. “Please don't!”

  He lifted his head and looked down at her. “How sweet you are,” he whispered. His hand fell from her hair, and he extracted one of the flowered sprigs that had been tucked in her braid. With the backs of his fingers, he traced the fragile edge of her jaw.

  “My lord…” she said unsteadily, and took a deep breath. “Sir, I hope…it's possible…that we could pretend this didn't happen?”

  “If that's what you want.” His thumb brushed the tip of her chin. The flowers he held sent a heady fragrance through the air.

  She nodded awkwardly, clamping her teeth on her trembling lip. “It was the wine. And the dancing. I s-suppose anyone would have been carried away by all the excitement.”

  “Of course. Folk dancing can be pretty heady stuff.”

  Tasia flushed, aware that he was mocking her. But it didn't matter. An excuse had been made. “Good night,” she said, pushing away from the tree. Her joints felt like rubber. “I must return to the mansion now.”

  “Not by yourself.”

  “I want to go alone,” she said stubbornly.

  There was a short silence, and then he laughed. “Fine. Don't blame me if you're accosted. But I suppose it's not likely to happen twice in one night.”

  Her footsteps were light and rapid, her slim form seeming to melt into the darkness.

  Luke went to the spot where she had leaned, and braced his shoulder against the heavy trunk. Restlessly he dug his boot heel into the hard-packed earth. He had been gentle with her when he had wanted to be cruel, to bruise her lips with his, leave marks on her tender skin. The needs he thought had died long ago had been resurrected with a vengeance. He wanted to take her to his bed and keep her there for a week. Forever. Guilt pressed down on him. He was angry with her for setting his life askew, for making his memories of Mary more distant than ever before.

  She would be gone soon. Not much longer, and the month would be over. Charles Ashbourne would find a new place for her. All he had to do was ignore her until time took care of everything. Turning, he lashed out in frustration, tearing off a chunk of bark. The hook left a narrow gash on the trunk. He began to walk with long strides, away from the lights and dancing, away from the celebration.

  Tasia stood at her window, staring outside with wonder. Remembering the seeking warmth of his mouth, the gentleness and closely contained strength, she shivered. She had been alone for such a long time. It had been frightening and intensely sweet to be held in his arms. The comfort, the illusion of safety, had affected her deeply.

  Slowly she raised her fingers to her lips. Stokehurst must have been amused by her ignorance. She had never been kissed before tonight, except for the halfhearted embrace she had shared with Mikhail Angelovsky just after their betrothal agreement.

  Misha, as family and friends called him, had been a sublime mixture of beauty and overindulgence. He was sloppy in his personal habits, overdressed, and doused in heavy cologne, with his hair too long, his neck spotted with blemishes where he had neglected to wash. Most of the time his large gold eyes were vacant, owing to his surpassing love of the opium pipe.

  Abruptly her mind was filled with voices. Tasia swayed slightly, feeling sick.

  “Misha, I love you, a thousand times more than she ever could. She'll never be able to give you what you need.”

  “You jealous, wrinkled old fool,” Mikhail replied. “You know nothing about what I need.”

  The voices faded, and Tasia frowned in bewilderment. Was it a memory, or something conjured by her imagination? She sat and buried her head in her hands, lost in the torment of her thoughts.

  With the London Season drawing to a close, the haut ton began to close their town estates and withdraw to the country. Lord Stokehurst was giving one of the first house parties of the summer. The weekend of socializing and hunting would be attended by all the local families of note. Tasia hardly relished the idea of a weekend party, a looming threat to her privacy. On the other hand, the Ashbournes would be attending, a piece of welcome news. Tasia was excited about the prospect of seeing her cousin Alicia, the only fragile link to her past. She hoped they would be able to find a few minutes to talk together.

  To no one's surprise, Iris, Lady Harcourt had been invited to act as hostess. “It was her idea,” Mrs. Knaggs confided to the after-dinner group of upper servants. “Lady Harcourt wants the master and everyone else to see how well she fills the role. It's plain as pudding she wants to be lady of the manor.”

  Lady Harcourt arrived two days early, to ensure that everything was done to her satisfaction. From that moment on, the estate was in a ferment of activity. Massive flower arrangements were carted in, and musicians were heard practicing in the spare rooms. Lady Harcourt made a multitude of changes about Southgate Hall, everything from rearranging furniture to altering Mrs. Plunkett's menu. Tasia admired her diplomacy. In spite of Lady Harcourt's interference, she was so gracious that the grumbling among the staff was kept to a minimum.

  Emma was openly displeased about the si
tuation, even daring to argue with her father. Their voices rang through the entrance hall as they came from their morning ride.

  “Papa, she's changing everything!”

  “I've given her leave to do as she likes. Enough of this complaining, Emma.”

  “But you haven't even listened—”

  “I said that was enough.” Catching sight of Tasia, who had been waiting for Emma, he pushed his rebellious daughter forward. “Do something with her,” he snapped, and strode away with a scowl. It was the first time he had spoken to her in days.

  Wearing a scowl identical to her father's, Emma whirled to face Tasia. Her blue eyes flashed with fury. “He's an ogre!”

  “I gather you were arguing about Lady Harcourt,” Tasia said calmly.

  Emma scowled. “I don't want it to look as though she belongs here when she doesn't! I hate it that she has the run of the house. And I hate the way she drapes herself around Papa, and the way her voice oozes treacle when she talks to him. It makes me positively ill.”

  “It's only for the weekend. You can certainly bring yourself to act like a true lady, Emma, and treat her with politeness and respect.”

  “It's not just the weekend,” Emma muttered. “She wants to marry him!” Suddenly her anger vanished, and she looked at Tasia with desperation. “Oh, Miss Billings, what if she does? I'll be stuck with her forever.”

  All at once Tasia found her arms filled with an ungainly twelve-year-old. She hugged Emma affectionately and smoothed her wild red hair. “I know it's not easy for you,” she said. “But your father has been lonely since your mother died. You know that. The Bible says, ‘Let every man have his own wife.’ Would you rather that he never married again, and grew old alone?”

  “Of course not,” Emma said in a muffled voice. “But I want him to marry someone I like.”

  Tasia laughed. “My dear, I don't think you would ever approve of anyone he takes an interest in.”

  “Yes, I would!” Emma pulled away and frowned indignantly. “I know just the right person. She is young and pretty and intelligent, and would suit him to perfection.”

  “Who is that?”

  “You!”

  Taken aback, all Tasia could do was stare at her dumbly. “Emma,” she finally managed to say, “you must forget that idea at once.”

  “Why?”

  “To start with, men of your father's position don't marry governesses.”

  “Papa's not a snob. He wouldn't give a fig about that. Miss Billings, don't you think he is handsome?”

  “I've never given his looks a thought. It's time for your lessons.”

  “Your cheeks are red,” Emma said in triumph, her sudden glee undiminished by Tasia's warning glance. “You do like his looks!”

  “Handsomeness—or beauty—is superficial.”

  “Papa is handsome on the inside too,” Emma persisted. “I didn't really mean it when I called him an ogre. Miss Billings, perhaps you could be nicer to him, and smile sometimes. I just know you could make Papa fall in love with you, if you would only try!”

  “I don't want anyone to fall in love with me,” Tasia returned, spluttering with laughter at the child's outrageousness.

  “Don't you like my father, Miss Billings?”

  “I believe him to be an honorable man.”

  “Yes, but do you like him?”

  “Emma, this is ridiculous. I don't know Lord Stokehurst well enough to like or dislike him.”

  “If you married him, you wouldn't have to work anymore. You would be a duchess someday. Wouldn't that make you happy? Don't you want to live with us forever?”

  “Oh, Emma.” Tasia smiled fondly. “You're very kind to think of my happiness. But there are many things you don't understand, and I'm afraid I can't explain them. I'll stay with you as long as I'm able. That's all I can promise.”

  Emma was about to reply when she noticed someone approaching. Her mouth snapped shut, and she regarded the auburn-haired woman with poorly veiled suspicion. “Lady Harcourt,” she muttered.

  The woman stopped in front of them. She was wearing a gown of dark red silk, draped to display her voluptuous figure to perfection. “Emma,” she said lightly, “do introduce me to your companion.”

  Emma complied sullenly. “My governess, Miss Billings.”

  Lady Harcourt acknowledged Tasia's curtsy with a cool nod. “How odd. From the way Lord Stokehurst described you, I assumed you were middle-aged. You're just a child.”

  “Lady Harcourt,” Tasia said, “if there is any way that I—or Emma—may assist you in your preparations for the weekend, you have only to ask.” She gave the girl a meaningful look. “Isn't that so, Emma?”

  “Oh, yes,” Emma said with a saccharine smile.

  “Thank you,” Lady Harcourt replied. “The best help you could provide is to keep each other occupied, and out of the way of the guests.”

  “Certainly, ma'am. As a matter of fact, we're late in beginning Emma's morning lessons.”

  “Keep out of the way?” Emma repeated in irritation. “But it's my house—”

  Her words were cut off as Tasia jerked her away smartly, marching her toward the schoolroom. “I think we'll begin with an essay on politeness,” Tasia said under her breath.

  “Why should I be polite to her, when she's not polite to me?” Emma glanced at Tasia with grim satisfaction. “She didn't seem to like you very much, Miss Billings.”

  “I thought Lady Harcourt was very gracious,” Tasia said evenly.

  Emma stared at her closely. “I think you're just as blue-blooded as she is, Miss Billings. Maybe even more so. Mrs. Knaggs says that with your skin and your bone structure, you could pass for a member of the nobility. You can tell me who you really are. I'm very good at secrets. I think you must be someone extraordinary…a princess in disguise…or a foreign spy…or maybe—”

  Laughing, Tasia stopped and caught her shoulders, giving her a little shake for emphasis. “I'm your governess. That's all. I have no wish to be anything else.”

  Emma gave her a chiding glance. “That's silly,” she said shortly. “You're much more than a governess. Anyone can see that.”

  The guests took an entire day to arrive, appearing at all hours. Servants were kept busy running up and down the stairs to ensure their comfort. The ladies secluded themselves for a while, later emerging in gowns of different hues, with draped and bustled skirts, and trimmings of lace and delicate embroidery. Wielding elaborate painted fans, the women gathered in the sitting rooms to gossip and partake of refreshments.

  Tasia observed the activity and remembered doing the same thing herself in Russia, attending balls and parties with her family. How sheltered she had been, never thinking of the world beyond St. Petersburg. How many hours she had misspent. Even the time she had worshipped in church on her knees seemed like a waste in retrospect. It would have been better to do something practical for the poor, rather than just pray for them. Here in England she had become useful for the first time in her life, and she liked the feeling. Even if it were possible, she would never go back to the idle existence she had once led.

  In the evening a magnificent supper of more than thirty dishes was given. The dining room was filled with long, linen-covered tables, the air fragrant with the scents of venison, salmon, goose, and puddings. Passing by the doorway, Tasia heard endless rounds of toasts being made, accompanied by bursts of good-natured laughter. She imagined how attractive Lady Harcourt must look, her hair glittering red and gold in the light of the chandeliers. And Lord Stokehurst, watching her with a mixture of pride and masculine pleasure, enjoying the success of the evening. Tasia smoothed the little frown from her forehead and went upstairs to share supper with Emma. It would be just the two of them tonight. Children were never invited to eat at formal dinners, and neither were governesses.

  After the dinner was concluded, the guests separated for a brief time, the ladies in the drawing room with tea, the gentlemen remaining in the dining room with port and brandy. Event
ually the guests rejoined in the summer parlor for entertainment. Emma begged Tasia to let her go downstairs and watch. “Lady Harcourt has invited a fortuneteller to come and make predictions about the future. Her name is Madame Miracle, and she's a clairvoyant, which is much better than an ordinary fortune-teller. Oh, Miss Billings, we have to go downstairs and see! What if she says something about Papa? Can't I sit quietly in a corner? I promise to behave myself. I'll be a perfect lady.”

  Tasia smiled. “I suppose we could watch for a while, as long as we remain inconspicuous. But don't expect too much of anyone named Madame Miracle, Emma. She sounds like an unemployed actress to me.”

  “I don't care. I want to hear what she says about everyone.”

  “Very well,” Tasia said, regarding Emma's crumpled clothes with a critical eye. “But before we go, you might change into your dark blue dress and smooth your hair.”

  “It doesn't want to be smooth tonight,” Emma said, pulling at her rebellious curls. “Every time I smash it down, it springs up worse than before.”

  Tasia laughed. “Then we'll tie a ribbon around it.”

  As she helped Emma to change clothes, Tasia worried silently about bringing the girl downstairs. After all, Lady Harcourt had asked them to stay away from the guests. Although there had been no specific instructions form Lord Stokehurst, he would probably agree with Lady Harcourt's wishes. But Emma had been an angel all day, studying quietly for hours and taking supper in the schoolroom without a word of protest. She deserved a reward for her good behavior, and surely no harm would come of it.