Midnight Angel Page 13

  He relaxed, shaking his head. “You looked like a ghost drifting through the garden.”

  “Do you believe in ghosts, sir?”

  “No.”

  “Sometimes I think I'm being haunted.”

  “People do that to themselves. Usually people who have too much on their consciences.” He gestured to the place on the bench beside him. After a brief hesitation, she accepted the silent invitation. Sitting on the end of the bench, she kept a prudent distance between them. They were both quiet, steeped in the sense of being outside time. The garden was a sanctuary from the rest of the world.

  Tasia wondered why she hadn't been surprised to find him there. Her innate mysticism, sprung from a mixture of religion and Slavic blood, led her to accept the coincidence easily. They were both there because they were meant to be. It felt natural to sit with him, staring at the golden moon as if it had been hung for their private viewing.

  He reached over to pull at her scarf, unable to resist the temptation, uncovering a river of shining dark hair that fell over her shoulders. “What's haunting you?” he asked.

  Tasia bent her head, the smooth locks forming a glowing nimbus around her face.

  “Don't you ever get tired of carrying all those secrets around?” He touched a lock of her hair, winding the delicate strands around his finger. “Why are you out here at this hour?”

  “It was confining inside. I couldn't breathe. I wanted to be under the sky.” She hesitated, sliding him a wary glance. “Why are you here?”

  Letting go of her hair, he faced her in an easy move, straddling the bench. Tasia was sharply aware of his spread knees, the closeness of his powerful body. She perched on the edge of the bench like a small bird poised for flight. But he didn't reach for her, only gave her a steady look that made her blood rush. “You're not the only one who remembers something you'd like to forget,” he said. “Some nights it keeps me awake.”

  Tasia understood at once. “Your wife.”

  Slowly he turned his wrist until moonlight struck off the silver hook. “It's like missing a hand. Sometimes I reach for something before I remember my hand is gone. Even after all the years that have passed.”

  “I heard about the way you brought your wife and Emma out of the fire.” Tasia glanced at him shyly. “You were very brave.”

  His shoulders lifted in a dismissive shrug. “It had nothing to do with bravery. I didn't stop to think. I just went in after them.”

  “Some men would have worried about their own safety.”

  “I would have traded places with her. It's harder being the one left behind.” He frowned. “Not only did I lose Mary…I lost myself. I lost the way I was with her. And when the only thing left is a memory, and year by year the details are slipping away…you try to hold on all the more tightly. You can never let go long enough to reach for something else.”

  “Sometimes Emma asks me to play her waltz,” Tasia said, staring out at the garden. It was filled with the soothing trill of crickets and the rustling of the miniature creatures that inhabited its fragrant corners. “She listens with her eyes closed, thinking about her mother. Mary—er, Lady Stokehurst—will always be a part of her. And you. I don't think there's anything wrong with that.”

  Aware of an annoying tickle on her skin, Tasia brushed at it absently and looked down. Her eyes widened as she saw a long-legged spider strolling delicately along her arm.

  She jumped up with a frenzied yelp. After knocking the visitor off, she whacked her shirts vigorously, chattering in a stream of Russian. Stokehurst shot off the bench at her cry, his face startled. When he realized what it was, he sank back down, choking with laughter.

  “It was only a spider,” he finally said, still snickering. “In England we call that kind a harvestman. They don't bite.”

  Tasia switched back to English. “I hate every kind of spider!” She continued to brush wildly at her skirts, her sleeves, any place some uninvited guest might have settled.

  “It's all right,” Stokehurst's voice was thick with amusement. “He's gone now.”

  The statement didn't placate her. “Are there any more?”

  He caught one of her wrists. “Stop hopping up and down, and let me look.” His attentive gaze swept over her. “I think it's safe to say you've sent every living creature in the vicinity running for cover.”

  “Except for you.”

  “I don't scare easily. Come here, Miss Muffet.” He pulled her wrist until she was back on the bench beside him. “You'd better sit close, in case he comes back.”

  “Who is Miss Muffet?”

  “An important figure of English literature. I'm surprised an educated woman like you doesn't know about her.” He slid an arm around her waist, pulling her close against him. The peasant blouse and skirt were lighter than her normal clothes, with no stays or pads to amplify her figure. Tasia felt the hard, smooth muscles of his chest, and the resounding rhythm of his heart. His linen shirt was warm where it lay against his skin.

  “Let me go,” she said in a low voice.

  “And if I don't?”

  “I'll scream.”

  The glimmer of his smile appeared briefly. “You've already done that.”

  Tasia didn't resist as he leaned over her, his head blocking the moonlight. She tensed, not in fear but in anticipation, her eyes closing. His mouth came to hers. The sweet, heavy pressure drew a quiver of pleasure up through her spine. Suddenly dizzy, she flattened her hands on the muscles of his shoulders. He held her more tightly, kissing her until all thoughts of sin and reason and self-preservation exploded in a burst of fire. And she kissed him back, so hard that her lips parted from the force of it.

  Luke welcomed the opening, reaching for the inner depths of her mouth. He hadn't expected her fierceness, the response that rose up and closed over him like tidal waters. Everything changed in that potent flood. His illusion that he had any choice at all where she was concerned had dissolved forever. She was as necessary as the blood that fed his marrow. She filled the emptiness inside him, for some mysterious reason that his heart comprehended when his mind could not. He tried to gentle the kiss, turn it into something less raw, less feverish, but she wouldn't let him. She reached across the back of his shirt, clawing, desperate to feel the heat and hardness beneath the thin fabric.

  He moved, dragging her slender body across his lap. She whimpered as their mouths slipped apart. Luke stared at her, struck by her beauty, the gleaming black tumble of hair, the ripe mouth, the slant of her brows. And her body, light, supple, elastic with youth. His hand left the taut line of her waist, sliding to the loose neckline of her peasant blouse. The garment came from her shoulder with a firm tug. She caught her breath sharply as his hand slid into her blouse to find the tender shape of her breast.

  Anchoring her in his lap, he took her mouth again, a long kiss that soon broke into a myriad of shorter ones, luscious fragments of kisses, some hard, some soft and seeking. He fondled her breast, his warm fingers cupping the delicate weight. Gently his thumb passed over the tip until the nub of silk became exquisitely tight.

  Tasia struggled to embrace him, twisting to push closer. Her hands slid to his hair, the thick locks that lured her fingers to sink deep and play and tangle. Every sensation of her life, the deepest pleasure and sharpest pain, dimmed in comparison to the satisfaction of being with him. He was so powerful, so gentle. He was everything she had ever dreamed of.

  But it had all been ruined, before they ever met. She had ruined it.

  Tasia jerked back with a gasp. His eyes opened. Before she could look away, he saw the flash of anguish. Tasia wanted to leave him then, run from words and questions and demands for explanations that couldn't be given. His arms turned to steel. He anchored her against his chest, not letting her move.

  “This can't lead to anything,” she whispered.

  His hand drifted over her long hair, gathering it in silken sheaves and letting it strain through his fingers. There was a brief rush in his lungs that so
unded like laughter, but when he spoke, his voice was anything but amused. “If there had been a choice for either of us, we wouldn't have taken it this far. What makes you think anything can stop it now?”

  She raised her face and glared at him miserably. “I can stop it by leaving. You want me to tell you everything, but I can't. I don't want you to know about me and the things I've done.”

  His wide mouth twitched with impatience. “Why? Do you think I'll be shocked? I'm hardly an idealistic boy, or a hypocrite. Good Lord, do you actually think your sins could be worse than mine?”

  “I know they are,” Tasia said bitterly. Whatever his sins were, she doubted that murder was among them.

  “You're an arrogant little fool,” he muttered.

  “Arrogant—”

  “No one's feelings count but your own. No one is affected but you. Well, you're wrong. It's not just you anymore. I'm part of this now—and I'll be damned if I'll slink away just because you've decided I don't fit in with your plans.”

  “You're the most arrogant person I've ever met in my life! An authority on matters you know nothing about!” Her temper, driven by the force of her Slavic blood, came rushing to the surface. She trembled with the urge to shout. Instead she spoke in a lethal undertone. “I don't care about your feelings. I don't want anything from you. Let me go! I will leave tomorrow. I can't stay after this. I'm not safe here anymore.”

  Her bones gave slightly, molded by the force of his hold. “So you can go on hiding, running, staying invisible, never letting anyone care…Not much of a life, is it? More like a living death.”

  Tasia flinched. “It's all I can have.”

  “Is it? Or are you too much of a coward to try for something more?”

  She writhed wildly. “I hate you,” she gasped.

  Luke controlled her without effort. “I want you. Enough to fight for you. And if you run from me, I'll find you.” His lips parted in a savage smile. “By God, it feels good to want someone again. I wouldn't trade this for a fortune.”

  “I won't tell you anything,” she said passionately. “I'll disappear, and in a month you'll forget all about me, and everything will be the same as before.”

  “You won't desert Emma. You know what it would do to her. She needs you.” That was unfair of him, and they both knew it. “We both do,” he added gruffly.

  Tasia was outraged. “I know why Emma needs me…but you…All you want is f-fornication!”

  He averted his face then. A muffled sound escaped him. For a triumphant moment Tasia thought that she had shamed him, and then she realized he was laughing. Infuriated, she began to struggle. He positioned her against his body. She felt the flat of his silver hook against the small of her back. Low beneath his hips, a hard ridge jutted with burning intimacy. Her breath came fast, and she felt a peculiar throb of excitement in the place where he pressed. She held very still.

  His smiling mouth brushed over her hot cheek. “I won't deny it. Fornication ranks high on the list. But it's not the only thing I want from you.”

  “How dare you, when there is a woman waiting upstairs for you! Or have you already forgotten Lady Harcourt?”

  “There are some things I have to resolve,” he admitted.

  “Indeed.”

  “Iris and I have no claim on each other. She's a good woman, with many qualities I respect and like. But there's no love on either side, and she would be the first to admit it.”

  “She wants to marry you,” Tasia said accusingly.

  He shrugged. “Well, friendship isn't a bad reason to marry. But it's not enough for me. Iris knows my opinion on the matter. I've made it clear on many occasions.”

  “Perhaps she thinks you'll change your mind.”

  An engaging smile appeared. “Stokehursts don't change their minds. We're very stubborn. In that regard, I'm the worst of the lot.”

  Suddenly Tasia found it hard to believe she was having such a conversation with him, here in the darkness, tangled in his arms. She had dared to criticize him, and he had allowed it freely. It was an alarming sign of how things had changed between them. Her thoughts must have been easy to read, for he laughed and loosened his hold. “I'll let you go for now,” he said. “If we stay like this much longer, there's no telling what I may be driven to do.”

  Tasia wriggled out of his arms, but stayed on the bench and faced him. “I meant what I said about leaving. It must be soon. I have a…a feeling that trouble is coming.”

  Luke gave her a shrewd glance. “Where will you go?”

  “To a place that no one will know about, not even the Ashbournes. I will find work. I'll be all right.”

  “You won't be able to hide,” he said. “People will always notice you, no matter how you try to fade into the background. You couldn't change your looks and bearing if you tried for a hundred years. Besides, you weren't meant for that kind of life.”

  “I don't have any choice.”

  He took her hand carefully. “Yes, you do. Would it be so terrible to come out of your fortress?”

  Tasia shook her head, the locks of her hair moving in a sinuous curve over her shoulders. “It's not safe.”

  “What if I'm there to help you?” Slowly he turned her hand over, his thumb dipping into her palm.

  The temptation to believe him was overwhelming. Tasia was horrified that her common sense was so easily defeated. A few kisses in the moonlight, and suddenly she was considering entrusting her safety, her very life, to a man she scarcely knew. “What would you want in return?” she asked unsteadily.

  “I thought you were supposed to be perceptive. Use your intuition…or whatever you call it.” He leaned over and kissed her, his mouth so deeply stirring that Tasia had no thought of pulling away. Helplessly she answered him, openmouthed and enthralled. She had never understood sensuality before, one body speaking to another with skin and taste and movement. She felt his hand sliding through her hair, fingers coming to grip her scalp and pull her head closer. The sensation of being held steady, gently ravaged, was so exciting that she began to shake. Wanting more, she pressed against him with an awkward surge. He gathered her close and pulled his head back, his breath pelting hard on her face. “Damn,” he whispered. “You don't make anything easy, do you?”

  Blindly she searched for his mouth, luring him with glancing kisses. She touched the edge of his lower lip with her tongue, and he groaned and gave her what she wanted, catching her mouth with full, greedy possession. Luke let it go on for too long, until his body was hard and ready to explode. Somehow he found the presence of mind to call a stop to it. “Go,” he said thickly, shoving her away. “Now, while I can still let you.”

  She pulled up the sagging neckline of her blouse, staring at him with the eyes of a sorceress. Carefully she rose to her feet, her figure wraithlike amid the streaks of shadow and light. After a fierce glance at her, Luke focused on the ground. He waited for several minutes, staying motionless long after the sound of her footsteps had faded.

  He tried to comprehend what had happened. If his problem had been the absence of feeling before, it was now the reverse. Too much feeling, too fast, and with it came all the potential for pain he had avoided for so long. A rough laugh escaped him. “Welcome back to the living,” he told himself grimly. There was no choice but to take the chance he'd been given, and see it through to the end.

  On Saturday evening, the results of Lady Harcourt's planning were spectacular. The gold and white ballroom was filled with huge flower arrangements. Blossoms were reflected into infinity by the huge mirrors lining the walls. The musicians were as talented as any Tasia had ever heard, filling the air with heavenly waltzes. Together she and Emma peered into the ballroom from one of the windows in the adjoining gallery. People were dancing, smiling, flirting, admiring each other, all of them aware of what a splendid scene it was.

  “Wonderful,” Emma said, awestruck.

  Tasia nodded in agreement, staring at the profusion of beautiful gowns. Hungrily she took in every
detail. English styles were different from those in St. Petersburg, or perhaps it was just that she hadn't given a thought to fashion for so long that it had changed without her noticing.

  Necklines were square-cut and shockingly low, covered with transparent gauze or filmy netting in a sham display of modesty. Bustles were smaller—in some cases gone completely—and the skirts were tightly molded over the thighs. How was it possible for the women to dance in such narrow gowns? There was no room for the legs to move. Somehow the ladies managed it, looping their long trains over their gloved wrists and gliding smoothly in their partners' arms.

  Tasia glanced down at her own dress, plain black silk buttoned up to the neck. Underneath she wore thick stockings and sturdy black shoes that fastened over the ankles. She was ashamed to admit it to herself, but seeing the women in their finery caused her a pang of jealousy. Once she had owned gowns far more beautiful than any she saw here…the white satin with just a hint of pink, the ice-blue silk that had flattered her eyes, the delectable lavender crepe de chine. She had worn diamond pins in her hair, and ropes of rubies and pearls around her waist. What would Lord Stokehurst say if he saw her dressed like that? She imagined his blue eyes gleaming with admiration as they traveled over her body—

  “Stop it,” she muttered, trying to banish the vain thoughts. “‘Wisdom is more precious than rubies.’” When that didn't work, she struggled to recall other helpful verses. “‘Better is the poor that walketh in his uprightness.’ ‘Favor is deceitful and beauty is vain—’”

  “Miss Billings?” Emma interrupted, staring at her quizzically. “Why are you talking to yourself?”

  Tasia sighed. “I'm reminding myself of some important things. Here, one of your curls is escaping. Hold still.” She reached out to tuck Emma's rebellious locks back into place.

  “Does it look all right now?”

  “Perfect.” Tasia stood back and smiled in satisfaction. She and one of her housemaids had spent an hour on Emma's hair, pulling it in a loose sweep from her face, braiding the thick curls and pinning the ends underneath. Emma wore an ankle-length dress of pale green satin and white lace, trimmed at the waist with a dark green sash. After a laborious search, the gardener had brought what he declared to be the finest roses he had ever produced, with lush pink blossoms and an intoxicating fragrance. Mrs. Knaggs had helped to pin one at Emma's shoulder, one in her hair, and one at the waist of her dress. By the time they finished, Emma had glowed with pleasure, claiming she felt like a princess.