Midnight Angel Read online

  The butler gave her one of his rare smiles and nodded as she walked away.

  Evening approached, and there was still no word from Lord Stokehurst. Tasia thought he was deliberately making her wait, so that she would have ample time to worry about when she would be dismissed. For the first time she took supper alone in her room, to avoid the questions and curious gazes of the other servants. She ate slowly, her stare fixed on the darkening sky outside her window. All her muscles were tense as she wondered what would happen. Soon she would be banished from Southgate Hall. She would have to make plans. The thought of returning to Charles and Alicia was galling. But perhaps they wouldn't be surprised that she had failed in her first position. The Kapterevs had never been known for their humility. Silently she vowed that she would choke on her opinions before spouting them to her next employer.

  An excited knock caused the door to rattle. “Miss Billings! Miss Billings!”

  “Nan?” Tasia asked in surprise, recognizing the voice. “Come in.”

  The housemaid burst into the room, her eyes glowing and her cheeks pink. She hardly looked like herself. “Miss Billings, they said at the servants' hall that you were up here. I had to come and see you straightaway…” She paused to recover her breath.

  “I thought you would have left by now. Nan, you must have run all the way up the stairs. It's not good for you.”

  “Yes, but I wanted to tell you…” Nan let out a burst of excited laughter. “I'm getting married!”

  Tasia's eyes widened. “Married? To whom?”

  “To Johnny! He proposed not ten minutes ago, an' asked me to forgive him for everything. Said he'd be as good a husband as he could be, an' I said that's enough for me! Now my baby will have a name, an' I'll have a proper husband!” Nan hugged herself in joyful excitement.

  “But how? Why?”

  “Johnny said that Lord Stokehurst had a talk with him this afternoon.”

  “Lord Stokehurst?” Tasia repeated, dazed.

  “The master told Johnny that no man in his right mind wants to get married, but everyone must sooner or later, an' that a man should own up to his doings, an' if Johnny had gotten a girl with child, he should give 'em both his name. His Lordship even gave us some money to start with. We're leasing a plot of land to farm near the village. Isn't it a wonder? How can everything change so quick-like?”

  “I don't know,” Tasia said, recovering enough from her amazement to smile. “It is wonderful. I'm very happy for you, Nan.”

  “I came to give this back to you.” She thrust the knotted handkerchief back at Tasia, weighted with the lump of the gold ring. “I didn't tell Johnny about it—he might've made me keep it. But you need it, Miss Billings. You're too kind for your own good.”

  “Are you sure you shouldn't keep it?”

  “We'll be all right now, me an' the babe. We got someone to look after us now. Take it back, miss, please.”

  Tasia held her hand out, and the ring dropped into her palm. She closed her fist around it and hugged Nan tightly. “God be with you,” she murmured.

  “An' you, Miss Billings.”

  As Nan left the room, Tasia sat down on her bed, her thoughts whirling. Nothing had ever surprised her more than Lord Stokehurst's actions. She had never dreamed he might change his mind so abruptly. What had caused it? Why would he have taken it upon himself to talk Johnny into marrying Nan, and even sweetened the bargain with what amounted to a small dowry? She turned the matter around and around in her head, unable to think of what his motives might be.

  The hour grew late. Tasia knew she wouldn't be able to fall asleep tonight, not with all the questions that bothered her. Sighing, she set her supper tray outside the door and decided to visit the library. A long, dull book was just what she needed.

  Making her way down the servants' stairs, Tasia moved through the hallways like a shadow. The household had settled for the evening. The routine was always the same. By now the last of the supper dishes had been washed, and the necessary kitchen utensils set out for Mrs. Plunkett for tomorrow morning. Biddle had polished the master's shoes and boots. Mrs. Knaggs was sitting with her mending basket, and perhaps writing a list of household supplies to be purchased. Most of the lamps in the hallways had been turned down, covering the house in shadows.

  Finding the library, Tasia lit a lamp and turned the flame to a bright glow. The light played over the mahogany cabinets and shelves, and gleamed softly on the leather-lined walls. Tasia enjoyed the smell of books and leather, and the traces of smoke and brandy that lingered in the air. The library was a masculine sanctuary, used for discussion of business, politics, or highly private matters. There was a sense of intimacy and family history in the room. She browsed from one shelf to another, looking for something that would put her to sleep. Judiciously she selected an armload of books, examining each one.

  “The Aspects of Progressivism,” she read aloud, and wrinkled her nose. “Revolution and Reform in Modern Europe. The Wonders of British Expansionism. Well, any one of these should do…”

  A mocking voice came out of the shadows, startling her. “Back for the second round?”

  Three

  The pile of books dropped from Tasia's hands. She gasped, whirling toward the voice. “Oh…”

  Lord Stokehurst stood up from the large chair near the fireplace. He had been sitting in the dark with a drink, staring into the empty grate. Casually he set a half-finished glass of brandy on a bronze table, and approached her.

  Tasia's heart pounded hard in her chest. “Wh-why didn't you let me know you were here?”

  “I just did.” Stokehurst had the appearance of a man who had spent all day at his desk. The turned-down collar of his shirt was smudged with ink, and the top buttons were undone, revealing a gleam of brown skin at the base of his throat. A few locks of black hair had fallen on his forehead, softening the hard angles of his face.

  His deep blue eyes held an intimate curiosity that sent a shiver down Tasia's spine. Against her will she thought of what she had tried to put out of her mind all day…the moment during their argument when he had gripped the front of her dress in his fury. His aggressive maleness had terrified her. Along with her fear, however, had come a breathless feeling that hadn't left for a long time. She focused on the heap of books at her feet, hoping he wouldn't see the flush spreading on her face.

  “You seem to have lost your composure,” he said.

  “Anyone would, h-having a man leap out of the shadows like that.” Tasia swallowed hard, trying to steady herself. She owed him an apology. “My lord, Nan came to see me—”

  “I don't want to talk about it,” he interrupted curtly.

  “But I misjudged you—”

  “No, you didn't.”

  “I-I overstepped my bounds.”

  Stokehurst didn't argue with that, only stared at her with a mocking lift of his brows. He made her very nervous, standing there…all darkness and devilish power spun into the shape of a man.

  Tasia forced herself to go on. “It was kind of you to help Nan, my lord. She and the baby will be much better off this way.”

  “Only if you consider a reluctant husband better than none. He doesn't want to marry her.”

  “But you convinced him that it was the right thing to do.”

  “That doesn't mean he won't make Nan pay for it in a hundred different ways.” He shrugged. “At least the child won't be born a bastard.”

  Warily Tasia watched him through the screens of her lashes. “Sir…do you intend to dismiss me?”

  “I considered it.” There was a deliberate silence before he continued. “But I've decided against it.”

  “Then I'm to stay on?”

  “For the meantime.”

  Tasia was so relieved that her knees wobbled. “Thank you,” she whispered. She crouched to gather the pile of books, sitting lightly on her heels.

  To her dismay, Stokehurst came to help. He bent and tucked a couple of the heavy volumes beneath his left arm. They r
eached for a book at the same time, their fingers brushing. Startled by the touch of his warm hand, Tasia jerked back so sharply that her balance was lost. She fell back in an awkward heap on the floor. She was as stunned as she was humiliated. She was never clumsy. Her face burned at Stokehurst's quiet laughter.

  Rising to his feet, Stokehurst replaced the books on the shelf and reached down for her. He pulled her up effortlessly, his powerful grip engulfing her hand up to her wrist. Although his hold was gentle, there was a hint of alarming strength in it. How easy it would be for him to snap her bones like matchsticks. Tasia stepped back from him quickly, smoothing her skirts and yanking the waist of her bodice to settle everything in place.

  “Which book did you want?” Stokehurst asked, his blue eyes gleaming with amusement.

  Blindly Tasia pulled one from the shelf, not bothering to read the title. She held it flat against her chest, as if it would shield her from his mockery. “This one will do.”

  “Very well. Goodnight, Miss Billings.”

  Although she had been dismissed, Tasia didn't move. “Sir,” she said hesitantly, “if you have a moment, there is something I would like to talk to you about.”

  “Another downtrodden housemaid?” he asked in jeering apprehension.

  “No, my lord. It's about Emma. She…found out about Nan's situation. Naturally she has been asking questions. Sir, it occurred to me…Well, it reminded me…I asked Emma if anyone has ever talked to her about…You see, she's old enough to begin…She's of the age when girls…You understand.”

  Stokehurst shook his head, his alert gaze trained on her.

  Tasia cleared her throat. “I'm referring to the time each month when women…” She stopped again. In her embarrassment, she wished she could drop through the floor. She had never said anything so intimate to any man.

  “I see.” His voice sounded strange. When Tasia risked another look at him, she saw a comical mixture of surprise and dismay on his face. “I hadn't thought about that,” he muttered. “She's still a little girl.”

  “Twelve.” Tasia twisted her fingers together. “Sir, I didn't…My mother neglected to explain to me…and then one day…I-I was very frightened. I would not wish for Emma to be so unprepared.”

  Stokehurst went to the bronze table, picking up his drink. “Neither would I.” He downed the rest of the liquor in a single gulp.

  “Then I have your permission to talk to her?”

  Luke shook his head, gripping his empty glass. “I don't know.” He hadn't wanted to accept the signs that Emma was getting older. The idea of his daughter beginning her monthly flow, developing a woman's body, a woman's emotions and desires…it was too soon. It made him uneasy. He'd never allowed himself to think about it before. Someone had to prepare Emma for the changes that would take place as she matured. But who? His sister was too far away, and his mother was as likely to tell Emma some nonsensical story as the truth. The duchess was a woman of refined sensibilities. She disapproved of Southgate Hall's French decor, considering all rococo curves and scalloped edges to be immoderately suggestive. She abhorred the sight of chair legs unconcealed by fringe. All things considered, she wasn't the best person to explain the workings of human anatomy to his daughter.

  “How much do you plan to tell her?” he asked bluntly.

  The governess blinked in surprise and strove for a matter-of-fact tone. “Only the things a young girl should know. If you don't wish for me to talk to her, my lord, then I think someone else should very soon.”

  Luke stared at her intently. Her concern for his daughter seemed genuine. She wouldn't have brought up the subject otherwise, not when it made her so uncomfortable. And Emma liked her. Why not have her do it?

  “You may as well talk to her,” he said, making up his mind. “Just don't start quoting Genesis while you're at it. Emma doesn't need the weight of a few thousand years' worth of biblical guilt added to her conscience.”

  Her lips pursed, and she answered in a prickly tone. “Of course, my lord.”

  “I assume all your information is correct?”

  She nodded briefly, her face suffused with red.

  Suddenly Luke smiled. She looked very young in her discomfort, flushed and struggling for composure. He couldn't help enjoying it. “How can you be certain?” he asked, prolonging the moment.

  She refused to take the bait. “With your permission, my lord, I would like to retire for the evening.”

  “Not yet.” Luke knew he was being arrogant, but he didn't care. He wanted her to stay. It had been a tedious day, and he was in need of some diversion. “Would you like a drink, Miss Billings? Some wine, perhaps?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “Then stay here while I have some.”

  She shook her head. “I must decline your invitation, sir.”

  “It's not an invitation.” Luke gestured to the chairs by the fireplace. “Sit down.”

  For a moment she didn't move. “It is very late,” she murmured. Then she made her way to one of the chairs and perched on the edge of it. After placing the book on a side table, she knotted her hands in her lap.

  Leisurely he refilled his glass. “Tell me what it's like to live in Russia.”

  She tensed in alarm. “I can't—”

  “You've already admitted you came from there.” Luke sat with his drink, stretching out his long legs. “You must be able to tell me something without revealing your precious secrets. Describe it for me.”

  She regarded him doubtfully, as if suspecting him of trying to trick her. “Russia makes one feel very small. The land is endless, and the sun is softer there than in England—it makes everything look a little gray. At this time of year in St. Petersburg, the sun never sets. White nights, they call them…Only the sky isn't white, it turns rose and violet, and stays that way from midnight to morning. That is when it is most beautiful, to see the black shapes of the buildings against the sky. The tops of the churches are round, like this.” She shaped an onion dome with her delicate hands. “Inside the churches, there are no statues allowed. Instead we have icons—religious paintings of Christ, the Apostles, the Virgin, the saints. Their faces are long and narrow and sad. It is a very spiritual look. The saints in the English church are too proud.”

  Luke conceded the point, recalling with amusement that the sculptures in his own chapel had a vaguely smug look.

  “And there are no pews in Russian churches,” she continued. “It is more respectful to the Lord to stand, even if the service lasts for hours. To Russians it is very important to be humble. The common people are modest and hardworking. When the winter lasts longer than expected, they tighten their belts, gather around the hearth, and make jokes and tell stories to take their minds off their empty stomachs. The Russian church teaches that God is always with us, and everything that happens, good or bad, is His will.”

  Luke was fascinated by the changes in her face. For the first time she had relaxed in his presence. Her tone was soft, and her eyes appeared more catlike than usual in the shadows. She kept on talking, but he didn't listen. He wondered what it would feel like to pull down her silky black hair and wind it around his wrist, holding her still for his kisses. Her body was so light, he would barely feel her weight in his lap. Yet for all her physical frailty, she had a steely will and a fearlessness that he admired. Even Mary hadn't dared to stand up to him in a temper.

  “When things are very, very bad,” she continued, “the Russian people have a saying: Vsyo proidyot. Everything will pass. My father used to say—” She stopped with a sharply indrawn breath.

  From the expression in her eyes, it was clear that the subject of her father was an emotional one. “Tell me about him,” Luke murmured.

  Her eyes brightened with a sheen of tears. “He died a few years ago. He was a good, honorable man, the kind that people trusted to mediate their arguments. He had the ability to see all points of view. Since his death nothing has been the same.” A bittersweet smile touched her lips. “Sometimes I wan
t to talk to him very badly. I can't make myself believe that I never will again. It makes things worse, living so far away from home. Everything I knew of him is back there.”

  Luke watched her uneasily. An explosive emotion pressed upward beneath his calm surface, something too dangerous to analyze. After Mary's death, he had concentrated only on survival. Some needs could be satisfied. The rest he had locked away forever. That vault of loneliness and desire had never been threatened, until now. He should send the governess away for good, before it became worse. The argument over the pregnant housemaid had been the perfect excuse to dismiss her, Ashbournes be damned. But somehow he hadn't been able to do it.

  He dragged a question from his taut throat. “Will you ever go back?”

  “I…” She gave him a glance so wretched and lost that it made his breath stop. “I can't,” she whispered.

  In the next instant, she was gone, rushing from the library without taking the book she had come for.

  Luke was afraid to follow her. He sat there in a paralysis of emotion and lust. Sinking low in his chair, he glared at the ceiling. God knew he wasn't a fool where women were concerned. He was the last man on earth likely to fall for a mysterious waif. She was too young, too foreign, too much the opposite of everything Mary had been.

  At the thought of his wife, Luke stood up, his muscles unlocking. How could he betray Mary this way? He remembered the pleasure of sharing a bed with his wife, the way her warm body had snuggled against his in the night, the way she had kissed him awake each morning. It had always been comfortable between them. After she was gone, he had been driven by physical need to find other women, but it was never the same.

  He had never dreamed he would want someone else. Not like this, with his self-control crumbling, his emotions in a revolution. The governess was becoming an obsession, and he couldn't seem to stop it from happening.

  He didn't even know her real name.

  With a self-mocking laugh, he reached for his brandy. “To you,” he muttered, raising the glass to the chair she had occupied. “Whoever the hell you are.”