Anne Stuart (19 page)

Emma glanced up at him. “And that was the only reason you brought me here?”

“
What else, pray tell, could I have had in mind?” He seemed genuinely mystified, but Emma pressed on.

“
Christian charity?” she suggested.

His laugh was rich and full-bodied. “An Irish Catholic isn’t considered a Christian by British standards, dear Emma. And I believe I’m singularly devoid of charitable instincts.” He reached over and with one deft gesture stripped the black ribbon from her hair, freeing it around her shoulders. “Will you dance or will you play?”

She rose abruptly, angry, though she wasn’t quite sure why. He was so determined to prove himself a villain—she could hardly have expected him to admit to honorable impulses. Still, she’d half hoped for a gentle word. Silly, of course.

“
Neither, my lord,” she said, pushing away from the clavichord and starting past him, carefully out of reach.

She should have known better. He barely seemed to move, but her hand was caught in his. “Dancing it is,” he murmured.

She had learned long ago that there was no escape from a man like Killoran. The hand holding hers was neither tight nor painful, but it was a prison as he led her through the same, intricate moves that Nathaniel had.

There was no music, no off-tune humming, no sound at all but the rhythmic swish of her black skirts against the floor. The gathering darkness, broken only by the candlelight, threw eerie shadows that danced with them, ghosts of a darker time, hovering, watching them, mimicking their footsteps, embracing them with the chill of night.

Emma sank into a deep curtsy as Killoran bowed, all mocking flourish. She stayed down. Her heart was racing, her pulses pounding, her face flushed. Without music the silent dance had been strangely, frighteningly intimate. It made her think of the stories Gertie had told her, of entwined limbs and sweat.

His cool fingers were under her chin, tilting her face up to his. “You dance very well,” he said, but instead of the usual mockery, there was a faintly husky note in his voice, and his eyes were intent on her. “You have the gift of grace.”

She stared up at him, caught in his gaze. And then, almost without volition, she turned her face, pressing her cheek against his hand.

His fingers cupped her, long, cool fingers, and his thumb feathered her lips, lightly. She opened them beneath the faint pressure, and she knew she was trembling, captured in a moment of magic and wonder, with his hand on her mouth, their eyes caught, and she waited, breathless, knowing that the world was about to change.

He bent down, blotting out the light, and she closed her eyes the moment before his mouth touched hers, his lips warm, damp, open against hers, and the shock of it sent her senses reeling, and she was falling into a hot velvet mass of glorious confusion.

She was falling toward the hard parquet floor. His mouth left hers, almost before the brief kiss had begun, and his hand wrapped around her wrist, hauling her to her feet before she could collapse entirely.

“
A word to the wise, dear Emma,” he said in a voice as cool and unmoved as the frozen ground outside. “When you engage in a dalliance on the dance floor, remember to keep your balance. It’s better not to let your partner kiss you while you’re still in a curtsy.”

“
I wasn’t expecting to be kissed,” she said stiffly, hating him.

“
Weren’t you? Another lesson, my dear. Always expect to be kissed. You have the mouth for it.”

She watched him go. He left the light behind, disappearing into the cavernous shadows of the room with his usual fluid grace. It had to be her imagination that made her think he was running away from her.

She was no threat to him. She was just a pawn in his elaborate game, unwillingly doing his bidding.

She touched her lips wonderingly. They were still warm and damp from his mouth, and she felt a strange tightness in her chest that had nothing to do with the boning in her undergarments. She was no threat to him whatsoever.

And he would likely be her downfall.

There were no servants in sight when Killoran left the dusty ballroom. A fortunate fact for them, he thought wryly. If anyone had had the misfortune to cross his path at that moment, he very likely would have taken the person’s head off.

When he reached the solitude of his rooms, he found he was shaking. Absurd. His lust for revenge, combined with his lust for that ridiculously innocent girl, was making him mad.

Why in God’s name had he kissed her? He couldn’t remember when he’d last put his mouth against another. He avoided it at all costs. Yet she’d looked up at him, so delicious, so trusting, so needing to be kissed that his body had betrayed his brain and all his well-defined defenses.

And the feel of her lips against his, the shock of it, the warmth of her breath, had been his undoing.

He’d almost had her down on that stained, dusty floor, her black skirts over her head, holding her down and taking her like a rutting boar.

He shook his head in remembered shock.

Not only had he kissed her, but the act had actually increased his desire for her. Almost to a fever pitch. And for the first time he wondered whether things might not be a great deal simpler if he simply skewered Jasper Darnley.

Ah, but he’d never been a man for simplicity. And if he let Jasper die too easily, Maude would still haunt him. To banish her ghost forever, he had to pay the price, and if the seductive danger of a pair of honey-brown eyes, a fiery mane of red hair, and the most voluptuous body he’d ever seen on an innocent was all part of the bill, then he’d accept it.

He pushed away from the door, catching a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror. He looked like the devil, he thought with a trace of wry amusement. And dear, sweet, murderous Emma was a Botticelli angel, ripe for debauching. If only he could resist temptation for a little while longer.

He poured himself a glass of brandy from the bottle he insisted be kept in his bedroom. He drank it down fast, without the proper appreciation it deserved, then splashed more in the tumbler. He needed to blot everything out, the sight of her, the sound of her, the touch of her. She kept reminding him of all he had lost, all he had turned his back on. She was luring him with her innocence, and he hated her for it.

Jasper would know if he bedded her. Part of Emma’s allure for his enemy was her indefinable purity. If he took it from her, he would lose a major weapon in his arsenal.

No, he wasn’t a lust-crazed youth, unable to keep his breeches fastened. He could always take Barbara. The fact that Babs wouldn’t enjoy it shouldn’t trouble him. He had no doubt whatsoever that Babs didn’t enjoy any of the countless men upon whom she’d bestowed her favors.

Nathaniel, however, might take exception to such a course. And being such a hothead, he’d doubtless challenge Killoran to a duel. For some reason, he didn’t want to kill the boy. More foolish sentiment on his part, he reasoned, but there it was. He didn’t want to kill Nathaniel, bed Lady Barbara, or jeopardize his plans for Jasper Darnley.

That left him alone on a late winter evening with the doubtful comfort of brandy. He poured himself another glass, then stopped.

The house was still and quiet. And somewhere, faintly overhead, he heard the sound of music. Emma was playing again, something soft and lilting and unexpectedly sad. A moment passed before he recognized it. It was an old Irish lullaby, one he’d heard from his nurse thirty years ago.

And James Michael Patrick, the fourth Earl of Killoran, the man without weakness, honor, or decency, closed his eyes in quiet desperation.

Lady Barbara descended the broad stairs of Killoran’s town house in an uncharacteristic rush, her wide skirts sweeping the steps as she ran. Nathaniel was close behind her, but she had no intention of allowing him to catch up with her. She felt breathless, uneasy, after that dance in Killoran’s ruined ballroom. Dancing was a social art, as meaningless as flirtation or afternoon tea. As meaningless as making love.

And yet, when she’d put her hand in Nathaniel’s, felt the strength and warmth of his skin against hers, strange sensations had raced through her body.

She’d fought them. While part of her wanted to pull away from him with a light, airy laugh, another part wanted to drift closer, ever closer.

She’d been relieved and infuriated when Killoran had interrupted them. But sanity had taken hold once more, and she was running, from temptation, from despair.

Nathaniel caught her near the bottom of the final flight, his hand closing on her arm, whirling her around to face him. His color was high, and his blue eyes were blazing with an emotion she didn’t dare try to identify.

“
Why are you running away from me?”

“
Running?” she echoed with a breathless laugh. “From you? La, sir, you flatter yourself. Your dancing wasn’t
that
inexpert.”

She expected him to flush, but he didn’t; he continued to stare at her, mercilessly, his hand strong on her arm. “I won’t hurt you,” he said in a gruff, still voice.

The words reverberated through her body painfully, and she yanked herself free. “I should think not,” she retorted coolly, arching her neck to stare up at him. “I would have to care about you in order for you to hurt me and I don’t care about you in the slightest. You amuse me,” she said, her voice high-pitched and undeniably nervous as she began to back away from him. “You’re like an importunate puppy, leaping up, trying to lick my hand.” He was following her, almost stalking her, and yet the threat was no real threat at all. “Such devotion is entertaining for a bit, dear Nathaniel, but after a while it grows wearing. I think I shall—”

He silenced her by pulling her into his arms and kissing her.

He didn’t touch her breasts or paw at her. He didn’t force her or hurt her. He simply pulled her startled, pliant body against his and kissed her, with far more expertise than she would have expected from a country bumpkin.

She put up her hands, to ward him off, to push him away. But instead she clutched his shoulders, and allowed him to kiss her. What harm could it do?

She knew the answer to that question almost immediately. She was beginning to like it. To like the feel, the scent, the strength, and the taste of him. A dangerous liking, which would lead only to disaster.

Far above them, the sound of the piano drifted down, and Nathaniel marginally relaxed his hold on her as his mouth moved across her cheekbone.

It was enough to effect her escape. She pulled away from him, staring up with startled, frightened eyes. And this time when she ran, he let her go.

“
What do you mean, you didn’t see her?” Darnley demanded harshly.

His father’s second wife, a plump, pale-faced biddy who was frankly terrified of him, cowered. “I said I didn’t see her. I called, but she wasn’t receiving guests.”

“
How dare he?” he fumed. “To withhold that slut from a member of my family, instead of being properly grateful! I should like to thrash him.”

“
Jasper, don’t!” Aurelia pleaded. “The Earl of Killoran is a very dangerous man, and you’ve been ill...”

Darnley thought he might explode in rage. “My dear stepmama,” he said with biting cruelty, “I am a very dangerous man as well. Killoran knows he can get away with slights, since I’ve been indisposed. But that time will pass.”

“
But I thought you wanted to heal the breach,” Aurelia said, confused as always. “You told me you wanted me to befriend the girl, as a step toward uniting our families.”

He looked at her with withering contempt. “You really are a fool, aren’t you?” He noticed the family retainer, Bombley, hovering at the door. “What do you want, man?” he snarled.

“
A person has called to see you, sir. A female person.”

Bombley’s contempt for the shocking occurrence of a female visitor was obvious, but Darnley was suddenly eager. “Is she young and beautiful with red hair?”

“
No, sir.”

“
Then send her away.”

“
Very well, sir.”

“
Jasper,” Aurelia had the temerity to say in a troubled voice, “why would Killoran’s sister come here?”

“
She wouldn’t,” he said, starting in on his second bottle.

A moment later Bombley was back. “The person says you would wish to see her.”

“
Be damned to her impudence,” Darnley said drunkenly. “Thrash her from the house.”

“
She says it concerns a young lady.”

“
That’s what they all say. I haven’t debauched anyone in months—been too sick to get it up,” he said with deliberate coarseness. “Tell her she’ll have to bleed someone else.”

“
She said it has something to do with the Earl of Killoran’s sister.”

For a moment Darnley didn’t move. “Get out of here, Aurelia,” he said thickly.

“
But, Jasper, dearest...”

“
Leave me alone. It appears that where you have failed, fate has decided to lend a hand. Bring the female person up here, Bombley. Is she pretty?”

“
No, sir.”

“
Well, it makes little difference. And bring me more brandy. Someone’s watered this dung.”

He threw himself down to wait. The fire was too damned hot. Ever since his lingering illness he’d always been too hot or too cold, and nothing seemed to alleviate either condition. Despite Bombley’s words, the plain, badly dressed woman he showed into the drawing room was a sore disappointment.

She must have been at least forty, with gray-streaked brown hair pulled back from a horsey face completely devoid of attraction or human warmth.

Darnley raised his quizzing glass, staring at her with all the haughtiness at his disposal, only slightly marred by his inadequate state of inebriation.

“
Yes?”

She wasn’t the slightest bit discomfited, which irritated him even more. She stood there, thin and bony and uncompromising, staring down at him. with complete disapproval. “Lord Darnley?”