Cates, Kimberly (32 page)

"Blast
it, Cass, why the devil did you do that?" he demanded. "Invite that
cursed Englishman to that infernal ball! As if it wasn't going to be bad enough
already!"

Cassandra
gazed up at him, all bewildered innocence. "I thought Norah would like it.
You said I was to be kind to her, to try to mend things between us because the
wedding is over and there is nothing else to be done." She regarded Norah
warily. "Norah, won't you like for him to be at your ball? Won't it be
ever so much more comfortable?"

Sir
Aidan Kane and Lord Philip Montgomery circling the same ballroom? Norah thought
grimly. It would be about as comfortable as being locked in a stable with two
raging stallions fighting for a mare. For there could be no mistaking the hot
possessiveness that had flared in Aidan's eyes, and the cold loathing, the
disgust that had shone in Philip's.

Dear
God, as if things weren't bad enough! Now to have Philip here, to witness what?
The disaster that this marriage had already become? Her fumbling attempts to
regain Cassandra's affection? The stinging humiliation and stark uncertainty of
her relationship with her new husband on this, their wedding night?

Their
wedding night...

Norah
cringed. Oh God, what if Philip somehow discovered that she would be spending
this night in her own bedchamber, alone?

No.
There was no way Philip could know that—no way anyone could. Or could they?

She
caught her lip between her teeth, a bank of blossoms blurring before her eyes.

"Norah?"

She
looked up into Cassandra's face and saw triumph there. The sad triumph of a
hurting child, who had managed to wound someone back. And the uncertainty of a
girl, nearly a woman, who was suddenly, reluctantly, ashamed.

"Perhaps
I could come to your chamber, help you with your gown and hair for the ball. You'll
want to make the grandest impression, and..."

Norah
barely heard the girl's chatter. She wanted nothing more than to bar herself in
the Blue Room and stay there forever, forget about ballrooms full of strangers
and a reluctant bridegroom who had barely taken the time to say his vows.
Forget about Cassandra, the pain and hurt in her eyes, and forget
long-forgotten dreams about a youth with golden-brown hair who danced with an
agonizingly shy girl.

"Cassandra,
go inform the servants to install Lord Montgomery in the chambers across from
mine." Aidan's hard voice shook her to the core.

"But—but
I..." Norah started to protest, but Cassandra had already bolted off.

"Why?"
she demanded, glaring at him in fury. "There are a dozen other places he
could be."

"But
he will be here at Rathcannon tonight, won't he, my dear? On our bridal
night."

"I
didn't invite him! You must know that!" Norah insisted, her voice
quivering.

"You
don't want him here? Strange, when I first saw you with him here in the garden,
you seemed quite pleased that your girlhood hero had come... to what, my love?
Rescue you once again?"

The
memory of Philip's words made Norah squirm. "I—I don't deserve this. I
married you, Aidan."

"No,
you don't deserve this. For marrying me, you most likely deserve a medal for
bravery or else keys to your own cell in Bedlam. Of course, you married me and
then you told me I was not welcome in your bed."

"I...
after what happened, I..."

"Don't
distress yourself. I'm quite certain I will get over my disappointment. It's
not the first time my
wife
has denied me her favors. And you will have
your so-dear friend Lord Montgomery to console you. After all, you are not
completely friendless in this godforsaken land."

With
that, he turned and stalked away.

Dear
God, Norah thought. How had everything gone so hideously wrong? She had run
away from London to escape this: the grinding humiliation, the brutal sense of
awkwardness that had tormented her from the first moment she had stepped into a
society ballroom. But as she recalled Philip's outrage and her husband's stormy
countenance, she feared that this bridal night and the morrow's impending ball
might well be the most horrendous ordeal she'd ever endured.

The
bastard couldn't keep his eyes off of Norah, thought Aidan as he brooded, his
eyes following Lord Montgomery's every movement with a lethal negligence that
would have sent any of his gaming opponents diving from their chairs.

Every
flutter of those gentle hands that had soothed Aidan in his sickness, every nervous
tug of those soft lips into a smile or a tremulous frown, every glint of gold
or amber in those liquid dark eyes were captured by Montgomery's arrogant
aristocratic gaze.

Aidan
shouldn't have given a damn. Yes, Norah was now officially his wife, but it
wasn't as if he were in love with the woman—infected by that poisonous emotion
that had once set his veins afire with the need to hold on to something that
was as deadly as it was beautiful, addictive as it was venomous.

He
was no longer prisoner to emotions that had run white-hot knives through his
vitals with every laugh, every smile Delia had bestowed on another man. He'd
buried that part of himself on a dawn-kissed dueling field the third year of his
marriage. Even now, he could still feel the agonized struggles of the last
opponent he'd faced because of Delia's unfaithfulness. The eighteen-year-old
boy's only sin had been being seduced into sipping the maddening poison that
was Delia. Aidan had held the boy down as the surgeon had extracted the pistol
ball from his shoulder, disgusted with himself, loathing the woman who had
brought them both to this pass.

Time
and again, Aidan's gaze had tracked from the wound to where the boy's heart was
beating, horrified at the notion that if he'd moved his shot but five inches to
the left, the lad would be gasping out his final breath.

For
what? For a woman who would forget him before the week was out? For a harlot in
lady's garb who would likely not remember his name in a dozen weeks' time?

And
Aidan—hadn't Delia triumphed over him as well? She had turned him into
something repulsive, something that stung and burned and twisted in an agony of
the soul that matched this wounded boy's pain.

Couldn't
he extract that part of him that Delia had infected? Rip it free, the way the
surgeon ripped free the lead bullet?

In
that frozen moment, Aidan had done so. He had deadened that besotted fool that
had been Delia's pawn until he didn't give a damn about her—about any woman, except
to gain pure animal pleasure in the silken sheath of their bodies.

He
shouldn't
have cared that Montgomery monopolized what few forays Norah had made into the
conversation held around the bridal supper's table. Or that the Englishman had rushed
to pull out her chair, to compliment her gown, to ramble on ad nauseam about
boyhood antics of the stepbrother Aidan had never met, the crack-brained, careless
youth who had precipitated Norah's flight to Ireland.

Even
Cass
had bestirred herself to be charming after the long and grueling
"discussion" he had had with her after the wedding. Not that he
entirely trusted the chit's sudden turnabout. He was uncertain whether she was
testing her budding feminine wiles on a peer of the realm, or merely trying to
drive her father to distraction by prattling more questions about the infernal
social whirl of London society until Aidan thought his head would explode.

It
had been all he could do to remain civil in the hours since he'd stalked from
Rathcannon's gardens. But he'd vowed then and there that he'd be damned before
he'd let any of them know the strange, pulsing restlessness that possessed him,
the hunger that had nothing to do with cakes or feasts or even the brandy he'd
drunk far too much of in the hours since they'd left the table for the drawing
room.

Yet
with every minute that ticked by, Aidan felt the coils of tension inside him
wrench tighter. With every glance of revulsion Philip Montgomery shot at him
down that perfect patrician nose, Aidan became more and more tempted to break
it.

"Papa,
you're being dull as a stone." Cassandra's voice shook him from that
attractive contemplation. "Norah has asked you three times if you would
care to play a game."

Aidan
shifted his gaze to his bride, letting her see the seething recklessness in his
eyes.

Hers
widened, like some helpless woodland creature caught in the predatory gaze of a
wolf. "I—I just thought that... that you must be weary of enduring tales
of—of childish nonsense. That perhaps a game would be diverting."

Aidan
couldn't stop himself from purring, "I cannot tell you how I've been
anticipating playing games upon my bridal night." His brow lifted with a
suggestiveness that made color flood into those porcelain smooth cheeks, and he
cursed himself as a bastard.

"I
meant faro, or whist, or—" Norah's gaze locked with his, reproachful,
hurt, yet glossed with an anger that made her eyes shimmer hotly. She rose and
paced to the mantel, and Aidan wondered if she was trying to decide whether to
break down in a bout of feminine tears or whack him on the head with the fire
iron. He devoutly hoped she chose the latter. Perhaps such a blow would drive
this strange fever from his brain. Obliterate this pulsing, driving need to
take her in his arms, strip away her proper clothes, force cries of ecstasy
from those lips that were so tempting.

"I
truly am not in the mood for
that
type of... entertainment," Aidan
said with a wave of his hand. "But if you and Philip would care to
indulge..."

The
double entendre made her back stiffen and her chin tilt at that angle that
always wrenched at Aidan's heart. She wasn't beautiful, damn her, Aidan
thought. Then why the hell was he crazed with the need to grind his mouth down
onto the pliant curves of her lips, possess them in a way that would drive the
memory of every other man in the world from her mind.

She
faced him with the dignity of a captive princess. "I find myself reluctant
to play any more games today. If you'll excuse me, I think I shall retire to
bed."

"My
dear, it's early yet," Montgomery objected, sweeping up from his chair to
prevent her. "I will be here but a few days. Surely you can bear to stay
with me a little longer." The Englishman looked as if the idea of her
sharing a bed with Aidan Kane sickened him. Aidan wished to God he could blame
the man, dismiss his scorn. Yet it was true that he wasn't fit to kiss the hem
of Norah's gown.

"She
said she is tired, Montgomery," Aidan bit out, furious with Montgomery,
furious with his own chafing doubts. "Since your visit was totally
unexpected, you can hardly expect my wife to sit up until all hours
entertaining you. Especially since this is her wedding night."

The
Englishman blanched. "I should think that a gentleman would not
mention—"

"I
doubt you would accord me the title of gentleman, my lord. Now bid my wife
goodnight." Aidan unfolded his long frame out of his chair.
"Cassandra, it is time for you to retire as well."

"But
I don't want to—"

"You'll
have a long enough night tomorrow at the ball," Aidan said in a tone that
brooked no argument. "That is, unless I decide to forbid you to go because
you're behaving like a fractious child."

"Papa!"
Cassandra hissed, with a painful, pointed glance at their guest. The girl
paled, her eyes flooding with surprise and hurt, and Aidan wondered when his
relationship with his daughter had grown so infernally complicated. His throat
tightened at the flash of betrayal in those eyes that heretofore had always
sparkled at him with delight and complete confidence.

He
wanted to call Cassandra back as the girl bid Philip Montgomery a reluctant
farewell and Norah a stilted, brusque one. He felt a twinge, deep in his chest,
as Cassandra glared at him and then turned stiffly and exited the room.

Not
a word—no Goodnight, Papa. Not one of those exuberant kisses he treasured. If
the girl had sought a weapon to wound him with, she could have found none
better.

And
as if Cassandra's antics weren't grating enough, his new bride now stood, her
gaze shifting between him and Montgomery, as if she suspected that the minute
she stepped from the room they would fling themselves at each other's throats
like snarling wolves.

"Perhaps
I am not so tired as I thought," she said, crossing to where the teapot
sat upon a chinoiserie table.

"You
look tired to death," Aidan said quietly, and he meant it. "Go to
bed, Norah."

Her
fingers fidgeted with the lace at her bodice. Aidan tried not to notice the
soft, pale swells of her breasts above the delicately webbed trimming, the
fragile cords of her throat shifting as she swallowed hard.

"Aidan,
will you... will you join me?"

Why
did the plea irritate him beyond imagining? What did the woman hope to do? Lure
him away from Lord Montgomery by promising her new husband entry to the bed she
had earlier denied him? Perhaps her attachment to this Philip person must be
more intense than he'd guessed. The fact that Aidan wanted her, was tempted to
take what she offered in spite of that—made him furious.