It Happened One Midnight (PG8)
Read It Happened One Midnight (PG8) Online
Authors: Julie Anne Long
Tags: #Romance, #General, #Historical, #Fiction
To every reader, reviewer, and blogger who ever spread the word about a book they loved—I appreciate you more than I can say.
M
Y HEARTFELT GRATITUDE TO
the terrific people I’m blessed to work with: marvelous editor May Chen; the talented, hardworking staff at Avon; my lovely agent Steve Axelrod; to my sis Karen, who makes brainstorming fun; and to every reader, reviewer, and blogger who spreads the word about books they love.
Contents
Praise for the novels of Julie Anne Long
T
HE MOON LAY ON
its side like a discarded pickax, the stars’ diamond smithereens strewn all around it. It was a rare clear London night thanks to a stiff broom of a breeze off the Thames, and everything Tommy had seen on her way to her destination—barrels full of old rain capped thinly in ice, a narrow black cat holding its tail aloft in the shape of a question mark, each bar on the low wrought iron fence she’d just slipped through—seemed etched into the night, distinct as puzzle pieces, shimmering with portent and beauty and danger.
Just the way she liked it, in other words.
Just like
her,
some of the ton’s bloods might say.
And oh, how they loved to hear themselves
talk
. Granted, she’d done little to discourage it. She could find something to like in each of them, but there was a sameness to them, to their self-absorption and to their compliments—and to her ability to manage them. Not one of them saw anything more than what they wanted to see. Or what
she
wanted them to see.
Still, it wasn’t as though she hadn’t been enjoying herself.
She hadn’t realized things had gone a
little
too far until the pearls arrived.
Pearls notwithstanding, the most valuable thing she owned was a short broad ribbon hung with a gold wide-armed cross. The most important words of her life were etched into it. She gripped it so tightly now she wouldn’t be surprised to find the heat had seared them permanently into her palm.
It would only be fitting. Her body told the story of her life in scars.
She hovered in shadows in the terraced gardens, crouching slightly. She had a flawless view of French doors and enormous windows and a room lit only by a fire burning low. Not a typical row house, oh no; only a recreation of a French palais would suit the grandeur of its owner, who had built it decades ago.
Her heart launched into her throat when a man moved into the room.
Every cell in her body seemed to loan itself to
seeing
. She gulped glimpses as he passed through. Nose like the prow of a ship: conspicuous, arrogant, but right for his face, which was all sharply hewn edges and broad planes. An edifice of a face.
Tommy absently rested the back of her hand against the smooth curve of her own cheek.
He seemed hewn from eons of privilege. She could very nearly feel the weight of it from where she stood. It was in the way he entered the room, cutting through it with the purposeful confidence of a warship as he headed for the bookcase.
It was him. It was him. She
knew
it.
He turned a fraction toward the window, and that’s when she saw that his ruthlessly cropped hair was gray.
More, more, more
. She wanted to know more. The color of his eyes, the shape of his hands, the sound of his voice. Impatience thrummed through her, drew her nerves tight as harp strings.
Which is why she nearly leaped out of her skin when she heard the faint “snick” of a struck flint right behind her.
The blood instantly vacated her head. She nearly fainted.
Still, she was no stranger to surprise. She whipped about so quickly her cloak slapped at her calves, and the knife in her sleeve slid down to prick her palm, but remained hidden. She gripped the shaft.
A sucked cheroot flared into life, and round the light of it a man came into focus.
His posture was unmistakable. She’d inadvertently memorized it this afternoon at her salon, because he’d spent much of his time simply leaning against the wall opposite her and watching her through hooded eyes. Smiling very faintly, as though he was in on a private joke. As though he
knew
her, although they’d only just met, and never spoke after that first introduction. Then there was the fact that he was the sort of man no woman with blood in her veins would ever forget once she’d seen him. His face, shadowed intriguingly now, rather embossed itself on one’s memory. So few men actually caused a sharp intake of breath.
Judging from his reputation, he took full advantage of this.
None of this mattered to Tommy. He hadn’t a title, and he was a rake, and everyone knew she had rules about these things.
Ironically, however, he’d said the only thing that truly interested her all afternoon. She’d overheard it.
“Well, if it isn’t the celebrated Miss Thomasina de Ballesteros. What could possibly bring
you
to—” He peered into the window. “—a crouching position outside the window of a powerful married duke?”
His voice was very quiet, very baritone, and intolerably amused.
“It’s not what you think, Mr. Redmond,” she managed with icy elegance. Or as much elegance as once could muster whilst whispering. “And one might ask the same of you.”
Above their heads, framed in the square of light of his French doors, the man moved to kindle another lamp, and even more gaslight flared into the room. He was as illuminated as if he was a player on a stage now. How very helpful.
Now she just had to get rid of the sudden new audience member.
“I’m smoking a cheroot. I’m the last to depart a dinner party at this very residence, to which I was invited. It took place
inside
the house. I must say, however, that I’m unutterably touched that you care what I think.”
“Oh, I don’t,” she hastened to disabuse. Distractedly, because the Duke of Greyfolk was choosing a book from a bookcase now. Which book? What does he
read?
“It’s just that it’s too difficult to keep lies in order, and I’m busy enough as it is. Now if you would just leave me to my business, there’s a good lad, Mr. Redmond, and good night.”
Jonathan Redmond exhaled smoke. Politely, away from her, toward the sky.
“You speak from experience. The lying,” he said after a moment. They still spoke in hushes.
She cast a glance his way. She resented every second her eyes weren’t staring through the window. Inside, the duke settled into a chair with a book, and seemed to take his time burrowing in, finding just the right position for his buttocks. A new chair? Or one that bore his imprint and he was just trying to wriggle into it properly?
How
she wanted to know the title of the book.
“Naturally. Everyone lies. Even you, I’d warrant. Perhaps
especially
you, given your reputation, Mr. Redmond, and the company you keep. The reason I’m standing here is most assuredly not what you think, so you may save your innuendoes for the next fashionable salon you choose to grace with your presence.”
He merely nodded along, as if everything she said followed a script. The rudeness was
very
unlike her, but one tended to revert to childhood defenses when cornered.
Above their heads the duke stood up, reached beneath him, and gave his trousers a tug; they had lodged between his buttock cheeks when he’d sat down. He resettled himself.
“You still haven’t told me what your business here is, Miss de Ballesteros.”
She turned toward him and straightened to her full height, which was unfortunately a foot or more less than his. She counted to ten silently. She could feel her temper crawling up an internal thermometer. The temper was evidence of how accustomed she’d become to men vying to do her bidding.
“Why are you tormenting me?” she asked, almost lightly.
“Why are you holding a knife?” he asked, mimicking her tone.
Shock blurred her vision.
The ease had gone out of his posture. Suddenly she knew he was a man poised to spring if he needed to. And this was what he’d been leading up to all along.
She cleared her throat. “Oh . . . this?”
“Yes,” he said softly. “That.”
She remained silent. She idly tested the tip of the knife with her fingertip. Very sharp. Perfectly deadly.
“Let me guess. It’s not what I think.”