Lady of Sin (6 page)

Yes, passion was dangerous. It could rob you of yourself, and leave you alone when it ended, with nothing of substance inside you.

She looked at Nathaniel, with whom she had shared such a passion. Did he know? Nothing in his demeanor indicated he did. Her fears that he did might have been nightmares, or her conscience trying to sully her dream. She still hoped that she had been a stranger to him. There was a type of safety in that. She had been able to taste the power, but not be owned by it.

And yet . . . the passion beckoned still, in all its dangerous glory. He did too, and affected her just by sitting nearby.

“I have been thinking about your petition,” he said. “I am curious how you intend to collect signatures in the counties.”

She explained her plans to make a circuit in the Southeast come fair weather, and the promise of her friend Sophia, Duchess of Everdon, to do the same in the West.

“That still leaves a lot of Britain,” he said.

“I intend to find others to take up the banner in other regions.”

“If we put our heads together, I am sure we can identify those who will help us.”

“‘Us’? Are you saying that you are willing to join our cause yourself, Mr. Knightridge?”

“I already have, no? I even played the dancing dog. You do not have to look so skeptical. We have been allies before.”

He was not referring to her cause, but to a trial last autumn where he defended. She had gone to him in the early dawn one day, to advise him to search for certain evidence. “We were only allies because I bullied you into it. You dismissed my suggestion at first, and then took full credit for your triumph when it occured.”

“Is that the reason for your bad humor with me these last months? Let me apologize now. In fact, I will have a broadside printed announcing the role you played.”

The exchange had turned a little sharp, as it often did when they spoke. He seemed to notice. With an apologetic smile, he retreated. “It was not my triumph, but that of justice. In my relief at the result I did not think to thank you for your help, and that was unforgivable.”

She accepted that graciously. In truth, she did not want credit or thanks, and would not have noticed their absence with anyone else. The lack of both from this man had seemed too typical, however.

This apology was not. She never thought she would hear Nathaniel Knightridge admit he was wrong about anything, let alone something involving her.

“Now, about the petitions. I am at your disposal and will aid you as I can.”

She did not know what to say. He was a splendid orator and would be very useful. Since their circles were not identical, he could speak to some members of good society with whom she had little conversation.

“What about your late husband’s family?” he suggested. “Would they aid in their counties?”

She named the cousins and relatives on whom she thought she might rely, and listed the ones on whom she was certain she could not. The latter list was much longer.

He listened with an expression that made his face very serious and handsome. He appeared to hang on her every word.

“It is a big family. Are any of them in the military? The cousins, I mean? Are they the sort who have traveled quite a bit, going abroad and such?”

“I do not think so. It is not a family inclined toward adventure. I hear that the aunts were surprised when my husband and his brother made a grand tour.”

“I am sure theirs was more extensive than mine. I only had three months in France and Italy.”

“Oh, they went everywhere. Greece and Spain, and even Algiers. They were traveling with their tutor at least a year. It was right after James left university.”

“It sounds fascinating. I envy their visits to the more exotic cultures. Did your brother-in-law ever tell you about those journeys, and the people they met along the way? I would think the stories could entertain one for hours.”

“James never speaks of it, but Philip did sometimes. He would get nostalgic. I think his memories were more interesting than his later life. He told me a few stories—”

The words died on her lips. She suddenly heard Philip again, voice in a trance of memory, describing a fire dance in a Spanish town on the ocean’s coast. He had seemed a different man as he spoke. It had been as if he were reliving a long-lost youth, even though he was only twenty-seven when he died.

The recollection did not make her sad, but it silenced her anyway. She lowered her gaze and let the gentle memory have its time.

No voice spoke during that pause. Mr. Knightridge made no attempt to fill the quiet. She appreciated that.

The images flowed through her mind, of that fire dance and of Philip both watching it and later describing it. For a few moments the scenes lived vividly, but slowly the little pageant floated away into the clouds of her mind.

She raised her gaze and turned her attention back to Nathaniel.

Her breath left her.

He was watching her with the same expression she had seen in the candlelight at Lyndale’s party. His countenance reflected understanding, not pity, and the warmth in his eyes mesmerized her. She did not doubt that he respected the quiet nostalgia the memories evoked. He understood that honoring a man and preserving his memory were not the same as mourning him forever.

The intimacy of that night returned in an onslaught, as if a wave crashed the walls of her heart to pieces. She flooded with warmth and peace and a stark vitality that thrilled her. And trust. An inexplicable, soul-drenching trust flowed through it all that made the danger insignificant.

He ceased being the irritating Mr. Knightridge and became again the astonishing and generous man with whom she had lived an entire ifetime in the space of a few hours.

Did he feel it too? Had she imagined the best of that night?

Was she lying to herself again now?

She cast about for the thread of their conversation, to take it up again. She attempted to look away, but what bound them would not permit speaking or avoidance.

He just rode the silence with her, tethered by a powerful bond.

And then he held out his hand to her.

He did not think before he reached out to her.

It was an impulse and he did not know its source. Nor did he care. It was merely a physical response to a profound understanding that touched him as he watched her stillness in the silence.

Her hand met his. Her gaze held no questions. They both discarded the armor and swords with which they normally engaged, and all that was left was a deep comprehension.

He tugged firmly and she came to the sofa and his arms. He embraced her. A mixture of sweet intimacy and pounding desire scattered his thoughts.

He rested his palm on her face and looked in her eyes. So open, so guileless. Who ever thought Charlotte would need protection, or lessons in guarding her soul? Yet he suspected that his own deepest self was just as exposed to her.

That did not matter. He gazed in this woman’s eyes, fully aware of who she was this time. There was no confusion with any mystery goddess.

Except . . . the prod on his instincts died before forming. The impulse to kiss her shut it away.

Her lips were waiting for his. The gentlest tremble pulsed through her mouth with their first connection. It told him everything. That her surprise at their unexpected desire matched his. That she feared what she could not deny. That their arguments had been rearguard battles to fend off something that would leave them both helpless.

He kissed her harder and his desire climbed fast. He did not need to hear her sighs to know she was with him, but their sound entranced him. So did the way her lips and mouth and body accepted him. Not with submission, despite the signs that spoke of a woman overwhelmed. Her yielding communicated trust, not defeat.

He lost himself. He knew her responses better than his own. The complete understanding affected everything, especially his desire. Making love to her became important, essential. After this time, she would never be a mystery again and he would never find himself adrift as he had been these last weeks. They would fill each other again and again and—

He paused, his mouth sealed to hers.

It had happened once more, that confusion between Charlotte and the other. The power of that night was again casting a spell over his perceptions.

Unless . . .

He broke the kiss and looked at the face turned up to his.

He tried to picture it mostly hidden by a jeweled, white mask.

It was a ridiculous notion. But . . .

“Open your eyes,” he said.

Her lashes fluttered and parted. Her gaze touched his and a flaming arrow of recognition shot right to his soul.

“Impossible,” he muttered. This woman did not attend parties like that. Not even the slightest rumor of a flirtation had touched her reputation since she was widowed. Many men wanted her, that was clear in their gazes and faces, but she did not encourage them even for amusement.

“What is impossible?” she whispered.

He looked long and hard. Memories collided, of these eyes in his sitting room, and ones remarkably similar in the dim lighting of Lyndale’s salon.

Surely not.

“It is nothing. I just . . . it is nothing,” he said. He could not kiss her again, however. Not with the other intruding like this.

Except . . .

He studied her, almost sure even though the idea was shocking. Short of asking outright, there was no way to know.

Madam, did you give yourself to me in a night of passion at a party that everyone knows no reputable woman would attend?

Her expression vaguely changed, as if a veil of thin gauze fell over her face. A distance instantly separated them. The resemblance disappeared so quickly, he wondered if he had imagined it.

She turned slightly, so they were not so close. She did not leave his arms but reality descended, making the intimacy awkward. She did not demand he release her, but he knew she wanted him to. His hold relaxed and fell away.

Her mind seemed to be working hard. She appeared confused. She was thinking the same thing he was, no doubt. That this passion was mad. It made no sense.

“Why were you asking about the relatives?”

She startled him. She had not been weighing the oddness of their impulses, nor had she been especially overwhelmed by passion. While he had been grasping for ecstasy, she had been sorting through their conversation.

“Relatives?”

“My husband’s relatives.”

She angled back to scrutinize him. Absolutely no resemblance to the mystery goddess remained.

“Why were you asking those questions? The ones about Mardenford’s family?”

“I was inquiring whether they might help your cause, remember?”

“Not those questions. I mean the ones about traveling to foreign lands and such.”

“I was making polite conversation. That is what polite people do.”

Her eyebrows straightened over a skeptical glare. “You came here for something, and I do not think it was for the cause.”

“Perhaps I came for a kiss.”

He said it lightly, but she contemplated the response at length. “No, I do not think you planned that kiss. Nor have you ever sought my company for polite conversation before. Tell me why you were asking those questions.”

He had intended to broach the matter cleanly, but had been distracted by their passion. Therefore he had no compunctions about satisfying her demand.

“I spoke with Finley right before he died, and he confided to me the conversation he had with your brother-in-law. I am wondering if he might have actually known something important.”

Her reaction did not bode well for any future kisses. She reared back in shock until her body tilted away from his. “Are you now curious whether his lies are correct? What sort of man are you? To dig and poke to discover if maybe there is a scandal—”

“I do not care a fig about scandals, and if this were the normal sort of gossip, I would not feel obligated to pursue it.”

“
Obligated
now. You do think highly of your duties, Mr. Knightridge.”

She was using
that
tone. The crisp, challenging, annoying one that said he had a comeuppance due, and she for one was not impressed with him, etc., etc.

The one that made him want to shake her. Or kiss her and caress her until she whimpered in submissive pleasure.

He ruefully admitted that
his
recent impulses had not been entirely without precedent, even if his motivations and actions had been. He had on occasion in the past imagined conquering the impregnable fortress of Lady M. He recognized those calculations in other men because he had done some calculating himself.

“Listen to me, and you will perhaps comprehend my concern. Finley said there was a boy, a relative of your late husband’s family, that he knew about. A lost boy, he called him.”

“This criminal spins a ridiculous tale and you believe it? I always knew you were conceited and irritating, but I never knew you could be stupid—”

“I
saw
him. The boy. In the yard as I left the courtroom. There were a group of them, waiting for word on Finley, and one of them—he had a resemblance to your brother-in-law.”

She fell silent. Her eyes turned to fiery crystals.

“What sort of resemblance?”

“His general countenance. He appeared to have foreign blood, however. Hence my curiosity on whether an uncle or cousin had traveled extensively or lived abroad.”

“You have investigated this scoundrel’s lies on the basis of a general resemblance to a general countenance. I think you are bored. You should find an avocation to occupy your time.”

“I am not on this errand merely because of generalities. It was the boy’s eyes. They were similar to Mardenford’s in an essential way.”

Her face turned to stone. It was a lovely, delicate carving, despite her anger. “Oh, his
eyes
. That explains it. After all, you can see everything if you look into someone’s eyes, can’t you? You have the insight of a god.”

Her quiet voice dripped with sarcasm. His own anger rose in response. “I can see enough.”