The Veils of the Budapest Palace (Darke of Night Book 3) (3 page)

I drew in my breath. It was time to call a halt. “You seem to be a very open young man, Count Andrassy, so I will be equally so. There are younger, wealthier, prettier, and much more accessible women in Lescloches, women who would be delighted to receive your attention. One of them was hanging on your arm last night. Why are you pursuing me?”

He blinked, as if
I’d
surprised
him
for once, but he didn’t then avoid my gaze or show any other signs of shame. He appeared, in fact, to be thinking about it.

“I don’t know,” he said at last. “There is just something about you. I saw it at once, as soon as I walked in that place last night, as if you were the only woman, the only
being
there. Your beauty, so cool and alone and mysterious...and then when we talked, you only intrigued me more, and when we danced—” He broke off, shaking his head, a rueful smile flickering and vanishing on his lips.

“You are a practised flirt, monsieur.”

“Am I? I suppose I’ve found ways to get what I want. Who I want.”

“I can’t be ‘got,’ Count Andrassy,” I said.

“I know.” His hand twisted on the satchel, a rare sign, I suspected, of indecision or even nervousness, which I confess intrigued me more than his declarations of my beauty. He said abruptly, “You can only be given. Since we are being honest, I’ll finish my sentence whether it shocks you or not. When we danced, I wanted you more than I’ve ever wanted any woman in my life.”

Butterflies dived in my stomach. Wicked heat rose up to meet them, not just in response to his words but in sudden, powerful yearning. I dragged my eyes free, afraid of what he might read there.

He said, “But I’ll gladly take whatever you’ll give—a word, a conversation, a little of your time.” I didn’t see the now-familiar half smile, but I heard it in his voice. “A picnic by the lake.”

I couldn’t help laughing, and for some reason, the tension broke around us, leaving only a beautiful day and two people with nothing better to do than admire the local scenery and enjoy each other’s company.

“Very well, monsieur, show me the way,” I invited.

I realised my walking with him would incur gossip of the kind I most hated, particularly since the scandalous newspaper articles about Patrick and me. But I didn’t care, perhaps because no one here knew anything about me. No one even knew I was a widow; I still wore my wedding ring.

What I hadn’t expected was the privacy. Count Andrassy walked easily beside me, slowing his long, soldier’s stride to match my pace, and in truth was so entertaining that I barely noticed the people, visitors and locals, we passed on the way out of the town. Nor did I notice at first that the tracks had grown quiet, that there was no one else in sight in any direction.

I halted, letting common sense flood in. I’d walked out here voluntarily with a man I barely knew. A reckless and rakish man, by all accounts, who certainly oozed sheer strength and danger from every pore. Danger to me.

He caught my surge of regret, of unease. It must have been clear in my face as well as in my sudden hesitation. A frown twitched between his brows. “You’re afraid of me.”

I gave a little hunch of annoyance. I didn’t like the idea at all. “Being afraid doesn’t enter into it. Being a woman of more than common sense, I never allow such situations to develop.”

“Isn’t that dull?”

Something caught at my breath. It might have been laughter or surprise. “You have a novel way of looking at things.”

“Well, if you glance to your right, you can just make out the lake through the trees.”

Sun glinted off the gently rippling water, winking through the trees. “It does look beautiful,” I allowed.

He reached above my head, lifting a branch out of my line of vision to give me a better view. “Do you want to walk back, or shall we have lunch first?”

I glanced at him. I’d trusted him this far, and he hadn’t so much as touched my hand. Many people had seen me come this way in his company—which might have been bad for my reputation but was, ironically, probably good for my safety.

I walked under his arm, through the trees towards the lake, and he followed me. Birds’ song and the distant low of cattle mingled with the silence. It was undeniably peaceful as well as beautiful. I realised I’d been enjoying conversation with him, enjoying his company. I was having
fun
.

We emerged from the trees to admire the swans on the lake. Count Andrassy took an old military cloak from his bag and spread it on the grass in the shade of a willow tree and began to unwrap bread and local cheese and fruit from the napkins he dug out of its depths. He also had two glasses and a bottle of wine.

“You thought of everything,” I said, amused as I knelt on his cloak.

“I tried to. It’s simple food, but I like it.”

“A nobleman developing peasant tastes?” I teased.

“I’m not much of a nobleman,” he said, cutting the bread with a pocketknife. “Apart from the title.”

“Aren’t you related to Count Julius Andrassy?” Count Julius had played a prominent part in the revolution and had been in exile in London.

“Very distantly, I believe. We’re a different branch of the family. We were counts when they were mere barons. But they have more wealth. Or did have. Not every Hungarian noble is rich, you know. Some are no better off than peasants—worse in some cases.”

“But you weren’t,” I guessed.

“No, I had more than most.”

“Then why did you fight to change things?” I asked.

He shrugged. “It kept me out of taverns and gambling dens.”

“Liar,” I said instinctively.

He gave me a quick, flashing smile and uncorked the wine. “All right. Because it was the right thing to do. Like everyone else—nearly everyone else—I wanted justice and liberty.”

I took my glass from him. “What happened to the rest of your family?”

A shadow seemed to pass over his face, but it might just have been the cloud drifting slowly across the sun. “Nothing. We didn’t agree about the definitions of justice and liberty, and we most assuredly didn’t agree about the revolution.”

“Ah. So you were a rebel in every sense.” I helped myself to bread and a slice of cheese.

“I always was.”

“Do you want to go home?” I asked curiously.

He shifted position, grabbed his wineglass. “To what?”

“Have you no land or home of your own?”

He shrugged. “I have a rotting palace in Pest and an estate in eastern Hungary when my grandfather dies.”

“Do you care for it?” I asked curiously. “Your estate.”

He drank and lowered his glass. “I care. It isn’t mine yet, but it’s me. The best of me.”

“Then what is the worst?” I asked.

He gave a short laugh. “The rotting palace in Pest, of course. What is the best and the worst of you, Lady Jordan?”

My lips twisted. “Sadly, the best of me has died.”

His eyes searched my face. “And the worst?”

“Struggling to be reborn, probably,” I said lightly.

“Who was he?”

“Who was who?”

“The best who died.”

My fingers gripped my glass too tightly, and I had to force them to release it before the stem snapped. “My husband.”

“You loved him.”

“Very much.” It should have been enough. He was a stranger, and yet I found myself saying, “It’s funny, because I never thought I would. I was furious when my father made me marry a man thirty years my senior. I thought my life was over.”

“But it wasn’t.”

I shook my head. “He was kind, well-read, intelligent, wise. A widower without children of his own, so I had liberty to run things as I pleased. I valued that.” It was the least of what I’d valued in him, but I’d already said too much for the keen perception of the young man sprawled beside me.

He said, “He wanted a young wife to give him an heir. Did you?”

I shook my head. It was another grief, but one I’d long learned to live with. “We were not fortunate in that. But we were still happy.”

He said, “I’m glad.”

And curiously enough, I believed him.

He munched his bread and cheese. “It’s not always easy for women of any class. By custom, your sex has less liberty than mine. What would you have done with your liberty if you’d had it when you were eighteen?”

I smiled. “I’d probably have married Patrick and been miserable.”

“Who is Patrick?”

“My oldest friend. When we were fifteen, we wanted to marry each other. At eighteen, I’d probably still have married him and made us both extremely unhappy.”

“You would not have suited?”

I shook my head smiling. “We’re too alike. Or were then. He’s still angry, rebellious, turbulent. I’m more even-tempered these days. Neil was good for me.” I refocused on his steady gaze. “What about you? Do you have a wife? A betrothed, official or otherwise?”

He shook his head. “Lord, no. I always fall in love with unsuitable people.” He reached for his glass.

“Such as?”

“Well, there was a schoolteacher I’d never even touched. An actress I’d touched far too much. Other men’s wives. A Romanian peasant girl who tended my wounds, although she regarded herself as my enemy.”

“Those wounds?” I said, looking at the scar on his face.

He shook his head. “Others.”

“You fought all through the war?”

“It was all I was good at.”

“I don’t believe you. What happened to your face?”

He shrugged. “Duelling scar.”

I regarded him. “Why do I not believe you?”

“Because you haven’t listened to enough Lescloches gossip. Which would tell you this happened in Paris and not in Hungary.”

“That wouldn’t necessarily make it true. Is it?”

“No,” he admitted. “It was a Russian sabre cut at Világos. I rather like it—gives me a fearsome and reckless air.”

“That isn’t the scar,” I said wryly. “Does it hurt?”

“No.”

I picked up an apple and regarded him. For the first time in our dealings, I felt not only in control but in command. “You puzzle me, Count Andrassy. Why do you try to make me think badly of you?”

He blinked, then laughed. “To see if you will, I suppose. I’m not always as black as I or other people try to paint me.”

I’d already guessed it. But his eyes darkened suddenly, making them seem smoky, almost smouldering, shadowing his whole face. “On the other hand,” he said, “I’m not a good man either. I behave badly, selfishly. I go after what I want as if I have a right to it. Knowing I don’t doesn’t stop me.”

In spite of myself, my stomach gave a pleasant little lurch. “Is that a warning, Count Andrassy?”

“Probably the only one I’ll give you.” Those dark, compelling eyes began to smile, devastating me. “You’re still the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”

“Count,” I began.

“Zsigmund,” he corrected. “Or Zsiga.”

“Zsigmund,” I said, imagining my use of his Christian name might give me the superiority I needed. “What is it you want of me?”

“I already told you that.” His too-warm gaze dropped to the region of my lips, setting those butterflies gambolling once more, and then lower, a bold, sweeping glance that seemed to swallow me, burn me. “I want all of you.” His eyes lifted more slowly back to my face. “But I’m happy with whatever you’ll give.”

It just wouldn’t stop him pushing for more. He’d already warned me of that. It was undoubtedly flattering—what woman does not want to know she is so thoroughly desired?—and yet terrifying at the same time. To be lost in this man, consumed by him... For the first time, I let myself imagine giving myself to him, to his kisses and caresses and his loving. Young and fierce and passionate, his skin warm against mine, his flesh muscled and hard...

I blinked away the shocking image to find his predatory gaze steady on my face. A faint smile played around his sinful lips, almost as if he’d read my outrageous thoughts.

Almost desperately, I said, “Don’t you care that I’m too old for you?”

His vaguely satanic eyebrows lifted. “Too old?” He grinned. “What, are you ninety under that excellent stage makeup? If you loved a husband thirty years your senior, why can I not love a woman of almost my own age? What is there between us? Four years at most!”

“More,” I said dismissively. Ignoring the erratic beating of my heart, I took my time as I changed position, curling my legs up under my skirts and placing my hand flat on the grass beside me to balance.

I met his steady gaze once more. “But you’re not talking about love, are you, Zsigmund?” I gave him my most condescending, cynical smile. “Don’t misunderstand me. Lust is flattering, but it has never been enough for me and never will be.”

I was so sure of my new control, especially when I saw the startled change in his expression, that his sudden movement took me entirely by surprise. His hand flew out first, grasping my wrist, and simply pulled away the hand on which I balanced. Unprepared, I fell to the side, and suddenly I lay on my back with him looming over me, one hand on either side of my head.

His whole face seemed clouded with the lust I’d accused him of, and yet his eyes positively burned. The scar stood out whiter than ever. My heart thundered.

“How do you know?” he said softly.

I swallowed. “Know what?”

“That lust is not enough. Why don’t you try, and see where it leads?”

God help me, my body burned, a flame of desire stronger than any I’d ever known, licking between my thighs. I wanted his rough hands on me, his wicked mouth... I wanted him inside me, young and virile as I’d never known... My nipples ached, pushing against their constraints as if trying to reach him.

“I am not so foolish,” I managed.

A smile flickered across his face. “If you’re never foolish, you’ll never have fun. I could give you fun, Caroline. Let me show you that.”

I knew it was coming, and it terrified me even as I yearned for it. Fear and wicked anticipation even parted my lips as his face swooped for mine. At the last moment, I tried to turn my mistake into panicked speech, but it was too late. His mouth was on mine, hot, firm, demanding, and all those butterflies in my stomach took flight.

It was the most exciting kiss I’d ever known, and just for a moment, I allowed it. Wickedly, I wanted just a hint of the fiery passion he promised, and God help me, I got it. His mouth moved on mine, fiercely caressing while his tongue swept inside, tangling with mine, drawing it into his own mouth.