The Veils of the Budapest Palace (Darke of Night Book 3) (4 page)

Molten desire surged through me with such force that it scared me. I had to act now, or I never would. I dragged up my lust-numbed arms, seized his broad shoulders, and pushed as violently as I could.

Without breaking the kiss, he took my hands, one by one, held them in one of his, and raised them above my head in the grass. His weight pressed against my chest as his free hand cupped my cheek. It wasn’t quite steady. Quite deliberately, it seemed, he gentled the kiss, coaxing rather than demanding, and God help me, that was sweet too, deep and slow and sensual.

He ended the kiss at last and gazed down at me with hot, almost black eyes, his breath coming quick and shallow.

“Say yes,” he whispered.

“No,” I managed.

“You want it too.” His hand caressed my cheek, his thumb tracing the corner of my mouth and my upper lip. “I can feel it in your lips, in your pulse, every inch of you I touch.” And he was undoubtedly touching too much. He sprawled across me, breast to breast, his hip pressing into mine. His glittering eyes stared deep into mine, moved to my lips, and then he kissed me again. “Admit it,” he murmured against my lips. “Where would be the harm?”

“To me,” I said huskily. “The harm would be to me.”

He raised his head. “I’ll look after you,” he whispered, shifting his weight until he actually lay in the cradle of my hips, which arched traitorously to meet him. Lust flooded me, fresh, hot moisture pooling between my thighs as even through my skirts, the outline of his big, hard shaft pushed against my stomach.

“No, you won’t,” I said. I doubted he could even look after himself. “But it doesn’t matter. I won’t.”

He searched my eyes with a hint of desperation. His hand swept down from my cheek over my neck to my breast. I gasped as his palm settled in the middle of my chest, his fingers splaying outward over my breast.

“And yet you want me,” he said fiercely. “Your heart beats like a rabbit’s. You burn, as I do. A little love, Caroline, a little joy. Say yes.”

I couldn’t think about it or I might just have said it. I had to fight the anticipation, the images of tangled, naked limbs striving to enter my mind.

“No,” I said.

He was young and dangerous and used to having his own way, even when he wasn’t entitled. He’d already warned me of that. I was undoubtedly in his power. He had the strength and the justification, if he cared for that, of my own physical desire.

Shocking me all over again, his hand swept downward over my breast, my waist and hip and thigh, and then, very gently, he released my hands and shifted his weight off me. He sat, even offered me his hand to pull me upright. For some reason, I trusted him enough to take it.

I expected awkwardness, peevish hauteur at my rejection. But again he surprised me with a rueful smile. Nor did he immediately release my hand.

“Forgive me,” he said. “I didn’t bring you here to ravish you, just to know you better. You took me by surprise.”

“I believe I can return that compliment,” I said fervently.

He laughed. “Then you are not offended?”

“Not as much as I should be,” I said honestly, reaching for my wineglass, still miraculously upright on the edge of his cloak. I cast a quick frowning glance up at him. “Just don’t do it again,” I said, so there could be no further misunderstanding.

He released my hand and picked up a plum. “I won’t promise not to touch you again.” He bit into the plum. “But I won’t do it again quite like that.”

The unrepentant smile in his eyes told me that still left him a lot of scope, a thought that shouldn’t have thrilled me as it did.

I released my caught breath in a rush. It wasn’t quite laughter. “You don’t even try, do you?”

“Try what?” he asked, licking plum juice off his lower lip.

Try to be so overwhelming. He just
was
. I shook my head. God knew I could fall completely under his spell very easily if I let myself.

A
s we packed up the scanty remains of our lunch and walked back to the town, he was once more the perfect gentleman. Only the occasional glint in his eye betrayed his memory of what had occurred—and what had almost occurred—by the lake. His manners, our relaxed, enjoyable conversation might have been designed to return me to my ease with him, to beguile away my inevitable new barriers. I refused to let this happen entirely, but it didn’t stop me liking his lively company.

He escorted me to my hotel and left me politely at the door, merely bowing over my hand and strolling away without making any attempt to arrange a future meeting. He might have been avoiding gossip—a lost cause in Lescloches—but I couldn’t help being slightly piqued by his casual attitude. As if he’d made his attempt on me by the lake and, being thwarted, had already moved on to his next, hopefully easier conquest.

I didn’t believe he was so shallow.

I didn’t know him at all.

After an hour or two’s distracted reading by my window, I changed and dined alone in the hotel as always. I couldn’t make up my mind whether I should complete my evening with my usual glass of wine and coffee in the assembly rooms and risk meeting Zsigmund there. Or, more wisely, avoid him altogether by simply staying in the hotel.

In the end, it riled me too much to have my movements curtailed, even indirectly, especially by a man who was not and never would be my husband. And so I took my usual turn around the square and entered the assembly rooms. I sat at my usual table and politely declined one offer to dance. I drank my wine and ordered my coffee, and still there was no sign of him.

I had no right to expect him. If he had come, I’d had every intention of refusing to dance with him and of speaking no more than a few polite words to him. But he didn’t. So much for his obsession.

Trying to laugh at myself and not quite succeeding, I left the assembly room and crossed the square to my hotel, where I retired, alone, as usual.

I lay awake in the dark, listening to the church bells proclaim every quarter hour that passed, and fought the dark, insidious desires of my body. What would it be like to have a
young
lover? A hard, fit, vital young man moving between my thighs, taking his pleasure. He would lack Neil’s consideration, I knew that. But I suspected the sheer strength and beauty of his body would make up for gentleness. I’d want him to be selfish, demanding, to lose control and
pound
me.

My hand crept between my hot thighs. I wanted to see his handsome face contort in passion. I wanted to give him release, to know I’d done that for him, to him. I wanted to feel the hot, naked skin of his young body. I wanted to hold him, be cradled in those strong, confident arms. I pressed my hand against my moist folds in an effort to comfort my longing.

“Damn you,” I whispered. “Damn you, Zsigmund Andrassy.” He’d aroused me and left me to suffer the consequences. I could only be grateful those consequences weren’t worse.

I
should
have been grateful.

In the morning, I was.

****

A
fter breakfast, I took myself for a bracing walk along the seafront. Already, I could laugh at myself and enjoy my brief encounter with temptation for what it was. The passing fancy of a young rake need neither trouble nor offend me. And it didn’t.

I walked back into the town and sat at one of the tables set up outside the coffeehouse in the church square. When I’d made my order, I sat back in my chair and let myself relax into the bustle of the town. My coffee arrived, and I sipped it before closing my eyes.

I felt a rush of air an instant before a chair scraped on the cobbles beside me. I jerked my eyes open to discover Zsigmund Andrassy sitting beside me, his elbows on the table.

“Good morning,” he said cheerfully.

I blinked. “Where did you spring from?”

He pointed across the square to several of the friends I’d seen him with on our first meeting. They were just disappearing round the corner into the main shopping street. “I saw you from over there. May I join you?”

“You already have,” I said tartly.

He grinned and looked over my head for the barest instant.

“Certainly, sir,” came a waiter’s voice at once.

I raised my coffee cup, annoyed to find my heart beating too fast. I thought I’d dealt with all that nonsense. “Did you want something, Zsigmund?” I asked. I aimed to sound like a stern aunt or a governess to her pupil, and I think I carried it off pretty well.

Zsigmund, however, merely raised a surprised eyebrow. “A cup of coffee and a few moments of your company.”

“It will only be a very few.” I took another drink and set my cup in its saucer. “I’ve almost finished.”

“I ordered you another.”

I frowned with annoyance. “Then you must drink them both.”

“Really?” His lips quirked upward in the way that for some reason set my pulses racing. “I hoped you’d missed me a little.”

He’d done it deliberately, I thought, stunned. Left me alone to give me time to miss him, to think he’d forgotten me and regret it. I expected it had worked for him before. He was far too experienced in seduction.

“In less than twenty-four hours?” I said, allowing astonishment into my voice. “You really
are
young, aren’t you?”

His breath caught. Something leapt in his eyes, and a sound issued from his throat. It might have been annoyance or laughter or even hurt. I couldn’t tell, and I wasn’t sure he could either.

Then he took his elbows off the table, and a slow smile dawned. “You are rather magnificent,” he said.

For no reason, I felt a flush begin to rise.

And then another, vaguely familiar voice hailed me with some surprise and pleasure. “Lady Jordan!”

Almost gratefully, I glanced beyond Zsigmund to see a young man walking quickly towards me. It took my confused brain a moment to place him in the correct context. And when I did, I wasn’t best pleased. I’d been discovered.

The young man, by chance another Hungarian exile, was a friend of Patrick Haggard’s and a frequent houseguest of his cousin. I had danced with him at the Haggard Hall ball in the spring. Even in Lescloches, it seemed, I could not remain unknown for long.

Hiding my irritation as best I could, I smiled in greeting and offered him my hand. “Prince Hiranyi! What a pleasant surprise.”

Béla Hiranyi bowed over my hand and kissed it. Over his head, I saw Zsigmund sit back in his chair, lift his rather worn boot, and before I could guess his intention, he kicked Béla in the rear.

Although hardly a brutal kick, such indignity was very liable to upset a volatile young man, which Zsigmund must have known very well. Was he so jealous of me that he’d provoke a fight with a man just for kissing my hand? The thought both appalled and thrilled me.

Béla dropped my hand and spun around scowling to face his attacker. Zsigmund, still sprawled in his chair, smiled insolently up at him while I tried desperately to think of something, anything to say by way of excuse.

“Zsiga!” Béla exclaimed, throwing out both arms. Zsigmund leapt to his feet, and the two men embraced, with enough back-clapping and kissing to draw the attention of several other patrons. “What a coincidence!”

“What brings you to this backwater?” Zsigmund demanded.

“You do, of course. I was in Paris, and they told me there, you’d come here.”

“I had a spot of trouble. Sit down!” Zsigmund turned belatedly to me. “You don’t mind Béla joining us, do you?”

“Of course not.” As I recalled, he hadn’t needed my permission to sit down himself.

Béla grinned at me as he threw himself into the chair on my other side. “You didn’t tell me you knew this reprobate.”

“I didn’t until yesterday! Or was it the day before? How are you?”

“Very well, of course! And you?” He’d attended Neil’s funeral, so at least he felt no need to give me his condolences. However, he had that concerned look I’d left the country to avoid.

“I’m finding the waters most beneficial,” I said dryly.

Zsigmund said, “Why were you looking for me in the first place?”

“Oh, I have a letter for you. It was delivered to Paris, but no one knew your precise direction here, so having nothing better to do, I brought it.” He delved into the pocket of his threadbare coat and produced a rather crumpled, well-folded document. He proceeded to unfold it until Zsigmund snatched it from him with undisguised impatience. After a quick glance, Zsigmund curled his lip and stuffed the letter carelessly into his own pocket.

Béla frowned. “You should read it. You might have been granted amnesty.”

Zsigmund gave an annoyed shrug. “It’s too soon. They’re still executing people.”

“Your grandfather could easily make sure you weren’t one of them,” Béla pointed out. “You didn’t raise the revolution. You only fought for your country.”

“You overestimate his influence. Besides, he won’t lift a finger for me unless I swear allegiance to the Emperor and his government.”

“Well, maybe you could swear allegiance to him as the King of Hungary and quietly leave out the government.”

Zsigmund gave a shout of laughter. “Are you incurably optimistic?”

Béla smiled good-naturedly.

“Would you go home if you could?” I asked Zsigmund curiously. “With things as they are?”

“I would always go home. Providing I could get into the country, and no one would hang me.”

My stomach twisted in distress, both for the pain of his exile and the punishment that awaited him. Béla, although a man with hidden depths, had always seemed more accepting, more comfortable with his fate. But then, according to Patrick, Béla Hiranyi hadn’t left much behind. Zsigmund had left his land and his people, whom he called the best of himself.

I rose, saying, “You two will have much to discuss, so I’ll leave you.”

“Wait!” Béla sprang up. “Where are you staying? May I call on you later?”

Zsigmund, rising more slowly, regarded me sardonically, no doubt waiting to discover how I treated male acquaintances who weren’t him.

Resignedly, I said, “I am at the Hotel Majestique—”

“Why don’t we have dinner there? I’ll bring Zsiga here along as chaperone.”