A Kiss at Midnight (30 page)

Thirty-eight

G
abriel wore a coat of heavy embroidered silk that had been made for his presentation at the Austrian court. He knew what he had to do—and he would do it. Manfully.

No, royally.

He thrust a leg before Tatiana, gracefully extending a hand in a deep bow, a bow he had been taught by gentlemen who had spent their lives in the French court. The princess was pleasingly attired in a demure white ball gown. But it was adorned with real Brussels lace, and its sleeves were trimmed with swansdown.

Her delight quivered from every smile, every sideways glance at him, every shining glance she threw at other ladies.

Tatiana was confident, as well she might be.

He danced with her, he danced with others, he danced with Sophonisba, who cursed him for bending one of the feathers decorating her headdress. He had an odd little conversation with Toloose, who looked at him with something akin to rage in his eyes, and said out of the blue, “
She doth teach the torches to burn bright
.”

“Isn’t that from
Romeo and Juliet
?” Gabriel asked, confusedly thinking of his goodbye with Kate.

Toloose nodded toward Tatiana, who was dimpling as she smiled up at Gabriel’s uncle. “Shakespeare might have learned everything he knew merely from a glance at her eyes.” And then he walked off without another word.

Gabriel shrugged and danced with Henry, who smiled at him with genuine amusement and said, “I imagine you have seen my goddaughter by now.”

“I have not had that pleasure,” he stated.

“Well, then, you’re the only one in the ballroom,” she said cheerfully. “My goodness, Prince, your face is as white as marble. I do hope you’re not feeling ill. Everyone is having such a wonderful time.”

“I’m glad to hear that,” he said woodenly.

“You probably were not aware of the fact. One is generally unable to tell if an Englishman is enjoying himself until he collapses in a drunken heap in the corner,” she added. “There are a great deal more betrothals being fashioned here besides your own, Your Highness.”

He smiled, though he hated her for that comment. For the way her eyes assessed him, for the way she mentioned his betrothal, for the—

For the glinting challenge in her eyes.

He made it through the dance, bowed, straightened—and then he saw her.

His Kate. She was glowing like a torch, a gorgeous, sensual, strong woman. A princess, by any measure.

Her gown was magnificent, her hair delightful. He stared at the deep laughter in Kate’s eyes, at the strength of her little round chin, at the angular slash of her cheekbones.

He saw both the inherent kindness in her face and the bone-deep sensuality in the way her lips curled.

He could fight his way through the throngs of men around Kate, drive his fist into the chin of the man smiling down at her as if he was starving and she were manna from heaven.

But Tatiana was next to him, and Kate was not, and he had his duty, his duty, his duty. He turned his back, feeling his temples throb as they never had before, and at that very moment the opening strains of a waltz sounded in the ballroom.

Tatiana dimpled up at him. “My uncle agreed that I might waltz last night, but after your indisposition, I chose to remain on the side of the room.”

He bowed; she put her fingertips on his shoulder; they swept onto the floor.

It was relatively empty; many of the guests either hadn’t yet learned the steps, or eschewed it for its salaciousness, or chose to stay on the side of the room and gossip about those who dared.

Tatiana was like thistledown in his arms, anticipating every move of his leg. It was a genuine delight to dance with her. They found themselves at the top of the floor: He looked at her and raised an eyebrow.

“Yes, let’s!” she said, laughing. Her cheeks were pink and her eyes shone.

And with that he let the music carry both of them, around and around and around, as they swept down the ballroom. As they turned in perfect circles, he caught the awed stares of his guests. He knew what they saw: He looked like the perfect Prince Charming, and she a fairy princess indeed.

They reached the bottom of the floor, and he looked down at his partner again. “Perhaps we should be a little less flamboyant for the rest of the piece.”

“It was lovely,” Tatiana said, glowing. “If I could, I would dance the waltz all night.”

He held her a bit more tightly, smiling. The length of her leg touched hers; it felt as sensual as that of a goat. With a kind of cold detachment, he found himself wondering whether he would be able to perform on their wedding night.

What a scandal that would be . . . a prince found incapable.

“Oh dear,” Tatiana said, pulling his attention back. “I’m afraid that not everyone is as skilled in the dance as you are, Your Highness.”

He followed her glance. It was Kate, of course. She was dancing with Lord Ormskirk. They too were making their way down the floor. But unlike the easy elegance, the silent grace, exhibited by Tatiana and him, Kate and Ormskirk were circling too fast. Her head was back, and she was laughing with infectious pleasure. Her gorgeous buttery hair swirled around her shoulders as Ormskirk pulled her in circle after circle.

When he and Tatiana danced, they held each other lightly. Properly.

But in order to keep up his outrageous momentum, Ormskirk was holding Kate against his body. Gabriel felt a surge of rage building in his chest.

The music ended. Kate and Ormskirk danced one final turn, in the silence, smiling at each other as if they had some sort of private agreement.

Tatiana’s hand fell on his sleeve; Wick had thrown open the ballroom’s great doors. It was time to retire to the gardens, where an exhibition of fireworks would be set off from boats on the lake.

He almost shook off her hand, but he didn’t. Instead he escorted the princess from the ballroom, out the great doors, down the long white marble steps.

The night was cool, and Wick had dotted about metal pots filled with burning wood in order to keep the guests warm. The licking flames competed with the moonlight and gave a yellow glare to the faces of people gathered at the lake’s edge.

“I’ve never seen fireworks!” Tatiana cried with girlish enthusiasm.

Gabriel thought of the years he’d spent in various courts, of his first fireworks, at age ten. “I’m happy to be with you at this occasion,” he said.

There must have been something flat about his tone. Tatiana glanced up at him and then pulled him coltishly toward her uncle and a large group. “Uncle!” she called.

“There you are, dumpling,” Prince Dimitri said. “Saw you making a right exhibition of yourself on the dance floor. Good thing your mother isn’t here.”

Gabriel bowed. “The princess is a remarkably graceful dancer.”

“She is, at that,” her uncle said. Tatiana had slipped to the front of the little group and was standing at the edge of the lake, watching the boats intently. “So what you have planned for us, prince?”

“The boats will glide to the center of the lake and moor to each other,” Gabriel said. He saw Kate and the Earl of Ormskirk, to their left. “On a signal from Berwick, they will begin to set off their fireworks, in such an order as to create a remarkable display.”

“Or so one hopes,” Dimitri said. “Always tricky, these fireworks, aren’t they?”

“They are indeed,” Gabriel said. “If you’ll excuse me, Your Highness, I want to make sure that all preparations are in train.”

“Surely you needn’t,” the prince said, but Gabriel was already slipping away. He walked to the back of his guests, clustered around the basin of the lake, and then started making his way . . . to the left.

Naturally.

She was standing toward the back of the group, thankfully, just in front of the entrance to the hedge maze. He silently walked up behind her and slipped one hand onto the curve of her waist, without saying a word.

She glanced at him, but it was dark and he couldn’t read her expression. Without shrugging off his hand, she murmured something to the earl and backed away.

With one swift gesture, he drew her into the entrance to the maze and around the first curve. There were no burning pots here, no torches to illuminate the darkness. It was thick and velvety against their faces.

“Gabriel,” Kate said. To his relief, he heard an amused thread of laughter in her voice. “What are you doing?”

“Come,” he said, and took her hand more firmly, turning into the darkness.

“I cannot,” she protested. “My glass slippers . . . I can’t walk on this grass!”

Without hesitation, he dropped to his knees before her and took one small foot in his hand. “My lady.”

She raised her foot, and he slipped the shoe from her toes. Silently he touched her other leg, and took that slipper as well, placing them carefully on a bench that stood just inside the entrance to the maze.

“I feel like a child, dancing on the lawn in my stockings,” Kate said, a deep hum of pleasure in her voice.

With his left hand just touching the hedge and his right tightly holding hers, he paced the maze, seeing the turns in his head. It was really quite simple, if one knew the way.

Kate followed behind, stumbling a bit once, but he held her upright.

“We’re here.” They turned the last corner and found the center. It was bathed in moonlight, and without the torch pots to compete, the air was silvery, washing the hedges and the laughing mer-horses with fairy dust.

“It looks like magic,” Kate said, drifting to the fountain. “What keeps the water bursting from these statues?”

“It’s a matter of gravity and the weight of the water held underneath. If I turn this crank”—he demonstrated—“the water turns to a mere dribble.”

“I would love to sit, but I’m afraid the spray has dampened the stone,” Kate said ruefully, “and I mustn’t crease my dress.”

She turned and looked up at him, but he had no words. He was afraid that nothing would come from his mouth but the most rudimentary words, the panting, thrusting gasps that men and women share in deepest intimacy.

Instead of speech, he reached out and ran a hand down the curve of her cheek. He felt the smoothness of her skin, the very edge of her curving smile. He replaced his fingers with his mouth.

“Gabriel,” she said, turning her face from his.

His heart jolted. “I must.”

“You may not.”

“Kate!” It was pain to his heart even to say her name. At the same time, it was like honey in his mouth, sweet and familiar, like a lullaby singing in his heart.

“Oh, Gabriel,” she whispered.

“Give me one last time,” he begged. “Please, please. I beg you.”

“I—” She stopped and started again. “I’m afraid, Gabriel. You’ll break my heart.”

“Mine is already broken.”

There, the truth of it was out, between them. Her eyes glistened with something wetter than moonlight.

He kissed her in an act of possession. There was no other way to describe it, the way they fell together into some nameless darkness, some impudent fairy-tale space where he was no prince, and she no lady.

Just two bodies, aroused, warm, mad for each other.

“My gown,” she murmured, some time later. Her eyes glowed with a wicked kind of glee. “This is so
wrong
.”

He reached out, wrenched the crank, and the gurgle of water entirely stopped. Then he showed her how to put her hands on the head of a wet, laughing mer-horse. Carefully, carefully, he raised layer after layer of fabric, throwing them over her back until her beautiful bottom lay beneath his hands, clad only in a pair of drawers so delicate that he could see her skin through them.

He hesitated, as if what lay before him was too beautiful for human hands. Then he bared her to the moonlight, leaned over, pressing against her, his hands curving naturally to her breasts.

She hadn’t said a word, but the moment his fingers brushed a nipple she let out a cry and pushed back against him. It was like being caught in a snowstorm and temporarily losing his sight; it felt as if all sensation came from his hands, his body only.

The sweetness of her breast, the tight bud of her nipple, the ragged pant that shook her body, the deep curve of buttock against him, the heaven that lay below.

He caressed her again and she cried again. He let his fingers drift down into her sweet valley and she sobbed and arched back.

His hand shook as he covered himself with a French letter. And then . . . they slid together as if they had made love like this a hundred times, as if their bodies were designed for this moment. He thrust deep; she arched with a cry that flew into the night sky.

It was almost too much. Gabriel clenched his teeth and concentrated on breaching her body without losing himself, letting her delicate perfume, the sweet honey of her skin, the ragged sound of her breathing come into his memory so that he could keep it—keep her—forever.

For a time there was nothing but the sound of their bodies meeting in silken, near violent pleasure, a sob from Kate, a groan from Gabriel . . .