~cov0001.jpg (15 page)

The temptation to believe him was overwhelming. Tasia was horrified that her common sense was so easily defeated. A few kisses in the moonlight, and suddenly she was considering entrusting her safety, her very life, to a man she scarcely knew. “What would you want in return?” she asked unsteadily.

“I thought you were supposed to be perceptive. Use your intuition…or whatever you call it.” He leaned over and kissed her, his mouth so deeply stirring that Tasia had no thought of pulling away. Helplessly she answered him, openmouthed and enthralled. She had never understood sensuality before, one body speaking to another with skin and taste and movement. She felt his hand sliding through her hair, fingers coming to grip her scalp and pull her head closer. The sensation of being held steady, gently ravaged, was so exciting that she began to shake. Wanting more, she pressed against him with an awkward surge. He gathered her close and pulled his head back, his breath pelting hard on her face. “Damn,” he whispered. “You don't make anything easy, do you?”

Blindly she searched for his mouth, luring him with glancing kisses. She touched the edge of his lower lip with her tongue, and he groaned and gave her what she wanted, catching her mouth with full, greedy possession. Luke let it go on for too long, until his body was hard and ready to explode. Somehow he found the presence of mind to call a stop to it. “Go,” he said thickly, shoving her away. “Now, while I can still let you.”

She pulled up the sagging neckline of her blouse, staring at him with the eyes of a sorceress. Carefully she rose to her feet, her figure wraithlike amid the streaks of shadow and light. After a fierce glance at her, Luke focused on the ground. He waited for several minutes, staying motionless long after the sound of her footsteps had faded.

He tried to comprehend what had happened. If his problem had been the absence of feeling before, it was now the reverse. Too much feeling, too fast, and with it came all the potential for pain he had avoided for so long. A rough laugh escaped him. “Welcome back to the living,” he told himself grimly. There was no choice but to take the chance he'd been given, and see it through to the end.

On Saturday evening, the results of Lady Harcourt's planning were spectacular. The gold and white ballroom was filled with huge flower arrangements. Blossoms were reflected into infinity by the huge mirrors lining the walls. The musicians were as talented as any Tasia had ever heard, filling the air with heavenly waltzes. Together she and Emma peered into the ballroom from one of the windows in the adjoining gallery. People were dancing, smiling, flirting, admiring each other, all of them aware of what a splendid scene it was.

“Wonderful,” Emma said, awestruck.

Tasia nodded in agreement, staring at the profusion of beautiful gowns. Hungrily she took in every detail. English styles were different from those in St. Petersburg, or perhaps it was just that she hadn't given a thought to fashion for so long that it had changed without her noticing.

Necklines were square-cut and shockingly low, covered with transparent gauze or filmy netting in a sham display of modesty. Bustles were smaller—in some cases gone completely—and the skirts were tightly molded over the thighs. How was it possible for the women to dance in such narrow gowns? There was no room for the legs to move. Somehow the ladies managed it, looping their long trains over their gloved wrists and gliding smoothly in their partners' arms.

Tasia glanced down at her own dress, plain black silk buttoned up to the neck. Underneath she wore thick stockings and sturdy black shoes that fastened over the ankles. She was ashamed to admit it to herself, but seeing the women in their finery caused her a pang of jealousy. Once she had owned gowns far more beautiful than any she saw here…the white satin with just a hint of pink, the ice-blue silk that had flattered her eyes, the delectable lavender
crepe de chine
. She had worn diamond pins in her hair, and ropes of rubies and pearls around her waist. What would Lord Stokehurst say if he saw her dressed like that? She imagined his blue eyes gleaming with admiration as they traveled over her body—

“
Stop it
,” she muttered, trying to banish the vain thoughts. “‘Wisdom is more precious than rubies.’” When that didn't work, she struggled to recall other helpful verses. “‘Better is the poor that walketh in his uprightness.’ ‘Favor is deceitful and beauty is vain—’”

“Miss Billings?” Emma interrupted, staring at her quizzically. “Why are you talking to yourself?”

Tasia sighed. “I'm reminding myself of some important things. Here, one of your curls is escaping. Hold still.” She reached out to tuck Emma's rebellious locks back into place.

“Does it look all right now?”

“Perfect.” Tasia stood back and smiled in satisfaction. She and one of her housemaids had spent an hour on Emma's hair, pulling it in a loose sweep from her face, braiding the thick curls and pinning the ends underneath. Emma wore an ankle-length dress of pale green satin and white lace, trimmed at the waist with a dark green sash. After a laborious search, the gardener had brought what he declared to be the finest roses he had ever produced, with lush pink blossoms and an intoxicating fragrance. Mrs. Knaggs had helped to pin one at Emma's shoulder, one in her hair, and one at the waist of her dress. By the time they finished, Emma had glowed with pleasure, claiming she felt like a princess.

Emma's blue eyes sparkled as she hunted for a glimpse of her father through the window. “Papa said he would come here after he opened the ball with Lady Harcourt. He promised that next year I can have a children's ball, right here, while the adults dance in the big room.”

A new voice entered the conversation. “It won't be long before you're in the big room with the rest of us.”

Emma whirled around at her father's approach and posed extravagantly. “Look at me, Papa!”

Luke grinned, stopping to admire her. “My God. You're beautiful, Emma. You've turned into a young lady. A fine thing to do to your poor old father.” He reached out and caught her close for a moment. “You look like your mother tonight,” he murmured.

“Do I?” Emma asked, beaming. “Good.”

Tasia watched Stokehurst with his daughter. She steeled her spine against a sudden tremor as she remembered the moonlight on his black hair, and the warmth of his mouth. His body was elegant and powerful in the tailored black coat and white waistcoat. As if he sensed her keen interest, he glanced at her. Hastily Tasia looked away, a blush rising from her high collar.

“Good evening, Miss Billings,” he said blandly.

She didn't need to look at him to know there was a mocking gleam in his eyes. “My lord,” she replied under her breath.

Emma was in no mood to dally. “I've been waiting for
hours
to dance with you, Papa!”

He laughed at his daughter's impatience. “You have? Well, I'm going to waltz you back and forth until you complain about your aching feet.”

“Never,” Emma exclaimed. She placed one hand on his leather-bound wrist, just below the flashing hook, and rested the other on his shoulder. At first he whirled her in a vigorous romp, making Emma laugh. Then they settled into a smooth, graceful waltz. Stokehurst had obviously seen to it that his daughter had lessons, and had practiced with her.

A smile twitched at Tasia's lips, and she withdrew to the doorway, enjoying the sight.

“They're a remarkable pair, aren't they?” came Lady Harcourt's soft voice.

Tasia gave a start. Lady Harcourt was standing a few feet away. She wore a gown of pale yellow satin covered with tiny gold beads. The scooped neckline showed a hint of her deep cleavage, while the waist came to a scalloped point low on her hips. Several diamond and topaz combs glittered in her auburn hair, holding her loose braided chignon in place. Most spectacular of all was the necklace around her throat, a web of jeweled flowers with diamonds in the center.

“Good evening, Lady Harcourt,” Tasia murmured. “The ball seems to be a great success.”

“I haven't sought you out in order to talk about the ball. I'm sure you know exactly what I intend to say.”

Tasia shook her head. “I'm sure I don't, my lady.”

“Fine, then.” Iris fidgeted with the tassel that hung from her fan. “I don't mind being blunt. I've always believed in approaching a problem directly.”

“My lady, I would never wish to cause you the slightest problem.”

“Well, you have.” Iris stepped closer, staring at the distant figures of the Stokehursts as they waltzed at the far end of the gallery. “You
are
the problem, Miss Billings. Ultimately your presence here will bring pain and trouble for everyone: me, Emma, and especially Luke.”

Dismayed, Tasia stared at her without blinking. “I don't see how that's possible.”

“You're distracting Luke. You're leading him away from the thing that would bring him true happiness—companionship with one of his own kind. I understand him. I've known him for years, you see. I knew him back when Mary was alive. The relationship they shared was special—and I can give him something very close to that. I'm actually a rather nice woman, Miss Billings, in spite of what you may think.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“I'm asking you to leave, for his sake. If you give a fig about him, you'll do as I ask. Leave Southgate Hall, and don't look back. I'll reward you well for it. Perhaps you would like to have this necklace I'm wearing.” Iris lifted the fall of jewels away from her skin, making them sparkle. “You never thought to have such riches, did you? Every gem is real. You'll be comfortable for the rest of your life with the money it will bring. You could buy a little cottage in the country, even hire a cook maid for yourself.”

“I don't want your jewelry,” Tasia said, mortified.

The wheedling note left Iris's voice. “You're an intelligent girl, I see. You want more, and you've decided that Emma is the key. Gain the affection of his daughter, and that will lead Luke to a romantic interest in you. You may be right. But don't fool yourself into thinking the affair will last longer than a matter of weeks. Your youth may hold his attention for a little while, but you don't have what it takes to keep him.”

“What makes you so certain?” Tasia was appalled to hear herself ask. Instantly she bit her lip. The words had rushed out before she could stop them.

“Ah,” Iris said softly. “Now the truth is out. You do want him. And you actually harbor hopes of keeping him. It should annoy me…but instead I pity you.”

The words were derisive, but Tasia sensed the deep unhappiness beneath them. Her heart softened with sympathy. This woman had known Lord Stokehurst intimately, had thrilled to his kisses and his smiles, had spun dreams of becoming his wife, and now she was fighting for the chance to keep him. Tasia tried to think of words to reassure her. After all, Lady Harcourt wanted her to do what she was already planning to do—leave. She couldn't stay even if she wanted to. “Lady Harcourt, please believe you have nothing to fear. I won't—”

“
Fear
?” Iris said defensively. “Of course I don't
fear
you—a governess with no dowry, no family, and no figure to speak of!”

“I'm trying to explain—”

“Don't waste your long-suffering gaze on me, child. I've said my piece. All I ask is that you think about it.” Before Tasia could say another word, Iris walked away. She stepped through the doorway, her gown shimmering. “What a splendid sight the two of you make,” she called with a wide smile. “Emma, you dance like an angel. My lord, after this waltz you must return to the ball with me. You are the host, after all.”

The dancing was interrupted by a midnight feast that lasted for two hours, followed by more music, more waltzes, more of everything, until the night waned and the horizon began to glow with the approach of the morning sun. Sated and drunk, the crowd dispersed, the floors creaking as scores of sore feet trod across them in search of soft beds. The guests slept for most of the day, taking breakfast in the afternoon. Some left early Sunday evening, while others preferred to travel on Monday. Iris was one of the Sunday departures. She had come to Luke's room to inform him, barging in while he dressed.

“I'm leaving for London within the hour,” she said, watching as Biddle fastened the right cuff of Luke's shirt.

Raising his brows at her quiet intensity, Luke shrugged into a claret-colored coat. He took his time about replying, first glancing at the selection of narrow cravats Biddle displayed, then deciding not to wear one. He ordered the valet out of the room and turned to Iris. “Why so soon?” he asked evenly. “You seemed to enjoy yourself last evening.”

“I refuse to spend another night waiting in vain for the sound of your footsteps! Why didn't you come to me after the ball?”

“You banished me from your bed, remember?”

“I told you not to visit me if you couldn't get that Billings girl out of your head. It's clear that you can't. Every time you look at me, you wish I was she. It's been going on for weeks. I'm trying to fight it, but I don't know how!”

Iris held her breath as she saw Luke's expression change, the remoteness fading. For a moment she tensed with impossible hope. Then his regretful voice doused the flicker of happiness. “Iris, there's something I should tell you—”

“Not now,” she said grimly, backing away. “Not now.” She left with determined strides, her hands clenched.

Dutifully Luke attended the after-dinner gathering, making conversation, smiling at light quips, applauding as several guests performed skits, recited poetry, and did their best at the piano. His impatience grew, finding outlet only in the monotonous tapping of his foot. When he couldn't bear to sit still any longer, he excused himself with a quiet murmur.

He wandered through the house with the appearance of aimlessness. He wanted no one and nothing but her, even if it was just to sit in silence and stare at her. It was a hunger he had never known before. She was the only one in his life who saw him, and
knew
him, for who and what he was.

Iris thought she understood him. Most women prided themselves on thinking they had superior knowledge of the male mind, and therefore could manipulate men to their advantage. But Iris had never known what it was like to have her life destroyed, and what it took to rebuild; the pain and rage, the will to survive…and the isolation it imposed. Tasia understood all too well. That was the bond between them, the basis for unspoken but mutual respect, the inner recognition that had tormented him since the first moment they met. They were exactly alike, in the only way that mattered.