With This Ring (24 page)

Life with him would not be so very bad, would it?

Not that it makes any difference at all.

She let her eyes widen and her lips part slightly with “surprise.”
Then, with perfect timing, she slid her eyes coquettishly to the right, all the while tilting her lips in a secret little smile.

From his expression, he found this utterly bewitching.
Heavens, men were easy.
From the edge of her vision, she saw him bow slightly to the portly man he spoke to, then turn and start across the floor in her direction.

It was about time.
She’d wondered if it weren’t time to fetch a harness from the stable—he was too dense to follow where he was led!

“C’mon, Miss Elektra!
You ain’t dancin’!”

Strong arms swept Elektra into a waltz step.
She had acted as practice partner for every brother since she was five, so her feet fell instantly into the dance, even as she drew breath to reprimand Mr.
Hastings sharply for interfering with her machinations.

She looked up into his gray eyes and her annoyance faded instantly.

That in itself would have been even more annoying—but this was the man who’d flung himself into the river to save Bliss.
This was the man who’d been a truly wonderful sport about being knocked unconscious, kidnapped, tied out in a hailstorm, and then forced to escort her and Bliss to London.

He’d even made friends with lonely little Attie, who rarely liked anyone who wasn’t a blood relation.
She could never embarrass him by fleeing his unconventional request.
She owed him far too much.

You are publicly performing a scandalous dance with a man who is scarcely an appropriate or advantageous partner—

Oh, for pity’s sake, shut it! I want to dance!

He was a wonderful dancer, a near-perfect partner.
She relaxed into his lead, allowing him to whirl her about to the beautiful music, feeling safe and relaxed in his strong embrace, feeling light and happy.

Like an ordinary girl.

For no reason whatsoever, she began to laugh.
He smiled down at her, obviously pleased by her pleasure.
He wouldn’t ask her why she was laughing.
He always seemed to know those answers, without ever having to ask her tiresome questions.
He simply
noticed
things.

I love that about him.

I love …

Oh.

Oh, she was so stupid, so blind, such a myopic, oblivious
idiot
!

I love him.

Overwhelmed by the sudden, irreversible, unforgettable knowledge—
oh, God, it hurts!
—she tilted her head away and closed her eyes while her body still flowed with his in the dance.

Something was wrong with her lungs.
She couldn’t draw her breath.
The ache—that beautiful, agonizing, delirious anguish—that was love?
It was unbearable.
It was what she’d thought she’d never know.

It wasn’t for her.
He
wasn’t meant for her!
He was meant for some pretty lady’s maid, with a saucy smile and a good bosom, who would ruffle his hair and see through his blarney, catch him out in his bad-boy fibs and make love to him until they were both breathless and faint—

Sudden fury and hatred threatened to steal the stuffing from her knees.
Fury at the pretty maid who would steal her beloved Henry Hastings away—and hatred at the rules and boundaries of their world, that would keep her from this wonderful, honorable, intelligent nobody, leaving her with no one but a wealthy duke to ease her eternal loss!

The storm of emotions was staggering.
He felt her falter, for his hands tightened in concern.
She wanted to tell him that she wasn’t faint, she was furious!
Except that her breath wasn’t coming back and her vision was blurred by something—tears or dizziness?—and the music began to sound a bit hollow.

“Miss Elektra?”
His steps changed tempo and his hold became more secure.
“Bloody ballroom—can no one tell it’s too bloody hot in here?
Come on, there’s the door.”

Elektra heard the clasp of a door being snapped open, then felt a wave of cooler air on her face.
She felt as though she’d been running for years, caught up in a race.
What if she simply stopped?

She turned away from him, turning into the clean, pure darkness of the terrace.
Her hands found the stone balustrade and she held on to it like a lifeline in a stormy sea.

Cold, hard stone.

I must be stone.

She might have managed it, if he hadn’t passed the back of one hand over her cheek, if he hadn’t leaned close enough for her to smell his clean, waltz-warmed skin, if he hadn’t once again seen right through to the very core of her.

“It ain’t the heat, is it?
You’re shiverin’!
You’ve ’ad a shock, you ’ave.
What is it?
What’s upset you—”

She kissed him.

She poured it all into that kiss—how she truly felt, how she longed for him, how he woke up the other girl—the one who saw magical possibilities in a meadow full of blue butterflies.

It wasn’t her fault.
Something turned her head to find his face so close to hers.
Something pulled her into his tall, hard body, something wrapped her arms about his neck, something sent her up on tiptoe so that she could kiss him as if he were her very own personal source of air.

Something made him kiss her back.

Oh, God.
Aaron forgot everything.
His mission, his goals, his very will.
Her sweet, soft lips on his stole his very mind.
There was nothing left of him but his beating heart, his hungry mouth, and his open, aching soul.

Her.

She filled the vacancy left by fleeing thought.
The taste of her, the scent of her, the feeling of her body pressing to his, the strength of her fingers in his hair, clinging, pulling him down to her, stinging possession the like of which he’d never known.

Her.

Lovely, brave, determined Elektra—

Wanted him.
Not the eligible Lord Aaron, but him—the lighthearted natural fellow he’d found within this façade of Hastings.
The man he might have been, if he’d not gone astray so young.
Miss Elektra Worthington, destined for a great match, born with
INSERT NEARLY ROYAL TITLE HERE
written on her ivory forehead, wanted
him.

Now, if he was not mistaken.

He pushed her back until her hips pressed to the stone and his lower body met hers, heat to heat, hard to soft, his groin to her sweet hot center, his chest to her soft, giving breasts.
The clothing between didn’t matter.
They were connected by far more than touch, far more than lust, far more than even simple loneliness.

He’d always known it, but her self-assurance had made him doubt that knowledge.
Now she poured herself into his mouth, into his arms, against his hardening cock.

It wasn’t like the first kiss, nor the second, exploratory one.

This was a larger deeper thing indeed.

This was a vow.

I will always, always …

No. No, not yet, not now! Not until you tell her the truth!

“Love you,” she whispered against his mouth.
“I love you, Henry Hastings.”

“I—”
love you, Elektra.
But—

Henry Hastings was another man, a faraway fellow, of some forty years and vast, dubious experience.
She couldn’t love Hastings, for she didn’t know him.

Nor does she know you.

*   *   *

On the far side of the brightly lighted ballroom, beyond the whirling gowns and flaring tails of the waltzing guests, a pair of pain-stricken eyes stared at the terrace door, the one that had closed after the attractive couple who had danced through it.

The fragile stem of the champagne glass in a fisted hand snapped.
The fist tightened on the broken glass.
A single drop of red splashed onto the pristine white marble of the ballroom floor.

Lord Aaron Arbogast!

*   *   *

“I have something I must tell you.”

Aaron’s throat tightened, cutting off the next words.
He pulled her tight against him.

“Oh, yes,” she murmured into his chest.
“There is a great deal to talk about.
We must think of some way to break this to my family that won’t have you beaten to a pulp and tossed into the Thames.
Not for being a manservant, you know.
For being male, for simply looking at me.
After all, you are a guest in our house.”

Aaron tried to swallow past the jagged knives of dread in his throat.
“Elektra…”

She inhaled deeply, then stepped back and out of his arms.

“I had best make my way back to Iris,” she whispered reluctantly.
“We … you and I…”

She swept his heart away with the joyous smile she gave him at those words.

“You and I will speak more after we get back to Worthington House.
Meet me in the library when everyone is off to bed.”
She went up on tiptoe to brush the softest kiss upon his lips.
“I cannot wait,” she whispered.

Then she turned and danced fluidly back across the terrace and through the half-open French doors, turning to close them—just an excuse to flash him one last wickedly innocent smile.

Aaron’s throat tightened.
Love.
He was in love with a girl who didn’t know his name.
He turned away to lean on the railing with his head bowed, ashamed of his cowardice, awed by the sweet generosity of her heart.
The cold stone of the balustrade felt like ice after her warm, supple self.

“Is she your next victim?
Tell me her name, so I can instruct
her
brothers to kill you now, before you destroy her.”

Aaron’s first thought was,
at last.

This moment had been ten years coming.
The intonation was different, older, deeper—but the intent rang a bell of recollection across time from a day he would never, could never afford to forget.
He turned toward the voice.
“Hello, Carter.”

A shadow detached itself from the darkness of the terrace.
Carter Masterson, Amelia Masterson’s younger brother.
When Aaron had last seen him, he’d been a gangling boy of fourteen, furious and grieving, raging at his own youth and helplessness.

Carter stepped into the light streaming in from the ballroom.
Aaron faced him squarely, but made no other move.
This one was Carter’s due, no doubt about that, and a long time coming, too.

“You ruined her, you bastard.”

The first blow knocked Aaron’s head back and forced his cheek into his teeth.
He righted himself and spat blood.
Still he did nothing but face the younger man down.

“You shamed her!
You shamed all of us!”

The second and third blows came harder—a right to the jaw, a left to the belly.
Aaron’s breath left him in a rush and he tried to step back, just long enough to breathe—

The stone balustrade stopped his retreat.
Cornered by the terrace railing, with a long drop behind him, Aaron had no choice but to put up his defenses at last.

“She died because of you!
She couldn’t bear it—she cried and cried!
I heard her, all night long, night after night!”

Aaron blocked blow after blow, but as he took the punishment, more blows got through.
Carter had a decade of rage behind him, a decade in which to prepare his body, to forge his fury, to count the days until he came within striking distance of Lord Aaron Arbogast.

“She took her own life, just to stop the pain, you evil—”
Thud.
“Foul—”
Thud
.
“Vicious—”

He means to kill me. Right here, on this terrace, tonight—

If this had happened ten years ago, Aaron might have let it happen.
Back then, Carter had been too weak.
Now Aaron was too strong.
He knew himself.
He knew how far his own responsibility for Amy’s death went and he knew where it ended.
He’d accepted his own guilt and had done his best to make amends.

Those reparations, he realized, did not include dying.

Yet he couldn’t bring himself to strike back.
Carter was maddened, crazed with rage and grief held inside for ten years.
The boy had grown into a man, but the soul inside had stayed, lost in that single impotent moment, stuck in the quicksand of memory and pain.
Aaron could feel the pain.
It came off Carter in waves, in breathless grunts of rage, in near-sobs ripped from his lungs as he rained blow after blow upon Fate, Death, and Lord Aaron.

Aaron put his arms over his face, bent to protect his gut, kept the stone at his back, and endured blow after blow.

Carter’s vengeful fury raged on.

Damn it, I’m going to have to—

Except that he’d waited too late.
His face ran with blood, his eyes were swelling shut, his ribs lanced pain with every inhalation.
His belly couldn’t take another blow, but he couldn’t straighten his body enough to turn—

Then came a shout and Carter disappeared, yanked backward into the darkness by a muscled arm.

Chapter Twenty

A few shouted words and the sound of blows penetrated Aaron’s hazed consciousness as he slumped against the stone balustrade of the terrace.
With his tormenter otherwise occupied, he took the opportunity to fall half over the railing and retch gratefully into the garden below.

“God, man!
What the hell were you thinking?
Why didn’t you fight back?”

Aaron inhaled, wiping the back of his hand over his bleeding mouth.
Then he blinked up at his rescuer.
Dade Worthington.
God, why couldn’t it have been Lysander?
The younger Worthington wouldn’t ask questions!

Dade grabbed Aaron by the shoulders and propped him upright, leaning against the balustrade.
Aaron tried not to flinch at Dade’s grip on his bruised body.
I am going to be a map of the world—blue and green, with a few rivers of red.

Dade wasn’t being any too gentle, and it didn’t take Aaron long to discover why.

“Lord Aaron Arbogast, is it?
Black Aaron?”

Well.
It was done.
Just as he must have known, deep down, even as he dressed for the evening.
Too cowardly to tell her yourself? Let her find out in the worst possible way! Wonderful solution, you bastard!