And Then She Fell

by Stephanie Laurens

  Because she was watching, she saw the shadow that passed across his face. He drew a tighter breath, then met her gaze. “That was just luck. Pure luck that you leaned forward.”

  She held his gaze, gripped his hand tighter. “True, but fate took a hand and . . . I’m still here.”

  His voice lowered. “We’re still here—as I see it, as I feel it—there’s no longer any me or you, only we and us.”

  She studied his eyes, then her lips lifted. “I’m glad you feel that—think that—because I do, too.”

  A minute ticked by while they simply looked at each other, while they drowned in each other’s eyes, marveling anew, reveling again in the connection, in the power of what now bound them.

  The flaring intensity peaked. Moved by it, compelled, she shifted, fluidly coming up on her knees to lean closer; placing her hand on his shoulder, she tipped her head and set her lips to his, and kissed him.

  She parted her lips and drew him in, then let the kiss spin out, and he kissed her back; releasing her hand, he raised his and gently, so gently, framed her face, careful not to press against her wound, and held her steady, balanced on her knees before him, so the kiss could extend, could stretch and evolve, so they both could savor.

  So they could calm their inner demons, exorcise their fears, and through the caress, through the intimate sharing, be once again assured—of the other, of them.

  That they were still there, were hale and whole and still together. That their joint future was still there, theirs to claim, waiting for them to own it.

  Her lips supped from his, then his from hers. Passion and desire swirled in the darkness, subtle flames licking over their skins, teasing their senses, tantalizing their nerves.

  Tempting them.

  Eventually, she drew back; breasts rising, she filled her lungs on a slow, deep inhalation, then, eyes locked with his, mere inches apart, she murmured, her tone low, a blatant, sultry, unequivocal invitation, “You are going to stay, aren’t you?”

  His lips softened, fractionally curved. His eyes didn’t leave hers. “That would be my preferred option.”

  She laughed soft and low, and drew him down to the bed.

  Drew him into her arms as he tipped and they rolled, and passion swelled. But in instinctive accord they caught it, reined it back. Tonight was theirs—no threat could reach them, no would-be murderer touch them, not there. They had no need to rush, and much more reason to loiter.

  To linger, and savor, and rejoice.

  James had rolled to his back, had settled her atop him. Cradling her head in one large hand, he looked up into her eyes. “We’ll have to be careful not to hurt your head.”

  “We will be, and we won’t.” Settling her elbows on his chest, she stared down into his eyes, then seductively smiled. “Just kiss me.” As she bent her head to teasingly brush her lips over his, she murmured, “Make love to me.”

  He needed no further invitation; cupping the back of her head, he waited, let her play and script the kiss for several heartbeats, then he took over and let the kiss turn hungry.

  Hungry, but leashed.

  Tongues tangled, dueled; their lips parted only to meld and fuse again as the exchange grew more heated. More intent.

  Their breathing grew ragged; soft sounds of passion floated in the air.

  Clothes fell, flew, vanished. Hands grasped, then caressed and sculpted.

  Weighed and flagrantly possessed.

  Their lips parted only so they could savor the other’s skin, so they could taste the other’s passion.

  So they could drive each other on.

  They both knew what they wanted; they both wanted the same thing. Tonight even more than previously they were in perfect accord.

  In perfect empathy.

  What followed was a symphony, one orchestrated by them both, with first him directing, then her conducting, then, hand in hand, body to body, skin to skin, they let passion and desire and all that flowed from the physical and emotional conflagration sweep them up and away.

  Together.

  As one their hearts seized as he entered her and joined them; as one they paused, senses wide, to drain every last scintilla of heightened pleasure from that critical second . . . then with flawless rhythm they started the dance, their journey to completion.

  They were as one in their grasping desperation, in their giddy, reckless, passionate joy, as one with their hoarse, rasping breaths as they rode, skins damp, senses burning, for the ultimate distant peak.

  And found ecstasy waiting, powerful and sure, to embrace them, shatter them, and once again remold them. To once again fuse them, but at an even deeper level, in an even more unbreakable bond.

  As they tumbled back to earth, to the dark bliss of the bed and the warmth of the other’s arms, even as the golden glow of satiation spread through them both, they found each other’s eyes.

  Breaths mingling, gazes locked, neither needed to ask what the other thought.

  They would defy hell for this. For this joy, this passion.

  This unbounded togetherness.

  No one—no murderer, no villain of any stripe—would take this from them. They wouldn’t let it go. Not willingly, not even if death threatened.

  They read the truth in each other’s eyes, then let their lids fall. They needed no words to repledge their troth; for this, for their chance to live with this, to devote their lives to living the promise of this, they would, unhesitatingly, stake their lives.

  Nothing needed to be said. Sliding deeper into the bed, dragging up the covers, they turned into each other’s arms, and slept.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The following evening, Sir Thomas Grenville, Trustee of the British Museum and prominent bibliophile, had elected to host a gala to raise funds for the continuing construction of the new museum. Sir Thomas had had the happy notion of staging his gala in the part of the new East Wing known as The King’s Library Gallery, a completed section of the new works until that evening forbidden to any but the curators, hence assuring attendance by all those of the ton lucky enough to receive an invitation.

  As most of the upper echelon of the ton was presently in residence for the Season, the event was destined by design to be the most horrendous, albeit select, crush—literally everyone who was anyone could be counted on to be there.

  “It truly is the perfect venue for our trap,” Henrietta murmured. On James’s arm, she stood just behind her mother and father in the reception line; tall though she was, she couldn’t see over, much less through, the sea of heads and shoulders bobbing and nodding as those in the line ahead of their party chatted excitedly. Everyone was anticipating a highly memorable evening. Sir Thomas, an old hand at staging fund-raising events, had been extremely cagey over the entertainment he intended providing, letting speculation build and do his job for him.

  As a consequence, all those invited had turned up en masse.

  “I heard,” James said, bending his head to murmur in her ear, “that those senior hostesses who had intended to host events tonight have, by and large, cancelled them.”

  Henrietta nodded. “There was no point persevering. Everyone is going to be here, and as it’s a gala, few will be likely to leave until it’s over.”

  “Which, again, will presumably play into our hands.” Raising his head, James glanced around. “I can see St. Ives ahead, and Gabriel and Alathea are ten yards behind us.” He swept his gaze ahead, then back along the densely packed line of would-be revelers again. “I can’t see any of the others.”

  “They’ll be here, somewhere, although with such a crowd I’m relieved we don’t have to meet up with any of them. Finding anyone will be well-nigh impossible.”

  “Unless you’re watching and waiting.” James felt his jaw set. After a moment, he relaxed it enough to ask, “Remind me again—who are the ones elected to supply our façade of obliviousness?”

  Henrietta glanced around, but the noise generated by the crowd was already such that she seriously
doubted even her mother, directly ahead of her, would hear anything she said. Nevertheless, she leaned nearer to James and lowered her voice. “Devil and Honoria, Vane and Patience, Gabriel and Alathea, Lucifer and Phyllida, and Demon and Flick, as well as Simon and Portia, Amanda and Martin, and Amelia and Luc.” She shifted her gaze forward. “And my parents, of course—and Mary, too.” Her sister was standing on Arthur’s other side. “Plus all the older generation—Aunt Helena, Martin and Celia, and George and Horatia. They’ll all be here, and all will be playing their part.”

  They’d all agreed that her would-be murderer would definitely know enough to be wary of those named. He would watch them for their reactions, possibly even be bold enough to test them, and if they showed any hint of being alert and on guard, then no matter how tempting the lure they cast, he wouldn’t step free of the crowd to pursue it. Consequently, the above-named members of the wider company who had come there that night intent on capturing the murderer would project a façade of supreme unawareness of any potential threat. That was their role—to convince the murderer that no one was expecting him to do anything so outrageous as to strike again that night, certainly not at the gala, and that therefore no one was maintaining any particular watch on Henrietta.

  “So,” James said, “we have Adair and Penelope, Charlie Morwellan and Sarah, Dillon Caxton and Pris, Gerrard Debbington and Jacqueline, your cousins Heather, Eliza, and Angelica, and their husbands, and Charlie Hastings playing the part of the surreptitious watchers.”

  They shuffled forward in the line and Henrietta nodded. “Along with Christian and Letitia, Wolverstone and Minerva, and other members of that special club of theirs, as well as some of their army friends, and all their wives.” She glanced up at James. “There’ll be many more watching me than the murderer could possibly guess.”

  James fought not to let his inner grimness show. He was supposedly there to enjoy what was widely expected to be the highlight of the Season, with his newly affianced bride-to-be on his arm, but projecting the correct image was proving a difficult task given his preordained role in their drama.

  He still didn’t know how he’d come to agree to it—to agree to stage a disagreement with Henrietta of sufficient intensity to support the fiction of them parting, of her storming into the crowd and him turning on his heel and stalking off in the opposite direction.

  Facing forward, Henrietta added, “And don’t forget Stokes and his men waiting outside.”

  James wasn’t about to forget that the nearest the police could get was the outside of the building. If anything, Stokes liked their plan even less than James did, but, like James, he’d been largely helpless to prevent it being carried out, so had elected to lend his support as best he could. With a small cohort of his junior detectives and several eager constables, Stokes had set up a continual watch on all the exits from the building. If something occurred and the villain attempted to flee, he would run into the waiting arms of the Metropolitan Police.

  James glanced at Henrietta. She appeared entirely calm, her attention focused outward, exchanging smiles and nods with others in the crowd.

  Only he was near enough to detect the wary watchfulness lurking in her soft eyes; only he could feel, through her hand lying on his sleeve, the tension thrumming through her. She was wound as tight as he.

  They reached the head of the reception line, and Sir Thomas greeted them with jocular good cheer. After exchanging the usual brief pleasantries, and receiving Sir Thomas’s congratulations on their engagement, James led Henrietta in Louise, Arthur, and Mary’s wake. All of them looked about them as they walked, tacking around other couples and groups likewise caught in admiration of the elegance of a room reputed to be the finest in all of London.

  The gallery, built to house the King’s library, was three hundred feet long; over most of that length, it was thirty feet wide, but the central section, delineated by four spectacular columns of polished Aberdeen granite, was said to be nearly double that width.

  “Just look at that ceiling.” Head tipped back, Henrietta stared upward at the ornate plasterwork in creams, pale yellows, and gold. “That must be at least forty feet high.”

  “At least.” Grasping her hand, James wound her arm in his and started them on a course separate from her parents and sister. “Those balconies all around will afford an excellent view of the room.”

  “Hmm.” Henrietta glanced his way, caught his eye. “Anyone on them, up there above the crowd, will also be in easy view of anyone watching them.”

  James’s lips twisted. “Precisely my thought.” He dipped his head to murmur, “Up there would be the perfect place to stage our disagreement. We should keep an eye out for the stairs leading up.”

  Henrietta nodded. The balconies in question ran above the bookcases lining the long sides of the room; about halfway up the forty-foot-high walls, the balconies formed narrow walkways that ran over the top of the deep bookcases and in front of the long windows set in the upper halves of the walls. Delicate, gilded, rail-type balustrades gave the balconies an airy appearance, as if they were suspended over the body of the room.

  “According to Adair,” James said, “there are only two doors—the one we came in and another at the far end of the room.” They paused beside one of the beautiful polished desks situated along the room. Examining it, then the marble statue beside it, James shook his head. “I can’t believe this room is intended purely for the use of scholars, and the wider public wasn’t supposed to ever get a chance to appreciate it.” He glanced around as they started off again. “I can see why they’ve claimed it’s the finest room in London.”

  Still engrossed in drinking in the architectural magnificence, Henrietta nodded, then added, “Which, I suppose, all but guarantees that whoever we’re after, they will be here.”

  They were nearing the middle section, where the room doubled in width. Glancing back toward the door through which they’d entered, Henrietta saw the polished oak and mahogany floor fast disappearing beneath a tide of elegant skirts as the rest of the guests poured in. “How long do you think we should wait before we enact our scene?”

  “Adair and Devil both pushed for us to wait a full hour—all of the guests should be in the room by then.”

  “All right.” Plastering on a brighter smile, Henrietta tightened her arm around his. “In that case, we can mingle freely and forget about the plan until then.”

  They did precisely that, stopping to chat with others, receiving congratulations on their engaged state with appropriate modesty. Nevertheless, as they promenaded around the central section, then continued down the long room, both continued to assess the possibilities the room afforded in terms of carrying out their plan.

  When they reached the other end of the room, James drew Henrietta aside, into one corner. Dipping his head, he spoke quietly; the room was now so crowded, the guests so densely packed, that despite the cacophony of a thousand voices they needed to be wary of being overheard. “I’m sure Adair will send some of those watching you up onto the balconies.” Barnaby had been delegated to oversee that arm of the plan—those of their company delegated to watch over and ultimately protect Henrietta while the rest of her family pretended obliviousness.

  “I can already see Dillon and Pris up there, on the right, nearer the middle.” Henrietta nodded at the pair. “Pris is expecting, so Dillon won’t leave her, but they’re both very sharp eyed.”

  “Doubtless Adair is standing at some point from where he can see all the watchers, so they can alert him to anyone approaching you.”

  Henrietta quelled a shiver; the only way she was going to get through the evening was to not think about the man who wanted to murder her. Hannah had dressed her hair to conceal the wound along the side of her head, but she could still feel it, a constant reminder of the pistol ball tearing through her skin. “Is it time yet?”

  James consulted his fob watch, then tucked it back into his pocket. “At least another fifteen minutes.”

 
“Lady Holland mentioned that the first entertainment to be offered was to be that Italian soprano from Milan. I assume she’ll perform beside the grand piano in the middle section, and as her ladyship said the soprano was the first of three acts, then I assume she’ll perform soon, most likely on, or just after, the hour.” Henrietta met James’s eyes. “Should we wait until after she performs, or enact our scene before?”

  “Just before, and staged on the balcony above the piano will gain maximum attention, but . . .” James grimaced, then met Henrietta’s eyes. “There’s no reason the entire ton needs to witness our ‘disagreement.’ If our man is here, and he should be by then, he’ll be watching you anyway—we don’t need to make a major production out of it, so after the soprano’s performance might be better.”

  Henrietta nodded decisively. “Yes, it will be—aside from anything else, making too big a show of it might tip the blackguard off. I wouldn’t be so gauche, and neither would you. We can’t act out of character and make our parting too obvious—it has to be believable.” She met James’s eyes. “Quite literally a temporary disagreement and nothing more.”

  He held her gaze, then nodded. “Yes, you’re right. But I still think we should make it easy for him to see us disagree and part.” He looked up and along the balcony running above the left wall of the section they were in. “We could position ourselves toward the end of this balcony, just above the piano, above where the soprano will stand.”

  Henrietta turned to the delicate spiral staircase that led up to the balcony in question. “We can go up here and promenade along, then take up position to listen to the singer.” She glanced at James. “That will look entirely natural.”

  With a nod, he followed her to the nearby stairs, then up them. Gaining the balcony, he retook her arm, and they commenced a slow promenade back toward the central section of the room.