Silk and Shadows

by Mary Jo Putney

  Weldon's face was a study in emotions: shock, rage, and best of all, fear. Then his features hardened, the mask of a gentleman crumbling to reveal the viciousness within. "You certainly have changed." His insulting gaze scanned Peregrine from head to foot. "I would never have believed that a filthy brat like you would ever be able to ape the manners of a gentleman. For that is all you are doing: aping."

  "I learned to ape gentility from an expert," Peregrine said with barbed civility.

  The swelling of violins announced a new waltz, the lush music curling sensuously around the two men. Weldon's face twisted into a sneer. "How did you make your fortune? I suppose you began by selling that nice, tight little..."

  Before the sentence could be completed, Peregrine exploded, his vision going blood crimson. His left hand shot out to seize his enemy's throat as his right balled into a fist. Through his murderous rage, he felt the pulse of the other man's veins beneath his fingers.

  Then he saw the triumphant expression in Weldon's eyes, and had enough sanity left to know that he had been goaded into just such an action. Startled eyes were being turned in his direction, and in a moment the two men would be in the center of a scene—a scene where Peregrine would be the villain.

  He released his grip and brushed at Weldon's upper shoulder, making the gesture casual, as if he was flicking something from the other man's coat. The curious bystanders turned away, thinking that they must have misinterpreted what had been briefly visible from the corners of their eyes.

  With an easy, lying smile, Peregrine said, "You'll not catch me like that again, Weldon. You were damned lucky. I might as easily have slit your throat as tried to throttle you. That would have given me trouble with the law, but you would have been quite dead." His smile widened. "A delightful prospect, except that it would be far, far too swift."

  His own expression equally insincere, Weldon said, "What do you want of me, you bastard?"

  "Oh, surely you must know that, Weldon." Peregrine's smile faded, and his voice rang like tempered steel. "In the name of all your victims, I am here to destroy you. I have already taken away much of what you value, but I will not be satisfied until you drink from the chalice of death."

  "You're mad," Weldon said contemptuously. "That is the melodramatic babble of the East. This is England. In spite of the problems you have caused, I still have power and influence that a gutter rat like you can never match. Now that I know what you're doing, I can defend myself against your wild schemes. More than that, I will destroy you for your insolence."

  "My wild schemes have been quite effective so far, have they not?'' Peregrine murmured, thinking that it was bizarre but somehow appropriate that they were having this confrontation in the midst of a crowd of revelers.

  Weldon's eyes narrowed as a new thought struck him. "The personal loans—are you the one who bought them and is demanding payment?"

  Peregrine gave a slight, derisive bow. "I have that humble privilege."

  "In that case, it will give me great pleasure to default," Weldon snarled.

  "Sorry to deprive you of your amusement," Peregrine said with spurious sympathy, "but the day you default, I'll have the bailiffs on you. I'll attach every bit of property you own: the town house, the Hertfordshire estate, the buildings in the City." He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "I wonder if I can also put a lien on the whorehouses. They are illicit businesses, of course, but they are part of your assets, and I can prove you own them."

  Weldon blanched. "How much do you know about me?"

  "Everything," Peregrine said softly. His reply hung in the air between them. A laughing couple danced by, leaving a scent of lilies and sweat in their wake.

  Weldon's eyes became feral. "Then it is war. Since you mean to ruin me, I have no choice but to ruin you first."

  "You can try, but you will not succeed. Even if you manage to kill me, I will reach from the grave to bring you down."

  "Bah, spare me the cheap dramatics. You have as much to lose as I do, and lose it you will," Weldon said viciously. "By tipping your hand, you have doomed yourself, for I will stop at nothing to destroy you."

  "There is one line you will not cross," Peregrine said with cold menace. "If you hurt Sara, I swear that you will regret the day you were born."

  Weldon gave a genuine smile. "What a fool you are. You have just put the perfect weapon in my hands. Hard to believe that a cold little cripple like her can interest any man, but since you seem to want her, the slut will pay for your crimes."

  Weldon started to turn away, but Peregrine caught his wrist. "Listen very carefully. You will not hurt Sara. If you do, it is Eliza who will suffer for your wickedness."

  Weldon's face went white. "You wouldn't kill a little girl—even you are not such a monster as that."

  "Very true, I would not kill her." Peregrine's voice was soft with menace. "But you and she will wish that I had. No matter how hard you try, you will never be able to hide Eliza from me—and when I find her, I will put her in a brothel."

  When Weldon recoiled in horror, Peregrine twisted his wrist with punishing force. His voice pitched below the clamor around them, he whispered, "I would send her to a virgin house first. Think of it, Weldon, your darling little girl being ravished by a brute like you. I would specify that she be sold to a man looking for a virgin to cure his syphilis.

  "Then I would transfer her to a specialized house. Flagellation, perhaps, or one where mechanical devices are used. Not in England—I will send her somewhere you will never find her." He twisted Weldon's wrist again, to a point just short of wrenching the joint apart. "How long will your delicately reared daughter last, hmmm? And I will be sure that she knows she is in hell because her father sent her there."

  "You filthy bastard!" Weldon swore, his voice savage. "You are evil, truly evil."

  Peregrine released the other man's wrist. "Like false gentility, I learned evil from a master of the art. Is it agreed—you will leave Sara alone, and I will spare Eliza?"

  "Agreed. But that is the only agreement." Weldon rubbed his sore wrist, his blue eyes shimmering with mad violence. "You are going to be sorry that you ever tried your petty vengeance on me. You are no better than a common criminal, no match for me."

  "On the contrary. I am no common criminal, but justice incarnate." Peregrine savored the moment, thinking that when this speech was done, he must find Sara and share his exultation with her. His voice dropped to a chilling whisper. "You have sowed the wind, Weldon. Now you will reap the whirlwind."

  Chapter 19

  Sara was beginning to wonder what had become of her husband when he appeared before her, his eyes brilliant with excitement. After greeting the great-aunt with whom Sara had been speaking, he said under his breath, "Come, sweet Sara. I have found a spot where we can dance without feeling like herring in a barrel."

  She laughed and took her leave of her aunt. As her husband steered her across the ballroom, she asked, "Have you found another balcony where I can give you lessons on the language of the fan?"

  "Better than that."

  There was an odd note in his voice, and Sara looked at him askance, wondering if he had been drinking. She had never seen Mikahl intoxicated, but he was in a strange, volatile mood. He led her from the ballroom, then turned right into a dark corridor. In the middle of the passage, he opened a door on the right and ushered Sara into a sparsely furnished reception room lit by a single lamp.

  She looked around doubtfully. "Should we be here?"

  "Probably not." There was a key in the door lock, and he turned it before facing Sara. "I think this must be where unwelcome visitors wait, Not much furniture and all of it uncomfortable. On the positive side, there is some open space, and the ballroom is on the other side of that wall so the orchestra can be heard quite clearly." He made a deep bow. "Will my lady dance with me?"

  "Of course." Smiling, Sara held her arms up in waltz position. "But I must tell you that this is most improper."

  "To dance with my own wife?" H
e raised his brows comically as he swirled her across the floor.

  "To steal away to a private room, lock the door, and hold a partner this close are all definitely improper." She relaxed in his arms, feeling that her feet scarcely touched the ground. Trust Mikahl to find a place where they could be private even though several hundred people were just a wall away. "Remember, the rule is at least twelve inches of space between partners."

  "And I thought I had gotten the knack of correct behavior," he mourned, pulling her tight against his hard chest. "Truly this is a strange country."

  Sara tilted her head back and laughed. "Of course this is a strange country. Two or three years ago, Lady Gough published an etiquette book saying that for true propriety, books by male and female authors must be placed on separate shelves."

  "You are making that up!"

  "God's own truth," Sara said solemnly, feeling deliriously pliant and yielding as they moved together almost as one body. "Unless the male and female authors are married to each other, in which case the books may rest side by side on the same shelf.''

  "I shall never understand the English," he said, brimming with hilarity. "But doesn't the fact that I have been presented to the queen make me wholly respectable?"

  "Nothing will ever make you wholly respectable," Sara said with conviction. He laughed and she felt the vibrations of his amusement from her breasts to her pelvis.

  Mikahl slowed their waltz until they were drifting in a leisurely circle. Bending his head, kissed her. Sara welcomed his mouth, for dancing aroused every fiber of her being to tingling awareness. Soon they were turning around a single point, then they stopped dancing entirely, except for the passionate rhythms of lips and tongues and quickening breath.

  When the music next door ended, Sara tilted her head back and whispered, "My yin energy is very strong now."

  He grinned and walked her backward until she was against the wall that adjoined the ballroom. "Splendid, for I am feeling very yang."

  He pulled off his gloves and slid them into his coat pocket, then began kissing her again. This time his hands roamed over her body, teasing and caressing his way down her torso.

  "My old governess was right when she warned me that the waltz is a dangerous dance," Sara said weakly as she leaned back against the wall for support.

  "A wise woman, your governess." He breathed soft warm air into her ear, with devastating effect. "What else did she warn you about?" Cupping his hands around her buttocks, he pulled Sara hard against him.

  Feeling fire in her loins, she replied breathlessly, "To beware of wolves in sheep's clothing."

  "Is that what I am, silken Sara?"

  "More like a wolf in wolf's clothing." The orchestra struck up another tune. Sara felt the music pulsate inside her body, vibrating through her slippers into the sensitive soles of her feet. "My governess would not approve of you."

  "Good, for I am sure I would not approve of her." Mikahl spread his palm over her mons veneris and moved it in a slow circle. The mount of Venus, the Cinnabar Gate.

  "You are quite—quite shameless." Sara felt as if she was about to burst into flame. "Please," she begged, "let us leave now—I shall go mad if we don't go home at once."

  "I admit to being shameless, but it is not time to leave. At least, not yet." He bent to lift the hem of her gown, then straightened and slid his hand between her silk-clad thighs.

  "A-a-h-hh," Sara breathed, her eyes drifting shut as waves of sensation pulsed through her. A good thing that this room did not have a decent sofa, or they would be on it disgracing themselves. The fabric of the black pantalets was so sheer that his warm hand might have almost been on her naked flesh.

  Her eyes shot open as she realized that his deft fingers were indeed touching bare flesh, probing into her moist, intimate depths. "How...?" After a moment she guessed that the pantalets must have an open seam. He had given them to her just before they came to the ball, and she had donned them quickly, not noticing.

  "You devil!" Startled, her fingers involuntarily curled into his upper arms. "So that is why you wanted me to wear them. Were you planning this?"

  He laughed, a rich, deep male sound of satisfaction. "I didn't know if this house had a place where we could be private. But if it did, I wanted to be prepared."

  A small, well-bred part of Sara's mind was shocked at the sheer carnality of what he was doing. It was one thing to lie with one's husband in a bed, or even in a private spot in the garden; but to do so in the middle of a ball, where half the people Sara knew, including her father, were within fifty yards of her?

  But the rest of Sara's mind and all of her body were beyond shock, except for the shock of loss when he lifted his hand. "Shall I stop, sweet Sara?" he murmured. "Behave with propriety?"

  "Don't you dare!" she gasped. "The only thing worse than being depraved is being a depraved tease."

  "Very well, my little vixen. One thing I have learned is to obey my lady's commands."

  There was a sound of slipping buttons and loosening fabric. He gave a sigh of relief, then put his hands beneath Sara's buttocks and lifted her, bracing her between the wall and his own solid torso. Acting more from instinct than conscious thought, Sara grasped and guided him as he slowly lowered her. She inhaled sharply at the fierce rightness of his entry.

  "How does this feel?" he whispered when they were locked together, Sara's silk-stockinged legs wrapped tight around him.

  "Splendid. Decadent. Quite, quite mad," she replied raggedly as she rotated her hips, feeling him deep inside her.

  To her satisfaction, her movement annihilated his control, and he surged into her. "Ah, God, Sara, you are air and fire and heart's blood," he groaned, his breath roughening to match his strokes.

  Sara's rustling petticoats foamed around them, and her cheek pressed into his shoulder as they melded into the ultimate dance. They were close, so close, both physically and mentally. Perhaps she should have been alarmed by her precarious position, but she was not, for she had absolute trust in her husband.

  It was hot, sweet sex, made almost unbearably erotic by the knowledge that other people were so close. But they were private here and harming no one by their madness. An intimate universe of passion that filled Sara's heart, mind, and body, then shattered into a kaleidoscope of rapture. Her teeth sank into his shoulder and she shuddered uncontrollably, her violent movements triggering a matching response from her husband.

  Another dance ended in the ballroom, and the loudest sound was of their own panting breath and pulsing blood. The frantic tension drained from Sara like water from a spilled glass.

  Gently Mikahl disengaged himself, then lowered her feet to the floor and embraced her. For long minutes they clung together, savoring closeness and regaining strength as the wall supported them both.

  At length Mikahl said, "And you told me this ball would be a dull affair."

  Sara gave an unsteady giggle. "I've never been to a ball quite like it." Stepping away from her husband, she accepted his handkerchief to dry herself, then began to check her appearance. "Do I look all right?"

  Mikahl buttoned his trousers and straightened his coat, then brushed Sara's petticoats and skirts down smoothly. "Your gown is a bit rumpled, but no more than expected at a ball." He tucked a wayward lock of hair back into her chignon. "You look absolutely beautiful. As always."

  It amazed Sara how cool and gentlemanly he could appear when just a few minutes before he had blazed with demanding passion. She knew that her own cheeks glowed with good health and bad deeds, and wondered if anyone would guess what she had been doing.

  After drawing his gloves on, her husband offered his arm. "Shall I return my lady to the ball?"

  The door rattled as someone tried to enter, then two gruff voices started discussing the situation.

  Mikahl turned the key in the lock and opened the door to find two middle-aged men holding unlit cigars. Blandly he said, "My wife was a bit faint and needed to rest for a few minutes. But she's feeling better no
w, so we will leave you gentlemen to your smoking."

  Then he led Sara away before the men could comment. She bowed her head and clung to his arm, barely managing to suppress her laughter until they were around the corner. "You have a rare talent for duplicity, husband mine."

  "Nonsense," he replied as they reentered the ballroom. "Didn't you once tell me that social lies to spare other people from embarrassment were not only permitted but required?"

  "Whoever wrote the book of proper conduct never imagined anyone like you," Sara retorted.

  Mikahl paused. "I see Ross. I'd like to talk to him for a moment, then leave. Unless you prefer to stay longer?"

  "To stay later would be very anticlimactic," she answered, then blushed beet red when she heard her own words.

  "Sweet Sara, what a splendid double entendre," he said with delight. "If we weren't in public, I would kiss you again. But I am being very proper. I trust you will give me credit for how proper I can be." Scanning the ballroom again, he said, "Your Aunt Marguerite is by the door. Shall I meet you there after I've talked to Ross?"

  Sara nodded. After giving her husband's fingers a quick squeeze, she started around the edge of the room. Proper, indeed. Mikahl could make a stone saint blush. And she loved him, dear God, how she loved him.

  * * *

  After the shattering confrontation with Peregrine, Weldon needed some whiskey to steady his nerves. Fortunately that could be found in one of the smaller rooms where men retreated for serious drinking. As he drank, he began to plan. Learning who his enemy was had restored Weldon's confidence, for it was easier to destroy another man than to overcome blind bad luck.

  Piece by piece, a strategy emerged. The Duke of Haddonfield would probably lend enough money to repay the personal loans, for the duke would not like London society to learn what kind of man his son-in-law was. Then Peregrine must be discredited so that any accusations he made later would not be taken seriously. Weldon shook his head as he poured a second whiskey. The bastard had been a fool to tip his hand. If he had stayed in the shadows, he might have been successful, but now he was doomed.