So Still The Night

by Kim Lenox

  They rounded a thick outcropping of trees. To Mina’s surprise, in front of them floated a charlière balloon crafted of alternating vertical gores of scarlet and gold silk. A narrow basket hovered beneath, about a foot off the earth.

  “How exciting. Someone’s brought a balloon,” she said.

  He didn’t even look at the aircraft. His eyes remained unnervingly on her. “Have you ever . . . been up in one?”

  “No, but I’ve always wanted to go.”

  Flight had always intrigued her. She could not imagine how thrilling it would be to look down on the earth from a bird’s-eye view.

  She stiffened as Lord Alexander placed his hand on the center of her back and led her toward the balloon. “Shall we have a look, then?”

  So firm. So confident. So nice. As they drew closer, his wonderful hand dropped away, and he strode ahead to speak to the person who appeared to be in charge. The gentleman, a sprightly little fellow with distinguished gray hair, an eye patch, and a mustache curled at the tips, nodded enthusiastically.

  Lord Alexander turned to her, his gaze darkly inviting, and beckoned with his hand. Mina moved to stand at his side.

  The silver-headed fellow announced, “My honorarium is twenty pounds.”

  His lordship’s eyes narrowed on the man. “Of course. There would be a fee, wouldn’t there?”

  His lordship withdrew his purse and selected the necessary pound notes.

  Mina’s heart leapt. “You’re going to go up?”

  “No, you and I are going up.”

  “Oh.” Her lips pressed shut. “I don’t know . . . I was supposed to meet the family at the clubhouse.”

  “It’s a quarter to,” he countered. “I’m sure the musicale will continue until eleven.”

  She looked about, perhaps for rescue. Her cheeks flushed. Two hands descended between her and his lordship—one presenting a long sheet of paper filled with printed words, and the other, a silver ink pen.

  The diminutive balloonist interjected, “Before you board, I must request that the both of you please sign on the bottom line indicating you hold yourselves responsible for all damages you may do to your own life and limbs, to any third parties on the ground below and to the balloon and/or its accessories.”

  “Oh, dear,” she laughed softly. Anxiously. It appeared she was going for her first flight in a balloon. Perhaps that was just what she needed, literally, to permanently lift her spirits above the events of the previous months.

  Defying caution, Mina scrawled out her name. Lord Alexander did the same. The operator unlatched the door and with a dramatic bow, assisted her inside. The floorboard, which was stacked around the edges with narrow bags of sand, wobbled ever so slightly under her feet, and she grasped onto the rail edge of the wicker car for support.

  A small crowd gathered. Lord Alexander climbed in beside her. The door closed.

  “I thought the operator was coming.”

  “We don’t need the extra ballast.” Mischief glinted in his eyes.

  The gray-haired gentleman backed away from the balloon, gesturing upward. He shouted to the groundsmen. “Slowly, slowly . . . Easy, gents.”

  Mina gasped, deep in her throat. Too late. Too late to turn back. She didn’t know if she felt more frantic about going up in the balloon alone with Lord Alexander, or the fact that they’d be up there without the operator. Pushing her purse handle to the crook of her elbow, she gripped her gloved hands around the thick ropes on either side of her.

  “My stomach is doing flips.” She looked up into the cavernous center of the balloon. “I can’t believe I’m doing this.”

  His lordship, tall and stalwart, mirrored her position, curling his long arms around the ropes. He grinned. “Hold on.”

  Suddenly, the balloon shot like a bullet, straight up into the sky. The people, the grass and the trees all disappeared in a blur. The downward crush of air flattened the brim of her bonnet against her cheek, and a wild, ticklish exhilaration speared through her, as if her stomach would swoop out through the bottoms of her feet. His lordship’s hat flew off, spiraling into the blue. He laughed, a deep, wonderful sound. She let out a little shriek—but to her amazement, realized her lips were smiling.

  Just as suddenly as the balloon had risen, it bobbed to a solid halt. The basket jerked, careening wildly.

  Despite her hold, she stumbled into Lord Alexander. “Oh!”

  With one hand on the rail, he seized the other around her waist, firmly bracing them in place. The floor leveled and ceased its erratic movement. Her heart crashed against her ribs at the realization they now hovered, suspended over the earth in a tiny basket, but even more so for the pleasurable sensation of his arm flexed so tightly around her waist. Under his expensive clothing, his chest seemed formed of stone, more akin to the physique of an ancient warrior than an erudite London gentleman. And he smelled good. Divine. Like spice and skin and man.

  She shouldered free and stepped backward, two very small steps, for that was all the small area of the basket would allow. Her skirts crushed against the wicker.

  “Was that supposed to happen?” she gasped.

  She gripped the railing with both hands. Her gaze wavered from his handsome, amused face, to the view below. The shadow of the balloon drifted over the canvas, moving in the direction of the lawn. A guide rope dangled all the way down. The crowd waved and cheered. Mina pried her hand loose long enough to wave back.

  “I thought we were supposed to stay tethered, and much lower to the ground.”

  “There must have been some . . . miscommunication.” The emphasis on the final word, as well as his smile, revealed everything.

  In realization, she blurted, “You wicked man. You knew the ascent would be like that, didn’t you?”

  The gentle wind feathered his hair against his cheek. He grinned, a mischievous rogue who’d just pulled off a well-planned trick. “I don’t deny it.”

  She couldn’t even be angry. The moment was perfect. He was perfect. She melted inside. Why did she have to like him so much?

  There was scarcely a touch of wind. The balloon lumbered in the direction of the clubhouse. All around them she saw rooftops and steeples and roads and alleys. She marveled at the sight of the Thames undulating like a dark asp against the southern border of the club grounds, water vessels dotting its surface.

  “How did you know I’d agree to come?” she asked.

  “Because you’re like me,” he answered. “You’re adventurous.”

  Music drifted up from the clubhouse.

  Palms skimming over the rail, he stepped toward her. The car tilted, and Mina gasped, her shoulders slanting against the ropes. With the heel of his boot, his lordship deftly shoved a sandbag to the opposite end. The basket leveled.

  “Here’s an adventure for you.” He offered his hand. “Have you ever danced in the clouds?”

  Her pulse leapt in her throat. Mina stared at his hand. Elegant and steady, it was upturned, with long, square-tipped fingers. Something sparked deep in her chest: It was the adventuresome spirit he referred to, reawakening.

  How could he know about the young woman she had been before life had left her scared? Scared. She hated the word, indeed, the whole idea. It was too close to “timid,” and she’d never been that.

  Her heart beating faster, she took his hand.

  With a gentle tug he brought her closer, to the center of the basket. The music lilted, as light and airy as the sky around them. His arm came around her. His hand spread against the center of her back, drawing her closer—closer than proper—toward his chest, so close that only an inch of space separated them. Her body awakened—her mouth, her nipples, her thighs, aching to close the gap. Mina licked her lower lip.

  Together they moved, ever so slightly, shifting weight and turning with the music.

  A sudden gust of wind shifted the balloon. The basket tilted just enough to sway her against his chest. The hand on her back spread, increasing in pressure to hold her there. In
a split second, she made the decision to allow the familiarity. They stood, no longer dancing, but embracing and listening to the music.

  “Miss Limpett . . .”

  He bent. She closed her eyes, sensing his intent.

  A gentle pressure lifted her chin.

  “Lord Alexander . . . ,” she warned softly.

  “Mark. My name is Mark.”

  He pressed his mouth to hers.

  With that kiss, Mark lost his senses. Or rather, he found them. The realization occurred, like the weight of a stone wall collapsing over him, that he wanted her more than he’d wanted anything in a very long while, for reasons that had nothing to do with strategy, or saving his own skin.

  Innocent, perfect lips pressed up against his. Heat slowly diffused his groin.

  “Mark . . .” She turned her face so that her cheek pressed against the hollow of his jaw.

  “Yes?”

  She pulled abruptly away.

  “You shouldn’t have done that.” Her brown eyes, which had been bright and excited, instantly clouded.

  He felt certain his did as well. “Why not?”

  “I’m not that sort of adventurous.”

  She planted her hand at the center of his chest and exerted pressure until he had returned to his side of the car. What could he say? If he tried to persuade her otherwise, he’d come off sounding like an ass. From this distance, kept at arm’s length, he could only admire—and curse himself for having apparently misjudged the level of attraction between them.

  “I offended you.” The impulse to kiss her had felt completely natural. “I meant no disrespect.”

  She frowned, then glanced over the grounds, and back to him again. “It’s not that I didn’t enjoy the kiss—it’s that I’m afraid I shall like you too much. I hope you understand what I mean by that.”

  No illicit affair. Hands off. That’s what she meant by that. Not waiting for a response from him, she turned back to the rail and fixed her gaze on the scenery below. “I’m assuming you know how to land this thing.”

  “I do.”

  “Then I think you’d better take us down before we leave the grounds. I don’t know if you’ve ever tried to swim in petticoats, but it’s not easy.”

  Mark knew she was right, but damn it, he’d hoped for a different outcome from their time together. He’d never made love in a gas balloon, and he’d be lying to say the idea hadn’t crossed his mind. Short of that, he’d at least hoped to have formed a more solid connection between them.

  His tug on the valve rope released a measured amount of gas. The balloon descended over the club where it appeared the musicale had just let out. Fingers pointed. Voices called out. Everyone’s faces turned upward. He recognized Lucinda and Trafford on the steps, as well as the girls. Four jaws dropped in unison.

  “Hello,” Miss Limpett called, waving.

  Mark pulled the valve rope again.

  The ground rushed up a bit more quickly than he’d intended, a likely result of his distraction over Miss Lim pett’s unanticipated rebuff.

  “We’re dropping awfully fast,” she squeaked. Her cheeks were pink, and she, radiant. She didn’t appear frightened, only excited. “Are we going to crash?”

  He chuckled and dropped a bag of sand over, and then another for good measure. The descent slowed a bit, and they skimmed horizontally across the grass, delving along an avenue of trees. Slower. Slower. The balloon tilted behind them, a rippling silken wake.

  The lead corner of the basket caught against the turf and tipped.

  The car bumped, pitching them in a tumble onto the grass.

  Mark rolled, settling on his back, with Miss Limpett sprawled atop him.

  Moving quickly, he twisted, pulling her beneath him. He stared down into her eyes.

  “I already like you too much,” he murmured.

  Framing her face with his hands, he kissed her hard, with lips, tongue and teeth, so thoroughly, so pleasurably, that his own toes curled in his boots. Hearing the approach of footsteps on the grass, he quickly rolled off.

  Miss Limpett sat up, her cheeks bright and pink, her hair loose and her bonnet askew.

  Glancing in his direction, she whispered, “I withdraw my earlier decision, Lord Alexander. You may call upon me at will.”

  A smile spread across Mark’s lips.

  Chapter Six

  Mark sat with Mina and Lucinda atop a red and white- striped blanket in the shade of a large tree, enjoying the last of a cold luncheon. A male servant had attended to them, serving from three large baskets. There were crusty rolls of bread, hard-boiled eggs, roast beef and chicken, cheese, fruit and even champagne.

  Not to mention a score of secret, fleeting glances between him and Mina. Each one sent a stab of anticipation through him, for what would come. Scrolls. Mina. Mina. Scrolls. The morning had turned out better than he’d anticipated.

  In the past he’d drawn criticism from fellow Amaranthines for his dalliances with mortals. Yet there was something about mortal women in the prime of their life that never failed to excite. They were like an exotic flower that bloomed only once. Miss Limpett was such a flower. Each time he saw her, it was as if a layer of invisibility were lifted away from her, revealing the incomparable jewel beneath.

  Trafford had gone off to see if he could find the shooting master. Mark had avoided direct eye contact with Evangeline and Astrid long enough that they’d finally given up and agreed to a game of badminton with two well-dressed young men. A brightly feathered shuttlecock flew back and forth between the couples in a gentle rally.

  Lucinda pressed a hand over Mina’s. “Miss Limpett, are you certain you’re recovered from your spill? You look a bit feverish.”

  The countess’s gaze veered reproachfully to Mark.

  “I’m just a bit warm.” Mina lifted her white stoneware cup and sipped her lemonade. “Other than that, I’m very well. Not so much as a bruise. Lord Alexander is an excellent aeronaut. I’d recommend his piloting skills to anyone.”

  Astrid approached, twirling her racquet. “Miss Lim pett, we’ve just lost Lord Kilmartin to an afternoon appointment and have a need for a fourth. Might you like to play?”

  Mina’s features warmed with obvious surprise. “Yes, of course.”

  Her gaze touched on Mark as she stood and joined her cousin on the grass. Together they walked the short distance to the net, which was strung between two bamboo poles. She bent at the knees to select a racquet from the grass. The servant collected the remainder of the dishes. Nesting them in the last open basket, he hoisted two and set off to return them to the carriage.

  “Your lordship,” said the countess.

  “Lady Trafford.”

  “Mark.”

  “Lucinda.”

  The countess twirled her parasol in terse, jerky whorls. “We’ve grown exceedingly fond of our niece.”

  He’d known this discussion would come. He sighed. “I can see why. She’s a remarkable young woman.”

  Her brows drew in, and her lips quirked down as if even with that mildest of compliments about another woman, he’d wounded her.

  “I don’t like this game.”

  “What game, Lucinda?” he asked quietly. “The only game I’m aware of is just over there on the grass.”

  Even now, in the midst of this ridiculous conversation, he couldn’t seem to take his eyes from Mina. Not the lovely curve of her cheek, or her pretty neck. Not from the slender taper of her waist, or the alluring sway of her bustle. Their kiss had only enflamed his interest. His mind buzzed with it. Yes, he wanted her father for his scrolls. But he could not deny that he also wanted Mina Limpett. He’d have her too. For as long as he liked.

  “It’s very clear what you’re trying to do,” said Lucinda.

  “What’s that?’

  “Make me jealous of my niece.” Her parasol twirled faster. “The idea is ludicrous.”

  “Especially ludicrous when I’m not at all attempting to make you jealous.”

  �
��Then what was that? The balloon ride? Flying just over our heads, and then drifting off where we couldn’t see you? An obvious taunt.”

  “I’ve no control over the forces of nature.” A true statement, much to his consternation, though he had to admit to a manipulation of the basket.

  She hissed, “You’re a profligate.”

  He calmly answered, “I don’t see anything wrong with trying to lift Miss Limpett’s spirit. She’s spent three very somber months surrounded with all the details of her father’s death. I was acquainted with her father through his academic pursuits. What is the harm in my offering her a completely proper half hour of diversion?”

  “Her hair was disheveled when we came upon you there on the lawn. She was smiling that secret little smile women do. Are you sure flying was the only diversion going on in that balloon?”

  Her words unexpectedly angered him. They echoed upon those spoken by Leeson that morning. Lord Alexander, the conscienceless seducer? Had he become such a caricature of a man? In that moment, he realized he had. Her accusation, at its core, was true. It had been his intention to seduce Miss Limpett, to whatever degree possible, in the balloon. Even now, he plotted about how he could have her. Keep her. For however long it pleased him to do so.

  “I assure you my intentions toward Miss Limpett are honorable and sincere.”

  He vowed that to be true, at least to the full extent of his ability. He also vowed that however grievously he manipulated Mina toward the end purpose of saving his own mind and soul, he’d make it up to her tenfold, even if it meant building a palace for her finer than the Queen’s. Thousands of women would give anything for such an honor.

  “But your intentions weren’t sincere or honorable toward me, were they Mark?” she accused.

  “I never misled you.”

  “No.” She cast off the umbrella and sagged against the trunk of the tree. “Clearly, I misled myself.”