So Still The Night

by Kim Lenox

  He stiffened and closed his eyes. “No.”

  “I’ve had quite enough adventure for one life, thank you, and I’m done with it. I didn’t ask for this. For you. I just want . . . yes, a life. A dull, little happy life.”

  “I won’t leave you alone,” he answered harshly. “I married you yesterday.”

  A sudden rush of moisture brightened her eyes. “Don’t say that.”

  Mark could only feel relief at seeing her tears—relief that she felt something for him, even if that something were misery. With an irritated frown, she blinked them away and jabbed a gloved fingertip at the corner of her eye. “Oh, drat, you’ve made me cry. I’m not the sort of woman who cries.”

  “Then why are you crying?”

  “Just don’t even look at me.”

  Mark sat rigid on the bench, his shoulders back and his hat in his hands. “You’ve every right to be angry, Mina. I lied to you.”

  “You misunderstand.” She focused on the ceiling of the cab, just above his head. But then her gaze fell to his. “I’m not angry. How can I be? I’ve told my share of lies, so how can I issue judgment upon you for doing the same thing? I realize you wouldn’t have made all this outlandish effort to get close to me unless the scrolls were very important to you.”

  “Then why won’t you let me close?”

  She exhaled and took several deep breaths. “Please understand that while I’m very . . . impressed by you”—she offered him a miserable, fractured smile—“dazzled even . . . but . . .”

  “What, Mina?”

  A solitary tear trickled over her cheek. “I lost my husband last night.”

  “No, you didn’t.” He lunged across the cab to sit beside her, so close his thigh crushed firm against hers, through silk and petticoats. His hat, discarded, fell to the floor. He raised his hand to obliterate the tear, to make it go away.

  “Don’t.” She jerked her face away, and with a push of her slender arms, fled to the other side, taking the space he’d just abandoned. Her black skirts twisted like a dark mermaid’s tail around her legs.

  He could make this right, make their time together enough.

  “I don’t deny it, Mina—I pursued you to get to your father. But I chose to marry you,” he insisted, angry that even at this proximity, she slipped from his grasp. “Because I want to be married to you.”

  “But I don’t want to be married to you,” she insisted, her eyes wide and glazed over. “Not now. Not anymore.”

  Mark’s windpipe tightened. Centuries-old memories tore like claws through his chest.

  She whispered, “I want children. I want a husband I can grow old with. I want tombstones side by side that say ‘Beloved Wife’ and ‘Beloved Husband.’ Can you give me that, Mark? You might be immortal, but you can’t give me forever. Not the sort of forever I want.”

  He stared at her. He could give her protection. Wealth. Sensual pleasure. But no . . . he could not give her the kind of forever she spoke of.

  “So yes, Mark, do you see . . . I did lose my husband last night.” Her dark, spiky-damp lashes lowered against her pale cheeks. “And I’ve been left with you instead.”

  Left with you instead. Her choice of words wounded too deeply. Mark’s defenses came up in the form of a simmering rage in the pit of his stomach. It wasn’t the first time in his life he’d been told he wasn’t important enough, wasn’t worth the trouble of loving. His own mother had chosen death to be with her lover over him. It had made no difference to a ten-year-old boy that the man had been his father. He’d spent his immortal existence working to smother the memory, and the pain. He’d found satisfaction in the arms of an endless blur of women—queens, courtesans and famed beauties—but he’d always, always left them with his heart entirely and coldly intact, to prove it was he who made the choice to leave. He’d be damned if he’d allow Willomina Limpett, a professor’s daughter, to cast him off.

  Mina watched the change in Mark’s face, and for the first time, truly feared him. The gentleness left his features. His cheekbones and jaw took on taut, hard edges. His eyes cooled to a glittering, azure blue. Had her words struck so deep? Could it be possible that he cared more deeply than she imagined? How, when she could be no more than a blur in the passage of time for him?

  The carriage turned, traveling in a brief half arc. Their bodies swayed with the movement. Mina blinked away the wetness in her eyes and glanced out the curtained window. She’d been so focused on their conflict, she wasn’t aware of their exact location, but they appeared to be somewhere off the Strand, near the Thames Embankment. The vehicle rumbled to a stop in the shaded forecourt of a towering structure, concealed by scaffolding and heavy canvas drapes. Gray stone peeked from beneath. Exterior gardens and walkways appeared very new, as if they’d only recently been installed.

  “Where are we?” she asked warily, imagining the place to be abandoned. But just then, a doorman, dressed in a pristine black suit, hat and gloves, strode out from the entrance.

  “The Savoy Hotel,” Mark answered coolly. “We’ll stay here a few days until the house is ready.”

  “You have a house?” She’d believed the Thais to be his only residence.

  “We have a house.”

  Her heart turned over, hearing his emphasis on the word. She quietly restated her previous decision. “I just told you, Mark. There is no ‘we.’ ”

  The door opened. Mark took up his hat from the floorboard and climbed out. Without looking at her, he extended his gloved hand to her. She stared out from the interior, and for a moment considered refusing to join him.

  His nostrils flared, and his eyes narrowed. “You can walk in . . . or I can carry you in.”

  Mina’s heartbeat quickened, and her scalp drew tight. Obviously the battle between them had only just begun, and she didn’t doubt for one second that he would do as he threatened; the promise was there in his eyes. Without funds, she didn’t have any other options but to return to the Trafford house, and she certainly had no wish to return there. Admittedly, she felt safe under Mark’s protection—safe from everyone but him.

  She gripped the silver chain strap of her purse and stepped onto the stair, firmly resting her hand atop his. Tilting her face upward in assessment of the building, she queried, “The hotel isn’t even open yet, is it?”

  Additional hotel attendants appeared, all moving in the direction of the wagon that held their trunks. The doorman barked out orders.

  “Soon,” Mark growled. He assisted her down until she stood beside him. His shadow swallowed her. He seemed to have grown taller. Bigger. More dangerous.

  The idea of being in such a large building, alone with him, unnerved her. “Then why are we here?”

  His brilliant blue gaze swept over her, unnervingly rapacious. “Because here, no one will hear you scream.”

  His hand open and firm on the small of her back, he led her up the walk. She had to lengthen stride just to keep up.

  Heat stung her cheeks. “That’s not funny.”

  Pulling open the narrow door, he held the panel with the flat of his back. He watched her predatorily as she walked through.

  “I wasn’t attempting to amuse.”

  To her relief, the interior of the Savoy did not consist of scaffolding or piles of construction rubbish. Together, she and Mark traveled over a sea of black-and-white tile. Everything smelled rich and new. Thick wood columns supported the high ceiling, which was highly carved and decorated with classical scenes in some places, and painted with murals in others. Shaded electric fixtures provided the ideal amount of ambient light. Most interesting, though, was the row of ten men in dress frock coats standing shoulder to shoulder, their hands at their sides, obviously awaiting them. A short-statured, bearded gentleman stepped out from the rest and rushed forward with open hands.

  “Lord Alexander.” He grinned slyly. “How thrilled I was to receive your note.”

  Mark nodded curtly, his expression no less treacherous than before. To Mina, he said, “
This is Mr. Richard D’Oyly Carte, manager of the Savoy Theatre, and hotelier extraordinaire.” Tilting his face toward the spry gentleman, he continued. “D’Oyly Carte, please allow me to introduce . . . my wife.”

  The man didn’t seem concerned at all that Mark had growled the last two words. Rather, he beamed with pleasure and, wide-eyed and openmouthed, assessed Mina with as much enthusiasm as if she were the Venus de Milo come to life. She blushed at the intensity of his admiration, but she suspected he was well schooled in the art of paying court.

  “A pleasure, Lady Alexander,” D’Oyly Carte gushed, clicking his heels and bowing deeply. He extended a hand, and after she placed hers within it, he lowered his head to press a kiss to the back of her glove. “What a delightful surprise it was to learn that our favorite financier had married. No one was more shocked than I to see the news in the papers this morning. Seeing you, I can certainly understand his lordship’s decision to end his glorious run at bachelorhood. Curse your ship’s engine for giving out, but clearly you were intended to spend your honeymoon here at the Savoy.” He beamed. “I, myself, can think of no grander location.”

  Given his cheerful demeanor, Mina concluded he did not yet know of the murder that would be in all the same papers the next morning. How did one share news of a murder? Of someone’s head getting cut off? She decided to defer to Mark on that matter.

  He said nothing.

  “We’ll be here for two or three nights only, until our residence is prepared.” He frowned at the line of men, who still stood a few feet away, like a row of frozen, smiling penguins. “What is all this?”

  D’Oyly Carte glanced backward. “We used you for practice. I had the doorman watch for you as if you were the Prince Regent himself. One press of the royalty buzzer and we all scrambled into place.” He smiled proudly. “Don’t they look exceedingly smart? We must be prepared. It’s only a matter of time before His Grace strolls through that door.”

  Leading them forward, D’Oyly Carte introduced each staff member by name and position, and dismissed them to go on about their duties.

  Mark asked, “Have we got César Ritz on board as manager yet?”

  “He insists he’s not interested, sir, but”—the hotelier winked—“your letter appears to have worked magic. He’s agreed to come for the grand opening.”

  “He’ll stay.” Mark flashed a tight grin. “Have you a key for me?”

  D’Oyly Carte fished a tagged key from his coat pocket and handed it over. Riveted, Mina watched the transfer. Mark curled his fist around it.

  “Do you recall how to use the lift, your lordship, or should I call an operator?”

  “I remember.”

  Without further pleasantries, Mark led Mina toward a wide row of descending stairs.

  She licked her bottom lip, feeling like a gazelle being dragged off to be mauled by a ravenous lion. She supposed she could throw herself on D’Oyly Carte’s mercy, but given his apparent adoration of her “husband,” she imagined he would only call in a crew of jacketed assistants to help in her abduction. She conceded also, at the heart of her concern, was that she did not trust herself alone with Mark. Her rational self panicked at the thought of leaving the safety of others—but her adventurous self was undeniably curious about what would come next.

  A handful of stairs down, and they arrived in a grand entrance hall. Open elevator doors revealed the most wickedly extravagant ascending room Mina had ever seen, adorned wall-to-wall with red lacquered panels and accented by gold scrollwork. A sort of giddy panic shattered her pulse. Mark stood to the side, silent and watching . . . waiting for her to enter.

  “That key is for a suite, is it not? I won’t go up unless we have two rooms,” she insisted quietly. “Separate sleeping quarters.”

  Even now, memories of his naked body, sprawled across pale sheets, assailed her.

  Mark shrugged. “There is no shortage of rooms.”

  Mina nodded. She bolstered her courage, and marched in, taking a place against the back wall. He followed her inside. The door closed smoothly behind him, outlining him in crimson.

  “But I didn’t marry you to sleep in separate beds.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Her eyes flew wide.

  “You’re not listening,” she insisted, in a firm, strong voice. “It’s finished, Mark. This farce of a marriage is over.”

  “To new beginnings, then.” His eyes held dark, wicked promise.

  The gentle hiss of hydraulics sounded, and an upward pressure beneath her soles announced their ascension. She was trapped—trapped inside four iniquitous, scarlet walls with the most beautiful, tempting man she’d ever known.

  “Come here.”

  “No.”

  But she wanted to. Like a flower, the entire front surface of her body awakened to him, as if he were a bright, sensual sun. She swayed backward, pressing her shoulders to the paneled wall as if by that mere effort, she could anchor herself from throwing herself into his arms. Because, curse her, she wanted to feel him pressed against her. She wanted to kiss him and see him naked—every last bit of him. She wanted to experience all his spectacular heat, and his strength and fiery desire.

  She flung her purse at the center of his chest. “Blast you.”

  His eyes went blank, and his lips flattened.

  She clasped her hands over her face. “Please. Don’t do this. You’re making me so miserable.”

  His footfall came against the carpet, and then a darkening as his shadow fell over her.

  No . . . no . . . no . . .

  Large, warm hands covered hers . . . tilting her face up, almost rough in their handling. The spice of his skin filled her nose.

  “Don’t you see? I can’t stop myself,” he rasped.

  Between the triangular frame of their joined hands, his lips descended onto hers. Mina kept her eyes shut. It was easier that way, to pretend the moment wasn’t real, that this was all some dark, forbidden fantasy.

  Oh, yes, please. More.

  Her lips parted on a gasp. His mouth slanted, and he deepened the kiss. His tongue moved over her lips and teeth in a hot, possessive caress. Everything inside her ached—rejoiced. Like a secret key, his words and his kiss unlocked her resistance, and her heart.

  He’d hurt her.

  She twisted away, pressing her feverish forehead against the cool panel. His arms, his shoulders folded around her, a smothering, perfect prison. Wet, hot kisses fell on her neck. The friction of his mouth and the faint morning growth of his beard wrought a seduction of their own, sending a swirling heat down through her chest, into her breasts and nipples. His tongue teased her skin, her nape and her earlobes. Instinctively, she pressed her buttocks against his groin. He slid the swollen ridge against her and let out a low growl. Mina’s eyes rolled in pleasure.

  Trapped between Mark and the scarlet wall, Mina moaned, hating him and loving his touch all at once. His size and power overwhelmed her. The scent of his skin and his breath filled her nostrils and her mouth, intoxicating her. The achy, heavy spot between her legs grew heated and damp.

  He captured her wrists and pressed them on either side of her head, against the lacquer. Deliciously, his hands moved in tandem, down her arms, over her breasts in a knowing, circular massage, through black silk and corset. Skin hissed against silk. The sounds of their quick, mutual breaths blended into a secret, elemental song. Long fingers slid the top three of her bodice buttons through their holes, and his hand deftly slipped inside to squeeze one swollen, aching breast.

  “I think . . . ,” she rasped.

  “You think what?” he murmured against her neck.

  “I think I hate you.”

  She meant the words too. And, of course, she did not mean them at all.

  Again, by her wrists, he forced her around and with the pressure of his body, his chest and his knee between her thighs, fixed her to the wall.

  “I can live with that.” His taut features, haloed in scarlet, filled her vision. The rest was s
ensation: cool air against her stockinged ankles; his breath, warm and sharp, against her exposed upper breast. He hooked his hips against her, boldly presenting his arousal against her thigh. She arched, matching her body against his, aching . . . wanting.

  His hand cupped her face.

  “Don’t cry. Don’t cry, sweetheart.” His thumb brushed through tears she hadn’t realized she shed. “Let me love you. I’ll make things right.”

  He bent, dragging his lower lip against hers in a teasing, openmouthed invitation. She moved forward, accepting. His fingers scored into her hair, dislodging her hat.

  She didn’t feel the lift stop. She only heard the slide of the door. And then . . . his arms were around her, lifting her off the floor, against the rigid wall of his chest.

  The world spun into fragmented visions of a paneled ceiling . . . a long hallway of doors . . . and dim, electric light. He carried her like a medieval war prize, and oh, she allowed it; even liked it. She ought to be ashamed at falling so easily. But they were alone here, and there was no one to see; no one to chastise her for how wicked she’d become in the arms of an immortal who was not her husband, not really, despite all the vows and the clergy and the papers.

  He unlocked the door, taking them inside a large, clean-smelling room. A blur of blue and cream and rococo. He set her to her feet, and she wandered a few steps on legs so shaky, she could barely stand. Late-afternoon light streamed through elegant red and white blinds. His arms came around her waist, and he deftly unfastened the final three buttons of her bodice, nudging her farther into the sitting room. Tugging at her cuffs, he slid the jacket off by its sleeves, and dropped the garment to the floor. Cool air kissed her shoulders, but her back burned with the press of his shirtfront. Again, his mouth found that place on her neck, and she turned into melted wax. She felt dazed . . . delightfully mauled. A tug at the back of her waistband, and her skirt gave way.

  He suddenly pulled away. She heard the brush of fabric against skin. She glimpsed back. He tore the necktie from his throat. His expression was stark, and his cheeks hollowed by passion. His eyes, riveted on her, promised far more than the intimacies they’d shared in the lift.