So Still The Night

by Kim Lenox

  “Don’t, Mark. Not if you care for me.” She smiled, but her eyes welled with tears.

  “Why?” Displeasure turned his lips down.

  “Because I’m this much away from being in love with you.” She held up her index finger and her thumb, spaced a half inch apart. “Very close, you see. I’m not saying last night was a mistake. It wasn’t. Everything was beautiful. A dream. But don’t make me love you. I’ll hurt too much, too deeply when you leave. And you will leave me, one way or the other. If I loved you . . . I don’t think I could survive it.”

  Mark stood rigid, numbed by her words.

  “Good night, Mark.”

  He nodded. She disappeared into the bedroom. He stood, fixed to the center of the carpet, and listened. He tortured himself with the sounds of her dress and undergarments being removed, her skin brushing against the sheets. Eventually she grew silent and still.

  Mark crossed the room and unlatched the fastening for the balcony door. He stepped out onto the narrow ledge and gripped the iron rail. Air. God, he needed air. Canvas drapes shifted on either side, snapping softly in the wind. Desire ate him up inside, desire made infinitely more complex and terrifying by the simple need to be close to her. One woman. Mina Limpett. It took every ounce of his resolve to respect her request. To stay away.

  Cleopatra’s Needle arose from the edge of the Thames Embankment, just a long stone’s throw away. He couldn’t explain why, but he always felt stronger near the object, although the obelisk, one of a trio of such needles, held little connection to his mother. Formed of red granite, they stood some twenty meters in height, and had been in existence centuries before the Egyptian queen walked the earth. She had, however, ordered their removal from the city of Heliopolis, and their relocation to the Caesareum in Alexandria, a temple she’d built in honor of his father, Mark Antony. Centuries later, politics and new world powers had seen this one brought to London. The others were located in Paris and in New York.

  “Alexander.”

  He glanced to the balcony above him. Long, dark hair rippled in the wind. “Hello, Selene.”

  “What did you receive from the equerry?”

  “An invitation to Ascot. The royal box.”

  A foul curse drifted down. Mark chuckled.

  “I’ve been trying to snare an invitation for . . . well, for the last century,” she complained.

  “I’m sorry. Maybe next year.”

  An extended silence passed. “You didn’t have to marry that little girl to get to those scrolls.”

  “I realize that.”

  “Does she know?”

  “That I’m an Amaranthine? Yes.”

  Another long silence.

  “Would you like me to come up there?” Mark asked.

  “Just shut up. I didn’t even come here to see you. Just the view.”

  “I love you, Selene.”

  A drop of moisture struck his hand from above.

  The next morning, Mina moved about the suite, fully dressed. Mark sprawled across the settee. Just the sight of him, sulky and shirtless, with his trousers half unfastened, made her mouth go dry.

  “You didn’t have to sleep out here,” she chastised softly.

  “Yes, I did.” He rubbed his neck.

  “Is your neck sore?”

  “My neck isn’t the only thing that’s sore.” His eyes burned on her.

  Mina blushed. She’d slept fitfully herself.

  “I don’t like to sleep without you,” he grumped.

  She smiled. Not too broadly, though, because she didn’t want to tease or encourage. “When have we ever slept together, for more than a half hour?”

  He rubbed his eyes with a flattened palm. “Tell me I don’t have to do it again.”

  “I just told you that you don’t have to sleep on the settee.”

  “You know what I mean.” Again, two carnal beams of blue light seared through her clothes. She knew exactly what he meant, but she didn’t want to talk about it.

  “The girls will be here soon,” she said lightly. “I sent a note offering to take a carriage to collect them, but I think they wanted to see the hotel and our suite.”

  Mark stood. “I’ll dress.”

  “You don’t have to go with us. We’re just going to a modiste shop on Tavistock Street. You can go check on Leeson and the house.”

  “I don’t want you to go alone. I don’t want you to go anywhere alone, until all this with your father and the scrolls and—and—” He waved his hand.

  “And the dark forces.”

  He pointed at her. “Yes, until all that’s settled.”

  He dressed and shaved. Just as he came out from the bathing chamber, a knock sounded on the door. Mina answered.

  Astrid burst in first, dressed head to toe in black, followed by Evangeline in a similar costume. Their faces glowed with excitement, but Mina perceived a telling redness in their eyes, and dark shadows beneath.

  “Oh, Willomina, do you know whom we saw in the lobby downstairs?” Astrid gushed.

  Evangeline blurted, “The Devine Sarah. The actrice, Sarah Bernhardt. Mr. D’Oyly Carte introduced her to us. She’s come to look at a suite.”

  Astrid giggled. “They say she used to sleep in a coffin, so she would better understand tragedy for her roles. Can you imagine the morbidity of waking up in a coffin?”

  Evangeline whispered, loud enough for anyone within three city blocks to hear, “They also say she’s the Prince of Wales’s mistress. Do you think it’s true?”

  “She is a very handsome woman,” Astrid affirmed.

  “I suppose she is that. For someone of her age.”

  “Girls,” Mina interrupted, feeling as if she were fifty years older than either of them, when in reality only a few years separated them in age.

  Their eyes flew to Mark. Both blushed deeply.

  Astrid murmured, “My apologies, your lordship. It’s just that the hotel is so beautiful, and we’ve been confined to the house for days.”

  “Only one day,” whispered Evangeline.

  “Well, it feels like days.”

  Mina showed the girls around the suite. Mark remained in the sitting room, tall and silent, his hands thrust in his pockets. Afterward, they all went downstairs. The Trafford carriage conveyed them the brief distance from the Savoy to the modiste’s shop.

  Behind an expanse of polished windows, an elegant reception room waited, done up in rich blue carpets and gold draperies. Mahogany tables displayed all manner of fabrics, trim and accessories. Other shoppers, mostly female, crowded the floor. Assistants and shop girls darted about. Within moments, the proprietress appeared from the back rooms, measuring tapes draped over her shoulders. She led them behind a screen to view two tables full of accoutrements for mourning, out of sight of curious eyes. On one table lay purses and shawls, gloves and veils, and on the other, rolls of various silks and bombazines and all manner of acceptable trims.

  “Come, Cousin Willomina.” Astrid clasped her hand and drew her closer. “Give me your every advice for looking lovely in the midst of mourning. My debut Season may be ruined, but who’s to say the summer can’t end with a proposal? After all, black seemed to work well for you.”

  “Order a few things.” Mark stood behind her, tall and protective. She savored the deep timbre of his voice. “Some dresses. Something fine for Ascot.” He waved his fingers toward the table. “I like that one, the bolt of black that has the purplish sort of reflection.”

  The modiste smiled. “A perfect choice. Our finest silk paduasoy.”

  With flair, she lifted the bolt and unfurled the silk for Mina’s perusal. In the next moment she presented a leather-bound book of fashion plates, while an assistant offered a similar book for the girls to view. With Mark grunting and gesturing at the pictures over her shoulders, Mina made three selections.

  “I’ve got to go for measurements.”

  “I’ll be here.” From his scowl, it was clear Mark hated being in the shop at all. But like an
impatient mastiff, he settled into an armchair.

  In the dressing room, Mina allowed an assistant to help her remove her dress.

  “It will just be a moment, my lady,” the girl said, hanging her dress and shawl on a peg.

  “Thank you.”

  Mina stood in her undergarments. With nothing else to do with her time, she stared at herself in the mirror. What did he see in her? She touched her hair.

  His scent filled her nostrils, exotic spice and masculine skin. Warm breath brushed her cheek.

  She’d imagined it. But then . . . Mark had been invisible in the crypt.

  A hard wall of warmth embraced her from behind. Mina gasped. Her hands came up, searching, but touched nothing but her own skin.

  “Mark?” she whispered.

  Yes . . .

  His voice answered inside her head. Linen slid and crushed against her skin as unseen hands and fingers moved over her arms, her shoulders. A warm mouth pressed against her neck.

  She closed her eyes. Exquisite. His every touch was exquisite.

  “Mark, please . . . ,” she whispered.

  Please, what?

  Pressure rippled over her hips . . . her waist . . . her corset. Sensual and electrifying. A hand closed over her breast. Another crushed her petticoats and stroked against her thigh.

  Mina looked to the mirror, and saw nothing—nothing but a flushed young woman in disheveled undergarments and plump, crushed breasts.

  She licked her lips. How wonderful. How erotic. How sneaky of Mark to use this talent against her.

  “Please stop.”

  Abruptly, he released her. Her petticoats dropped into place. Mina swayed.

  The modiste breezed in.

  “My lady?” The woman rushed forward to steady Mina. “Are you ill?

  “No . . .”

  Your cheeks are flushed and you appear faint.” She urged her assistant to go for a glass of water.

  Ah, but she ached. Ached for more.

  When you’re ready, Mina. When you’re ready, come to me.

  Two days later, Mina walked in Mark’s shadow through the crush of an enormous crowd. The sky spread above them, an endless canopy of blue. The weather was beautiful—warm without being hot. They moved along the center of the Royal Enclosure, having been escorted through by Lord Coventry, the Master of the Royal Buckhounds, himself. The grandstand loomed over the crowd, festooned in flowers and greenery. Onlookers crowded the windows and roofs. Flags of all colors whipped in the wind.

  “My mother used to tell me about going to Ascot, but I never imagined anything as impressive as this.”

  They’d managed to coexist amiably for two days. Mina had held to her decision to keep their marriage out of the bedroom, and Mark had not pressed her, although a constant frisson of sensual tension electrified the air between them.

  “It’s really something, isn’t it?” He drew her closer to his side, sheltering her from the jostle of the crowd. “They’ve made improvements recently, even enlarging the Royal Enclosure, though you wouldn’t know it from this ridiculous crush.”

  Mina caught only glimpses of white rails, and beyond that, brilliant green turf. “There are so many people, how can anyone see the course or the horses?”

  He grinned. “Most aren’t here to watch the race.”

  Several gentlemen called out greetings to Mark. Surely she imagined it, but it seemed an echo spread out from around them, one formed of whispers and murmurings.

  “Point in case.” Mark’s head dipped low, his lips near her ear. “They’re all talking about you, sweetheart.”

  Mina touched her hat, feeling like a stray ink blot on an expanse of white linen. All around her, ladies wore diaphanous creations of silk, chiffon and lace, in the vibrant colors of summer. Mark had paid an additional fee to guarantee the timely delivery of her new dresses and hats, and she’d chosen the best of them to wear today. She felt pleased by the expert fit of her bodice, and the narrow cut of the sleeves, but as far as ornamentation, there were only a row of jet buttons along the center of her breasts and a bit of pleated satin trim at her cuffs and hem.

  She supposed she looked as fine as one could while wearing mourning garb. Best of all, she wore a badge that proclaimed her to be the Viscountess Alexander. She had no wish to preen over her status, but she knew she’d always remember this day. Perhaps years from now she’d pull the badge from a special box of treasures and gift the memento to a granddaughter.

  The thought put a little ache in her chest, because Mark, of course, would be the centerpiece of any such memory. Mina could not help but take a secret, heart-swelling pride in him. He was not only handsome and dashing, but also intelligent and utterly capable of . . . well . . . everything, so far as she knew. She cautioned herself against wholehearted admiration, knowing such feelings would only compound her grief when they inevitably parted. She would simply enjoy this day and hold it dear once he was gone.

  Voices rose all about them, and a surge of excitement traveled through the crowd. Nearly everyone turned in unison toward New Mile.

  “It’s the royal procession.” Mark led her toward the rail, where they found only enough space for one. With a hand on her back he brought her in front of him. He stood very close behind her, his legs crushed into her skirts. She resisted the temptation to lean against him.

  To the applause of the crowd, an open barouche rolled past, with the bearded and smiling Prince Albert Edward inside, and beside him, the elegant and serene Princess Alexandra. Four more carriages followed, crowded with elegant personages. The entourage proceeded up the center of the course.

  With royalty out of sight, the throng disbursed, if only slightly. Mark guided her to the center of the grandstand. At the base of a narrow tunnel of stairs, an official checked their name against a list, and with a courteous smile, sent them up. The scene that greeted them nearly overwhelmed Mina. Amidst the recognizable faces of the nobility, there were also politicians, artists and actresses. A long buffet table occupied the back wall, covered with smoked salmon, cheese and fruit. A silver plate fountain, surrounded by glistening, faceted crystal, spouted streams of champagne. A familiar face appeared from out of the crowd: Mrs. Avermarle, the woman from the stationery shop.

  “Lady Alexander.” Mrs. Avermarle reached out her hand. Her acquaintances followed close behind, their eyes wide with interest. The same sympathetic smile turned all their lips. “How is your dear uncle? Grief-stricken, I am sure. We are all simply shocked at the news of Lady Trafford’s death. Come, come, you must tell me everything.”

  “Alexander,” a voice boomed.

  Mina glanced over her shoulder. Prince Edward gestured to Mark from the rail overlooking the track. His Grace waved off a few gentlemen, an obvious request for privacy. Mina turned back to Mrs. Avermarle and forced a smile.

  By necessity, Mark abandoned Mina to the ladies. He sidled through four rows of gleaming white chairs.

  “Your Grace.” He bowed.

  “A fine day for racing, eh?” The prince slid his hand into his front coat pocket. He wore a polished black top hat and an exquisitely tailored gray morning coat and trousers. A gold chain draped across the portly swell of his vest, ending in a pendulous gold watch. “These things take forever to start. I sometimes take the opportunity to dispense with a little Crown business.”

  “Business?”

  Edward leaned close. He grinned slyly and murmured in a clandestine tone, “To think . . . all the parties. The card games. The routs. I never suspected you were one of them.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Mark held his gaze.

  Edward grinned. “Her Majesty sends her greetings. Well”—he chuckled—“her chastisements. She’s been in a high temper, unable to reach that other Guard, Lord Black.”

  “I see,” Mark responded. He hesitated to inform the prince of his present state of banishment from the Shadow Guard. He imagined such a confession would be the fastest way to get himself and his pretty new wife tossed d
own the stairs, and hell, likely escorted out of the country. “I’ll convey that along to his lordship.”

  Perhaps when Archer arrived to kill him.

  Archer had always been Victoria’s favorite. The aging queen staunchly refused to communicate with any other Guard. It was she who’d insisted that Archer replace Mark in the hunt for the Ripper.

  “As you well know, the monarch grows . . . older.” Edward whispered the word, as if even here, so far removed from Balmoral, Victoria might overhear. “More and more of the Crown’s affairs fall to me.” He tilted his head at a jaunty angle. “After the nasty business of last fall, we’re quite concerned with these severed female body parts that have been recovered along the Thames.” His eyes narrowed on Mark. “There won’t be more, will there?”

  Mark skirted any direct answer. “The Guard is presently working to ensure that.”

  Edward nodded and waved a hand in acknowledgment of the crowd below. “We wouldn’t want another one of those bro-bro—by God, what do you call those nasty creatures?”

  “Brotoi.”

  The prince gave a little shudder. “Far too close to Bertie for my comfort. We don’t want another brotoi on the loose, causing a recurrence of widespread panic.”

  Mark crossed his arms over his chest. Truth be told, he didn’t know if there was still a brotoi on the loose. “I understand your concern.”

  The prince drummed his fingertips against the rail. “Along those lines, we’ve authorized the commissioner to finalize Lady Trafford’s cause of death as due to disease.”

  Mark’s eyebrows lifted. “I’m certain the Primordial Council would agree with that decision.”

  The prince clapped him on the shoulder. “I’m just damn pleased to be dealing with you on this matter. I’m not opposed to a little new blood, and shaking up the present ranks.”

  Mark’s lip jerked in pleasure. “I’m pleased to hear that.”

  The prince would indeed be a valuable contact for the future, once Mark’s immortal life returned to normal. Just then, Edward’s eyes fixed on something across the room. Mark glanced over his shoulder to realize the prince’s attention had settled on . . . Mina, at the center of a society Inquisition.