by Anne Stuart
“We have another engagement.”
“But…”
“Come.” He tightened his fingers marginally, not enough to hurt her, just enough to compel her compliance. She rose, obediently enough, following him into the dark recesses of the box before flinging off his hand. By that time, he was ready to let her go.
“Where’s Nathaniel?” she whispered, a ridiculous concession when the rest of the audience was talking loudly enough to drown out most of the music from the stage.
“He doesn’t care for opera.” Killoran draped the black velvet cloak around her shoulders, covering her hair as well. Now that they were in private, there was no need for him to touch her. He resisted the impulse to push her hair back from her face. “He’ll meet us at the Darnleys. We’ve only just begun to introduce you to society.”
“Isn’t it a little late for a party?” she asked.
He held out his arm, and she took it, though he could tell that she didn’t want to touch him. “The evening, my love, is very young. We’ll go to the Darnleys’ ball and spend perhaps half an hour, depending on how things go. You’re not to dance,” he added.
“I don’t know how.”
He paused at the door to the box, astonished by her mournful tone of voice. “Everyone dances.”
“Not me.”
“Where did you grow up, dear Emma? A convent?”
She glanced at him. The tears were gone, replaced by a sparkling hostility. “The workhouse,” she replied flatly.
“Of course,” he said pleasantly. “Come along, dear one. It’s time to see who else we can horrify.”
Emma wasn’t sure what made her feel the most conspicuous, her unbound hair or the vast expanse of her chest that had never before been displayed to the world. The shackle of heavy diamonds around her neck, or the chain of Killoran’s imprisoning hand on her slender wrist.
Whatever caused it, the eyes followed her as Killoran led her through the maze of people, pausing occasionally to exchange a few murmured barbs, never once introducing her.
If she’d been able to shrink into the background, it would have suited Emma perfectly well. But he kept her close, his hands possessive, and there was no way the vast crush of people could have ignored her presence.
For a short while she was distracted, by the light and the color and the music. Covertly, she watched the dancers; she watched Killoran. Mostly she kept her eyes lowered and her mouth closed, as Killoran settled her with deceptive concern on a settee near the dance floor. He sat beside her, and though he released her hand at last, his long, muscular thigh was too close to her full skirts.
There were layers and layers of clothing between them, hooped skirts and petticoats, underskirts and boning. Yet she could feel him, next to her, as if it were skin to skin, and she bit her lip in discomfort, casting a surreptitious glance at his cool, amused profile. For all her miserable awareness, he seemed to have forgotten her presence. Except that she already knew Killoran never forgot a thing.
“This should prove entertaining,” he murmured suddenly, his dark green eyes focusing on an extraordinary figure heading in their direction.
No woman had spoken to him since his arrival. Indeed, the ladies kept their distance, if not their attention, from him, practically pulling their skirts out of his pathway as he moved by. The gentlemen, particularly the more raffish-looking, were the only ones who conversed with him, but they were nothing compared with the puce-clothed dandy who minced drunkenly toward them.
His clothes, satin and jewel-bedecked, were magnificent to the point of absurdity. Even with her limited experience, Emma could see that much, and she felt a momentary amusement. Until he drew close enough so that she could observe the real malice in those drunken blue eyes. He was no figure of fun, after all. There was something strange about him, unnerving.
“Who’s the girl, Killoran?” Clearly the puce dandy had far more temerity than the majority of the guests, or else a great deal more to drink. Killoran glanced up at him lazily, and once more his hand captured Emma’s. Since her hands were resting in her lap, it meant that he’d placed his hand on her thigh. When she tried to pull away surreptitiously, his fingers tightened, and she knew it was useless.
“Darnley,” Killoran greeted him with just the edge of malice. “I’m glad to see you’ve recovered.”
“No thanks to you,” Darnley replied, and there was more than an edge to his voice. “They say she’s your mistress, but I can’t believe even a blackguard like you would dare bring your whore to my mother’s party.”
“You underestimate me. There’s very little I wouldn’t dare,” Killoran said lazily. “And if you call my sister a whore again, you’ll find out just how far I’m willing to go.”
“You’ll defend her honor?” Darnley demanded with mock astonishment. “I didn’t know you recognized the concept. And she’s not your sister.”
Killoran released her hand, and Emma breathed a sigh of relief. One that strangled in her throat as he deliberately slid his hand down her silk-covered thigh. “You can scarcely be aware of all the vagaries of my family, Darnley,” he said. “Emma, may I present to you my very dear friend and boon companion, Jasper Darnley? And, Darnley, this is my... distant cousin, Miss Emma Brown.”
If Darnley was a very dear friend and boon companion, Emma hated to think what Killoran’s enemies were like. The animosity was so intense, and yet so banked, that waves of it washed over her like a stoked fire, making her light-headed. Though, of course, that might have been caused by the long, beringed hand slowly caressing her thigh.
She glanced up and saw the myriad pairs of eyes, almost everyone in the huge ballroom, watching them through the candlelight, taking in each shocking detail: the veiled hatred between the two men; the affront of her unbound hair; the slow, deliberate caress of his hand on her thigh.
She rose abruptly, so suddenly that Killoran couldn’t stop her. “I feel unwell,” she announced, desperate.
The look in Killoran’s green eyes didn’t bode well for her. “Coward,” he murmured, rising with his usual grace. “I’ll take you home, my dear. We’ve accomplished what we need to. Good night, Darnley. I have little doubt we’ll be seeing you quite soon.”
“Have no doubt of that at all, Killoran,” the puce dandy said in an icy, drunken voice.
Once more the women moved out of their path as they made their way toward the front of the house. Once more the gentlemen ogled, the women gossiped. “What did you need to accomplish?” Emma asked, glancing up at him, unwilling to meet anyone else’s gaze.
“To let Darnley get a good look at you.”
“Why?”
“Because Darnley likes redheads. Craves them, as a matter of fact.”
“But you don’t like Darnley.”
“Very perspicacious of you, my pet. Most people don’t seem to realize that. They assume I feel the same, generalized contempt for him that I feel for everyone. They’ve forgotten old gossip, and they assume I have as well. But they’re wrong. I reserve a very special level of dislike for my lord Darnley.” He glanced at her. “It brightens my drab days.”
By that time they were out in the anteroom, alone. “I still don’t understand why you brought me here,” she said stubbornly.
“Oh, any number of reasons,” he replied airily. “To see what the ton thinks of me flaunting my bastard sister under their noses. They have a difficult enough time dealing with a decadent Irish peer. Having a bastard thrust upon society only makes it worse. Particularly when I evince a little too much fondness for my own sister.” He paused. “And then, of course, there’s Darnley. I enjoy seeing him squirm.”
“Why should he squirm?”
“Because he wants you, my dear. You didn’t see him when you came in, but I did. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from you, and all the claret in the world couldn’t distract him. He lusts after you, and he can’t bear the thought that you share my bed and not his.”
“I don’t share your bed,” she said, b
arely controlling her fury.
“But Darnley doesn’t know that. And wouldn’t believe it if you swore it to be true. All of which simply adds to my enjoyment of the situation,” he concluded suavely.
“What about your reputation? Won’t it harm you, people thinking you cherish unholy feelings for your own sister?”
“You don’t understand the magnitude of the reputation I already possess. A rumor such as that will only enhance it.”
She stared at him silently for a moment. “Are you completely without a soul?” she asked.
For a moment the mockery left his face, and he stood there, cold, bleak, empty. “Yes,” he said.
“Killoran!” A harassed-looking gentleman scuttled out of the ballroom and grasped Killoran’s black satin sleeve. “You’ve got to help me out, old friend. I’m in desperate need.”
“What is it now, Sanderson?” Killoran asked wearily, carefully detaching his arm from the man’s clinging fingers.
Sanderson cast an embarrassed glance over at Emma’s waiting figure. “Could I have a moment’s privacy, old chap?”
Killoran sighed. “Wait for me here, Emma,” he ordered, turning his back on her and following the other man.
Emma watched him go, wondering quite frankly if she hated him. On the one hand, he was cynical, sarcastic, and manipulative, using her for his own mysterious ends. On the other, he’d saved her twice—no, three times, if she counted her abortive attempt to run off into the snowstorm. And he’d made no attempt to bed her. Surely she should be grateful.
And she would be grateful, if he ever managed to convey even a hint of gentleness. If he didn’t make her feel like a prisoner, even though she knew she could leave, anytime she wanted to. If only she had a place to go.
And if he weren’t so wickedly, dangerously handsome.
She wasn’t used to handsome men. If she had any sense at all, she’d be infatuated with Nathaniel, with his broad shoulders, his heroic manner, his charm, and his sincerity.
But apparently she didn’t have any sense. She was fascinated by Killoran. Obsessed with him, with the very danger of him. She, who prided herself on her calm levelheadedness, was being drawn to that which could do her the most harm. And no amount of mental harangues seemed able to deter her sudden willfulness.
She tossed her head, unused to the heavy curtain of hair that fell around her shoulders. She felt cold, exposed, standing alone in the hallway. Several people glanced out at her, then quickly looked away, as if she were contaminated. It shouldn’t have bothered her, but it did.
She moved away from the doorway, toward a tall, leaded window that overlooked the street. The Darnleys’ ballroom was on the second floor of their town house, and it commanded a decent view of Kensington Park. Snow still lingered there, though it had long ago turned to black slush in the filthy streets. If she ran away now, would she find any place to hide? She had a fortune’s worth of diamonds around her neck—surely they would be enough to secure her a safe life, far away from London.
The problem was, she didn’t want to run away. Not now, not yet. Not until she found out what Killoran really wanted from her. Not until she understood him. He was like a puzzle, one that fascinated her, both drew and repelled her. If she ran now, he’d haunt her for the rest of her life.
She felt eyes on the back of her naked shoulders and shivered, without turning. Presumably it was Killoran, and she had nothing new to fear. But a strange tightening in the pit of her stomach warned her, and she slowly turned her head.
It was the drunken dandy in puce, watching her. She wondered for a moment why she had ever thought him comical. The extravagance of his clothes was pure foppery, but there was nothing foppish about his small, blue eyes or the twist to his thick lips. “I assume this is a trap,” he muttered, coming toward her.
“I beg your pardon?”
“He wouldn’t just leave you alone like this, not when he’s brought you here on purpose to waft under my nose like the scent of a bitch in heat. He knows me well enough, damn him.”
“What?”
“Then again, he’s not the man to hurry things. Where is your brother?”
“He’s not my brother,” she said instantly.
Darnley shrugged, moving closer. “I doubted that he was, but it matters not to me. If he were, it would only add spice to the game.”
“What game?”
Darnley had come up to her. He smelled of wine and a rich, heavy perfume. “An innocent, are you?” he muttered under his breath. “He brought you here for me, you know.”
Emma stared at him, willing her face to be perfectly expressionless. For all she knew, Darnley could be telling the truth. Killoran’s motives were mysterious in the extreme, and he had already admitted interest in Darnley’s reaction to her.
“Excuse me,” she said, trying to move past him.
He was very fast for a drunk, and vicious. He caught her, pushing her, and a moment later he’d tumbled her into darkness. She heard the slam of the door as he shoved her up against a wall. His mouth was wet against her neck, his hands pawing at her breasts, and she felt a sharp pain as he yanked at the diamond collar. She fought him instinctively, but this was no callow boy, no lust-crazed old man. She fought him, scratching, clawing kicking at him, but he was too strong.
The diamond necklace broke, tearing against her skin, and in the back of her mind she heard the rattle as it fell to the floor. But Darnley had no interest in diamonds. He was pulling at her hair, moaning, and his body was pushing at her, pushing at her, and there was nothing she could do to stop him.
A sudden light pierced the darkness, blinding her. A moment later the weight was plucked off her, and she was back against the wall, feeling like a cornered animal, panting, panicked.
Darnley lay in a crumpled heap on the floor, dazed, staring up at his nemesis. Killoran shook out the lace from his sleeves with a careless, elegant gesture and glanced down at the man. “You’re lucky I arrived, Darnley,” he said in a smooth voice. “Emma has an uncertain temper, and she doesn’t care to be mauled. I may very well have saved your life.”
Darnley tried to sit up and failed. “It was a trap,” he said through his bloody mouth. “I knew it.”
“Then why, dear fellow, did you fall for it?” Killoran asked gently. “With you so lately risen from your sickbed?” He stepped over the man’s fallen body, moving to Emma’s side. She glared up at him, still trying to catch her breath in the shadowy room. “Well done, my dear.”
If she had a weapon she would have killed him without hesitation. As it was, she could just stare at him with hatred in her eyes knowing he couldn’t see her expression in the darkness.
She knelt and scooped up the fallen diamond collar. She had no idea whether any of the stones were missing, but she wasn’t about to institute a search. She wanted to get away from the man lying there on the floor, staring at her with equal parts hatred and lust, and from the man beside her, who doubtless felt a cool satisfaction that she’d danced to his tune.
She tried to slip past him, but he took her arm, and her efforts to yank herself free were a waste. He paused at the doorway, looking back at Darnley.
“You can’t have her, Darnley,” he said in the gentlest of voices. “And if you touch her again, I’ll kill you.”
She waited until they were out in the carriage, her cloak pulled around her, the diamond necklace held tightly in her hand. Killoran leaned back, seemingly prepared to ignore her, and Emma’s rage, already simmering, burst forth.
“That’s what you want, isn’t it?” she cried. “To kill him?”
He glanced at her. In the murky shadow of the carriage lamp he looked cool and distant, but then, he looked the same in the full light of day. “Indeed,” he drawled.
“They why don’t you just do it? Why drag me into it?”
“Because a simple death would be boring. Darnley is, after all, an English peer. He deserves a more spectacular demise. I want to prolong it, make it something exquisite.
I want him to die knowing it was his own lust and uncontrollable desire that killed him.”
“Is that where I come in?”
“As I said, he has a weakness for women with red hair.”
“What about you?”
“Oh, I have no weakness at all where women are concerned.”
“Why do you want to kill him?”
“Any number of reasons,” he said gently, and in the darkness his eyes narrowed, watching her. “Our enmity is of long standing. I believe it started with a disagreement over my courting of his sister. He didn’t approve of a penniless Irish peer aspiring to Maude Darnley’s hand. He made that more than clear. In turn, I expressed my disinterest in his approval. Things went from bad to worse.”
“How long ago was this?”
“Oh, nearly ten years ago. I’ve been biding my time. We’ve had our little set-tos in the succeeding years, including one just a few short months ago that left Darnley bedridden for a deliciously lengthy period of time. I probably would have let him worry for another year or so, but you so fortuitously dropped into my lap. The perfect tool.”
“How gratifying,” she said.
He laughed. “I’d be half tempted to lock the two of you in a room and see who emerged the victor. I’m afraid that Darnley is too much for even such a vixen as you. But you’ll do very well. He won’t be able to keep away from you. The fact that he believes you’re my sister only makes it more intriguing.”
“And what happened to his sister?”
“Oh, she died’ he said, his voice devoid of feeling. “It was rumored that she died in childbed, but since she hadn’t yet married the wealthy British peer she’d become engaged to, no one admitted the truth of it. It could be that she took her own life.”
“Did you love her?”
Killoran’s expression was pitying. “Trust me, child, I’ve never wasted a moment of my time on such a maudlin emotion. I desired Maude Darnley. I desired her for her perfect English breeding and her perfect white body. I desired her for her passionate nature and her flame-colored hair. But I didn’t love her.”