Dancing on the Wind

by Mary Jo Putney

  "Apology accepted. Just don't bother me again tonight." Lucien swung the door shut and locked it, then slid the key under the cushion of a nearby chair.

  This time, by God, she was not going to get away.

  He listened to the sound of Harford's retreating footsteps, then the faint creak of the door to the service stairs. With his usual curiosity, Lucien had explored the stairwell soon after he had arrived. Harford would wander for a long time in the bowels of the house before finally giving up in frustration.

  Turning to the bed, he said, "You can come out now."

  Expression wary, she pushed back the covers and sat up, surrounded by drifts of bed linen and blue silk. The atmosphere vibrated with complicated emotions: anger, deceit, desperation, and desire. Most of all, desire.

  But for Lucien, anger was a damned close second. "So it really was you earlier," he said, his voice low and hard. "I'm glad to know that my instincts were sound. What have you to say for yourself this time?"

  She grimaced. "That facing you under these circumstances is in some ways worse than having to deal with Roderick Harford." With a cavalier lack of respect for the expensive silk, she wiped off most of her cosmetics with the hem of her domino. Looking slightly smudged and much younger, she added wryly, "I've provoked him only once."

  Her humor raised his anger another notch. "Perhaps you should have taken your chances with him. You asked for my help, but it comes at a price. And this time, my deceitful lady, I am flat out of gullibility."

  Her expression became grave. "Given what you've endured from me, that's hardly surprising."

  During the long silence that followed, he saw a shimmer of changing emotions in her eyes: regret, doubt, longing, and finally determination. Her hands locked in her lap. "I know that payment is long overdue," she said quietly. "Once you wanted me in your bed. If that's still true—well, I'm here."

  Once again she astonished him, this time by her sheer, arrow-straight directness. He drew an unsteady breath. Though he disliked the implication that her offer was rooted in obligation rather than desire, there was no question of his refusing. Gentlemanly compunctions were a feeble consideration when set against the passion smoldering in his veins. "You had better mean it," he said tightly, "because this time you won't be allowed to change your mind or cry for mercy."

  "If anyone cries for mercy, it won't be me, Lucien." She stretched out a slim, strong hand. "I've had enough of lies. It's time for some honesty."

  He knew with absolute certainty that this time she would not run away. Yet she looked brittle, her eyes still haunted by the aftermath of her encounter with Harford.

  Lucien frowned. Fear made a poor bedmate. He wanted her to be as hungry, as vulnerable, as he was. That meant he must control himself while bringing her to a fervor that matched his own. But restraint would not be easy.

  In the silence that stretched tautly between them, the lilting music below was clearly audible. Of course, he thought with relief; dancing would re-create the enchantment that had bound them together earlier. He reached out and clasped her hand. "Dance with me, my lady."

  After a startled blink, she slid her beautiful long legs over the edge of the mattress and kicked off her slippers. She released his hand, then curtsied gracefully, as if they had just been introduced. "It will be my pleasure, Lord Strathmore."

  "Though we have not been properly introduced," he said with matching formality, "I believe that you are Lady Kit Travers?"

  She straightened, a smile lurking in her eyes. "I knew it was only a matter of time until you learned who I am. Jane is one of my middle names, though."

  "I've thought of you by a hundred names—Lady Jane—Lady Nemesis—Lady Quicksilver. But Kit is better, crisp and unconventional, like you." He tugged off her blond wig. Then he loosened her hair into a silky cloud, each gentle, circular stroke of his fingertips a caress.

  "Mm-m-m." She gave a slow smile. "That feels lovely. No wonder cats like having their heads scratched."

  She was still wearing her kidskin gloves, so he lifted her left hand and peeled the glove off. Then he kissed the fragile skin of her inner wrist. Her fingers curled, and her quickening blood pulsed warmly against his lips.

  When he did the same with her right hand, her fingertips fluttered across his cheek. "Lucifer, light-bearer," she murmured. "Bright son of the morning."

  "Now much fallen from heaven, I fear." He placed one hand in the small of her back. Her spine was vibrant with supple strength. Intertwining the fingers of his free hand with hers, he swept her into the pattern of the waltz. "But I have a glimpse of paradise before me now."

  She colored and dropped her eyes. In the candlelight, her hair was a cinnamon-tinted halo. With more space than on a crowded dance floor, they could move freely to the rhythms of the music, their bodies speaking directly to one another. The crimson-patterned carpet was lushly sensual beneath their stockinged feet as they glided across the chamber.

  Though her dancing was adept, as befitted a professional, at first there was a stiffness in her movements, as if her mind and body were not quite in tune with the music. But as they circled the open area of the room, the music began to work its magic and the strain faded from her muscles and her face.

  Their partnership became fluid harmony. He was intensely, physically aware of the lithe feminine body beneath the blue domino. The reverse was also true, for each of his movements produced a matching response in her, a dynamic, constantly shifting balance between male and female.

  As they came to the end of the room, he untied the ribbons of her domino with one hand. The silk billowed outward on the turn and floated obliquely down until it crumpled into the angle between wall and floor. Her bare shoulders glowed like warm cream. His mouth went dry. Not yet. Not... yet.

  Her eyes had drifted shut so that she was following his lead purely through touch and movement. She was thistle-light in his arms. He found it oddly moving that she was placing herself entirely in his hands, at least for the moment.

  Now that he had relaxed her, it was time to make her tense again. He bent forward and kissed the tender angle between her throat and jaw, lapping upward to the elegant curve of her ear. Her breath caught, and her lips parted as he spun her about in a fluid circle.

  What would it take to open her eyes? With an extravagant swoop, he tilted her backward over his arm, supporting all her weight. At the same time he thrust his leg between hers so that they were intimately locked together. Her startled eyes flew open, and in the clear gray depths he saw the passion he had wanted to invoke.

  She recovered from her surprise in an instant. "Sir," she said demurely, "I believe that we are closer than is proper."

  As she spoke, she slowly squeezed her thighs around his. Heat curled through his belly. Breathlessly he said, "Indeed we are." He swept her upright again and swirled her across the room. "And we are going to get closer yet."

  He began to improvise steps that were too shamelessly erotic to be performed in public. Her pliant dancer's body adapted to his effortlessly, as if she was an extension of him. Their bodies met in full-length caresses, then separated, only to come together again with greater fire. They became part of the music, its beat thrumming in their blood as they performed their ardent mating dance.

  When the music downstairs ended, they merged into an embrace, swaying together in the center of the chamber. They kissed ravenously, and she rolled her pelvis into his with wicked provocation. He groaned as he felt himself harden against the yielding cradle of her hips.

  The time for restraint was over. He unfastened the ties that held her gown at the back so that the garment fell away from her body. Eyes smoky with desire, she gave a seductive shimmy. The gown rippled downward over her arms and hips until it pooled at her feet, leaving her clad only in her chemise and the artfully padded corselet that disguised her own slim figure.

  His gaze holding hers, he unlaced the front of her corselet. The garment fell open and revealed her breasts as softly arching shadows
beneath the sheer lawn of her chemise. He cupped her breasts, teasing her nipples between thumb and forefinger. Her eyes widened, and she ran her tongue over her lips as the sensitive nubs hardened.

  Every movement of her body signaled desire. Yet the sight made him realize that desire was not enough. Even more than passion, he wanted an emotional intimacy that would reach all of the lonely places deep in his soul.

  As he removed her corselet, he tried to catch her gaze, fiercely willing her to look at him, to share the mysteries of her elusive spirit.

  Instead, she stepped forward and slid her arms under his loose shirt, wrapping them around the bare skin of his waist as she hid her face against the triangle of bare chest where his shirt gapped open at the front. Her breasts flattened against his chest as she smoothed her palms over the tight muscles of his back.

  Reluctantly admiring the deftness with which she had evaded his gaze, he skinned her chemise up over her head and tossed it away. "You're wearing too much."

  "You are, too," she retorted. She pulled his shirt up over his head, then tossed it away. " 'Pleasing was his shape,' " she quoted huskily, " 'and lovely.' "

  He had to laugh at the rich absurdity of her imagination. "As I recall, Lucifer was in the form of the serpent when Milton said that."

  "Isn't there a serpent somewhere near?" She took advantage of his shirtless state to press scalding kisses to his bare chest.

  Her hands skimmed under the waistband of his breeches. He gave a harsh exhalation, and his hands tightened convulsively around her buttocks. The ripe curves fitted perfectly into his palms. Half lifting her from the floor, he molded her malleable flesh against the hard angles of his body.

  She bit his shoulder, and the last of his control disintegrated. After ripping off his breeches and drawers, he swept her to the bed. They tumbled onto the mattress with an impact that made the bedframe shriek.

  He bore her backward into the pillows, wanting to absorb her into himself, to feast on her intoxicating femaleness. Her mouth met his, open and demanding. They twisted together like wildcats, her hips grinding into his.

  Feverishly he buried his face in the scented cleft between her breasts—tangy sweet, salt and carnations. He could not get enough of her.

  As he sucked her nipple into his mouth, her whole frame shivered, her head thrown back and her chest heaving with raw demands for breath. She wore only her silk stockings.

  Unable to resist the delicious curve of her abdomen, he trailed kisses down it, his breath skimming over the sensitive skin. She moaned and caught his head between her hands, pressing his face into her belly. Her satiny warmth intoxicated him.

  He pushed himself up and moved between her legs, his thighs spreading her knees wide to receive him. As he did, he saw the butterfly tattoo hovering teasingly just above her ribbon garter. He leaned forward and pressed his lips to it, and felt her thrumming life force against his tongue. She gasped and spasmodically crushed handfuls of blanket in her fists.

  His fingers slid through gossamer tangled curls to the hotly moist folds below. She whimpered with delirium when his fingers stroked, probing and preparing. Shaking with urgency, he positioned himself so that he was pressing into intimate heat.

  Her back arched in readiness and her silk-clad ankles wrapped around his as he braced himself over her. Then, with a single eager thrust, he entered her.

  She cried out—a sound of shock, not pleasure—and her nails ripped his back as she spasmed with pain.

  He went rigid, the muscles of his arms and shoulders like granite, and stared down at her in disbelief. "Jesus bloody Christ!" he exploded, his eyes changing from the lucent gold of passion to the glittering green of anger. "Why didn't you tell me?"

  Chapter 23

  Shaking, Kit closed her eyes. Perhaps this was another nightmare and soon she would wake. But the masculine weight and texture of the body pinning her to the bed, the sharp, intimate discomfort, were inescapably real.

  She opened her eyes. Taut and dangerous, Lucien loomed over her, the powerful breadth of his shoulders limned by candlelight. "I... I didn't think you would have to know," she whispered. "I didn't realize how much it would hurt."

  He dropped his head forward and rested his brow on her collarbone as a shudder went through him. After a long moment, he sighed and raised his head again. "It would have hurt a great deal less if I had known in advance. Even the most skilled of actresses can't fake everything, kitten." His angry shock had passed, leaving rueful tenderness in its wake. He bent forward and touched his lips to hers in a feather-light kiss. "I'm sorry. I should have known that nothing would be simple where you are concerned. Try to relax now. The worst is over."

  He was right. The tearing pain had lasted only an instant, and the uncomfortable sense of being overstretched was also ebbing. He didn't move, simply continued to soothe her with delicate nibbling kisses on her face and throat. His urgency had been transformed into patience, though the perspiration that sheened his torso testified that his restraint did not come easily.

  Her body began to accept his alien presence as natural. As it did, the sensual craving that had vanished when they first joined started to build again. Very carefully she curled her hips upward. There was no pain, merely a new kind of compression that was... intriguing.

  She moved again with more force. He gasped, and she felt the silky-steel length of him throbbing inside her. "You'd best be careful," he panted, "because I am very close to the breaking point."

  "Break away, Lucien," she said huskily. "But you'll have to tell me what to do."

  "Just... just move against me rhythmically."

  He pressed deeper into her. She matched the movement, feeling the flex where they were joined. Sharp pleasure tingled through her in newly discovered places. "Like this?" she asked breathlessly.

  "God, yes," he groaned. "Exactly like that."

  He thrust forward again, and this time her body responded instinctively, already understanding what her mind had not yet mastered. The rhythms were as integral as her marrow. A queer aching. Slick friction and liquid heat. Wanting. Needing.

  He made a suffocated sound and began driving into her, his muscular frame and implacable strength imprisoning her with a finality that was also liberation. This was not the considerate lover of the Clarendon, slowly bringing her to fulfillment, but a man demanding what was his right. He filled her arms and her senses, taste and touch and heat. She was no longer alone...

  With sudden panic, she realized that he was penetrating her spirit as deeply as her body, stripping away her painfully constructed defenses. She tried to withdraw to the safety of being an observer, but it was impossible. She was utterly vulnerable, needing his warmth and strength with a desperation that shattered her will.

  He slid his hand between them and touched her intimately, producing a violent pleasure that hurled her into the maelstrom. When she cried out, he buried his face in the angle between her head and shoulder. Air rushed into his lungs, and a savage shudder passed from him into her. She nearly danced out of her skin, out of control, ravaged as much by the searing force of his spirit as by the tumult of physical release.

  The storm passed, leaving her shivering with shock. Dear God, if she had known, she would have dived out the window rather than let him touch her. She should have guessed that asking his help would irrevocably change the balance between them. Instead, she had willingly—eagerly—trusted him with her body, thinking that she would still be mistress of her soul and her secrets.

  She had been mad to believe that she could withhold any part of herself once they became intimate. Fearfully, she recognized that anything he asked of her, she would give. And may God have mercy if he was unworthy of trust.

  As she tried to choke back her tears, he rolled onto his side and gathered her against him. His hands skimmed over her, as gentle as they had previously been demanding. Quietly he said, "It's always been you, every time, hasn't it?"

  She nodded, her face pressed against his collarbo
ne.

  "And you're Kathryn, not Kristine." It was a statement, not a question.

  Reflexively trying to keep him at a distance, she asked, "Why do you say that?"

  "My head accepted that you must be two different women, but my instinct disagreed." Her discarded chemise had chanced to land on the bed, so he used it to carefully blot the small amount of blood between her legs. "You did an excellent job of playing the role of a worldly actress, but even at your most brazen, there was an underlying shyness. I wondered about it a little."

  She made a face. "As you said earlier, there is a limit to what acting can do. I can mimic Kira very well, but I can't always make myself enjoy it."

  "The final proof was your virginity. Kristine may be many things, but I doubt that virgin is one of them." He grimaced. "If I had listened to my intuition rather than logic, I wouldn't have hurt you as much."

  "Virginity is nature's bad joke on womankind," she said gloomily.

  He grinned, then stretched out beside her and propped his head on his hand. "I was told you were always tagging behind your sister. The implication was that you were a poor second to her, but that wasn't true, was it? Anything Kira did, you did equally well. When she played Sebastian, the male twin, in Twelfth Night, you were Viola, which is actually the larger, more vital role. When she went swimming nude in the river or galloping in breeches with the hunt, you were right beside her, equally brave and equally athletic. And given the nature of identical twins, I'll wager that you instigated your share of mischief."

  She stared at him, shocked to her toes. "How do you know that? No one else has ever realized, even Aunt Jane. Everyone assumed that Kira was always the leader."

  "Because identical twins are simultaneously alike and different, some people have trouble dealing with them," he said obliquely. "It's easier and more convenient to put them in pigeonholes. The bold twin, the shy twin. The good sister, the wicked sister." His eyes sparked with amusement. "My guess is that Kira is less wild than generally presumed, and that you are less respectable, despite the splendidly straitlaced performance you gave as Lady Kathryn."