Dancing on the Wind

by Mary Jo Putney

  When they had made love before, she had pulled away, fearing that she would lose herself in him beyond recall. This time she did not retreat. Instead, she dropped all the barriers, concealing nothing of herself. In that surrender she found fulfillment. If Kira was her other self, Lucien was her soul.

  He had feared this fevered mating almost as much as he had craved it, terrified that it would be only of the body, leaving his deeper self unsatisfied. Yet this time she was there, her love lighting the dark corners of his mind, her tenderness a balm to his aching heart. She knew his strengths and failings, his fears and hopes, as surely as he knew hers. And the love that joined them was as unmistakable as the sun.

  The physical climax was shattering, a fiery symbol of the melding of their spirits. Afterward they lay face-to-face in each other's arms, her forehead against his cheek, her ragged breath stirring wisps of his hair. He was half afraid to move in case this was only a dream and he risked waking.

  But she was more real than any dream when she tilted her head back and said lazily, "Did you know that your eyes turn to transparent gold when you're happy?"

  He gave a slow smile, knowing only Kit would say something like that. "I think of them as a rather ordinary hazel."

  "Nothing about you is ordinary," she said with conviction.

  He ran his hand down the naked curve of her back, loving her lithe strength. "Though you've suspected me of being a rake, for years I've been nearly celibate because the satisfactions of coupling were brief compared to the loneliness I felt after. But making love with you is as soothing as it is intoxicating." He bent his head and gave her a light kiss. "I feel so content right now that it's hard to believe we'll ever need to speak a word aloud again. We can simply read each other's minds."

  "We might not have to talk, but we'll want to. I love talking with you." She caressed his cheek with the back of her hand. "I love looking at you. I love making love with you." She blinked pensively. "Have I mentioned yet that I just plain love you, body and soul?"

  "No, but after the way we made love, you don't have to." He lifted her hand and kissed it. "The feeling is entirely mutual, as you know."

  "Yes," she said with perfect contentment. "I know."

  He brushed a kiss on her forehead. "You and I suit each other perfectly, my little tiger kitten. We both prefer lurking behind the scenes to being on center stage."

  She laughed. "That's true, isn't it? Kira and Jason are both more sociable types."

  He wound a silky strand of her hair around his forefinger. "The estate that borders Ashdown will soon be coming on the market. I had intended to buy it and farm the land, then lease the house, but perhaps Jason might be interested in the place. It's a fine property and convenient to Bristol, which would be a good base for his shipping business."

  "And Kira and I can be neighbors for the rest of our lives," she said quietly. "What a wonderful, generous thought."

  "I'm being entirely selfish. The happier you are, the happier I'll be."

  Her quick smile soon faded. "I'm still astonished that you love me. And... I think I'm a bit afraid you'll be disappointed when you see me in more mundane circumstances. So much of what you've seen has been me pretending to be Kira, rather than the real me."

  "Nonsense," he said calmly. "It isn't only the world that tends to define identical twins as opposites—twins do it to themselves as well. You could never have impersonated Kira so effectively if you didn't have the same qualities in yourself. In the last few weeks you haven't been playing a role, you've been discovering your own nature."

  She blinked at him. "You really think so?"

  "I know so." This time he kissed the tip of her nose. "I'm glad you're retiring as Cassie James, but I hope you'll still dance for me. You make a delightfully wicked Gypsy."

  "You may have a private performance whenever you want."

  "I still like the idea of a special license. We can be married before Christmas."

  "An excellent plan—the best of all possible presents." She stretched languidly, then settled closer to him. "Very practical, too. Kira claims that I'm pregnant." She laid a gentle hand on her belly. "Another essential person might be on the way."

  That startled him out of his lassitude. "Indeed? If she's right, that's wonderful news." He propped his head on his hand and studied her face. "Why didn't you tell me earlier?"

  "I wanted you to marry me because you loved me, not because you had to."

  He smiled ruefully. "You're more honorable than I, Kit. For much of what might be laughingly called our courtship, I had a thoroughly selfish desire to get you with child so that you would have no choice but to accept my offer." He laid his hand over hers on her abdomen. "I'm not a very admirable character, you know."

  "I am," she said in her primmest, most Kathryn-ish voice. "I have every intention of devoting the rest of my life to your physical and spiritual upliftment."

  "Speaking of physical upliftment..."

  She laughed as he rolled her on top of him, and she discovered that the physical was definitely uplifting. After settling over him with a provocative wiggle of her hips, she asked in a voice husky with love, "Do you think we'll have twins?"

  The End

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  Author's Note

  The Friars of St. Francis of Wycombe were founded in 1752 by Sir Francis Dashwood, a man whose great wealth and talent were matched by his passion for debauchery and love of outrageousness. The world at large called the group the Hellfire Club, and its preoccupations were sex and Satanism. I don't know that any of the members were as dreadful as the worst Hellions of Dancing on the Wind, but as a group they were brutal, selfish, and terminally immature.

  Members of the club included some of the most influential men in Great Britain, including Lord Sandwich, the First Lord of the Admiralty, and Lord Bute, a prime minister. Benjamin Franklin might not have been a member, but he certainly attended some of their orgies and lobbied the members to win support for the American colonies in the early 1770s. Together Franklin and Sir Francis Dashwood wrote a prayer book that was a great success in America and became the basis for many modern prayer books.

  The Hellfire Club's first meeting house was in an abandoned abbey on an island in the Thames. The chapel and grounds were full of clever, wildly obscene artwork. Alas, some years later the location became public knowledge. Sightseers overran the Garden of Lust and sat on the river banks with picnic baskets to watch the monks glide in on their barge. It quite ruined the mood. (No, I did not make that up!)

  Dashwood created a new meeting place by digging an enormous maze of caves (in a sexual design) into a chalk hill on his own estate, West Wycombe Park. It gave Dashwood the opportunity to employ his fertile imagination in freshly pornographic ways.

  Nitrous oxide parties were indeed trendy in some circles during this period. Many thanks to my friend Linda Moore Lambert for providing me with a copy of "A Dissertation on the Chemical Properties and Exhilarating Effect of Nitrous Oxide Gas," written by a medical student in Philadelphia in 1808. His experiments were performed on himself, and he seems to have had quite a jolly time of it. (Getting high for course credit! Even in Berkeley, they didn't do that.)

  On a more prosaic note, the Treaty of Ghent was signed on Christmas Eve, 1814, ending the War of 1812, so Jason Travers would not have had to keep a low profile for long.

  Readers of earlier Fallen Angels books will have noticed that Dancing on the Wind takes place after the first book, Thunder and Roses, but before the second, Petals in the Storm. But what's a little confused chronology among friends? In the future, look for The Rogue's Return, which is about the irresistible Lord Robin Andreville from Petals in the Storm. That will be followed by Michael's story, Shattered Rainbows.

  * * *

  I'd like to end with a very special acknowledgment to Ellen and Elizabeth De Money. Their fascinating, articulate insights about the twin bond became the psychological core of Dancing on the Wind.
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  Page forward for an excerpt from

  Thunder and Roses,

  Book 1 of The Fallen Angels series.

  Excerpt from

  Thunder and Roses

  The Fallen Angel Series

  Book One

  by

  Mary Jo Putney

  Chapter 1

  Wales, March 1814

  They called him the Demon Earl, or sometimes Old Nick. Hushed voices whispered that he had seduced his grandfather's young wife, broken his grandfather's heart, and driven his own bride to her grave.

  They said he could do anything.

  Only the last claim interested Clare Morgan as her gaze followed the man racing his stallion down the valley as if all the fires of hell pursued him. Nicholas Davies, the Gypsy Earl of Aberdare, had finally come home, after four long years. Perhaps he would stay, but it was equally possible that he would be gone again tomorrow. Clare must act quickly.

  Yet she lingered a little longer, knowing that he would never see her in the cluster of trees from which she watched. He rode bareback, flaunting his wizardry with horses, dressed in black except for the scarlet scarf knotted around his throat. He was too far away for her to see his face. She wondered if he had changed, then decided that the real question was not if, but how much. Whatever the truth behind the violent events that had driven him away, it had to have been searing.

  Would he remember her? Probably not. He'd only seen her a handful of times, and she had been a child then. Not only had he been Viscount Tregar, but he was four years older than she, and older children seldom paid much attention to younger ones.

  The reverse was not true.

  As she walked back to the village of Penreith, she reviewed her pleas and arguments. One way or another, she must persuade the Demon Earl to help. No one else could make a difference.

  * * *

  For a few brief minutes, while his stallion blazed across the estate like a mad wind, Nicholas was able to lose himself in the exhilaration of pure speed. But reality closed in again when the ride ended and he returned to the house.

  In his years abroad he had often dreamed of Aberdare, torn between yearning and fear of what he would find there. The twenty-four hours since his return had proved that his fears had been justified. He'd been a fool to think that four years away could obliterate the past. Every room of the house, every acre of the valley, held memories. Some were happy ones, but they had been overlaid by more recent events, tainting what he had once loved. Perhaps, in the furious moments before he died, the old earl had laid a curse on the valley so that his despised grandson would never again know happiness here.

  Nicholas walked to the window of his bedroom and stared out. The valley was as beautiful as ever—wild in the heights, lushly cultivated lower down. The delicate greens of spring were beginning to show. Soon there would be daffodils. As a boy, he had helped the gardeners plant drifts of bulbs under the trees, getting thoroughly muddy in the process. His grandfather had seen it as further proof of Nicholas's low breeding.

  He raised his eyes to the ruined castle that brooded over the valley. For centuries those immensely thick walls had been both fortress and home to the Davies family. More peaceful times had led Nicholas's great-great-grandfather to build the mansion considered suitable for one of Britain's wealthiest families.

  Among many other advantages, the house had plenty of bedrooms. Nicholas had been grateful for that the previous day. He never considered using the state apartment that had been his grandfather's. Entering his own rooms proved to be a gut-wrenching experience, for it was impossible to see his old bed without imagining Caroline in it, her lush body naked and her eager arms beckoning. He had retreated immediately to a guest room that was safely anonymous, like an expensive hotel.

  Yet even there, he slept poorly, haunted by bad dreams and worse memories. By morning, he had reached the harsh conclusion that he must sever all ties with Aberdare. He would never find peace of mind here, any more than he had in four years of constant, restless travel.

  Might it be possible to break the entail so that the estate could be sold? He must ask his lawyer. The thought of selling made him ache with emptiness. It would be like cutting off an arm—yet if a limb was festering, there was no other choice.

  Still, selling would not be wholly without compensations. It pleased Nicholas to know that getting rid of the place would give his grandfather the ghostly equivalent of apoplexy, wherever the hypocritical old bastard was now.

  Abruptly he spun on his heel, stalked out of his bedroom, and headed downstairs to the library. How to live the rest of his life was a topic too dismal to contemplate, but he could certainly do something about the next few hours. With a little effort and a lot of brandy, they could be eliminated entirely.

  * * *

  Clare had never been inside Aberdare before. It was as grand as she had expected, but gloomy, with most of the furniture still concealed under holland covers. Four years of emptiness had made the place forlorn as well. The butler, Williams, was equally gloomy. He hadn't wanted to take Clare to the earl without first announcing her, but he had grown up in the village, so she was able to persuade him. He escorted her down a long corridor, then opened the door to the library. "Miss Clare Morgan to see you, my lord. She said her business is urgent."

  Taking a firm grip on her courage, Clare walked past Williams into the library, not wanting to give the earl time to refuse her. If she failed today, she wouldn't get another chance.

  The earl stood by a window, staring out across the valley. His coat had been tossed over a chair, and his shirt-sleeved informality gave him a rakish air. Odd that he had been known as Old Nick; even now, he was scarcely thirty.

  As the door closed behind Williams, the earl turned, his forbidding gaze going right to Clare. Though not unusually tall, he radiated power. She remembered that even at the age when most lads were gawky, he had moved with absolute physical mastery.

  On the surface, he seemed much the same. If anything, he was even more handsome than he had been four years ago. She would not have thought that possible. But he had indeed changed; she saw it in his eyes. Once they had brimmed with teasing laughter that invited others to laugh with him. Now they were as impenetrable as polished Welsh flint. The duels and flagrant affairs and public scandals had left their mark.

  As she hesitated, wondering if she should speak first, he asked, "Are you related to Reverend Thomas Morgan?"

  "His daughter. I'm the schoolmistress in Penreith."

  His bored gaze flicked over her. "That's right, sometimes he had a grubby brat in tow."

  Stung, she retorted, "I wasn't half as grubby as you were."

  "Probably not," he agreed, a faint smile in his eyes. "I was a disgrace. During lessons, your father often referred to you as a model of saintly decorum. I hated you sight unseen."

  It shouldn't have hurt, but it did. Hoping that it would irritate him, Clare said sweetly, "And to me, he said that you were the cleverest boy he had ever taught, and that you had a good heart in spite of your wildness."

  "Your father's judgment leaves much to be desired," the earl said, his momentary levity vanishing. "As the preacher's daughter, I assume you are seeking funds for some boring, worthy cause. Apply to my steward in the future rather than bothering me. Good day, Miss Morgan."

  He was starting to turn away when she said quickly, "What I wish to discuss is not a matter for your steward."

  His mobile lips twisted. "But you do want something, don't you? Everyone does."

  He strolled to a decanter-covered cabinet and refilled a glass that he had been carrying. "Whatever it is, you won't get it from me. Noblesse oblige was my grandfather's province. Kindly leave while the atmosphere is still civil."

  She realized uneasily that he was well on his way to being drunk. Well, she had dealt with drunks before. "Lord Aberdare, people in Penreith are suffering, and you are the only man in a position to make a difference. It will cost you very little in time or money..."r />
  "I don't care how little is involved," he said forcefully. "I don't want anything to do with the village, or the people who live in it! Is that clear? Now get the hell out."

  Clare felt her stubbornness rising. "I am not asking for your help, my lord, I am demanding it," she snapped. "Shall I explain now, or should I wait until you're sober?"

  He regarded her with amazement. "If anyone here is drunk, it would appear to be you. If you think your sex will protect you from physical force, you're wrong. Will you go quietly, or am I going to have to carry you out?" He moved toward her with purposeful strides, his white, open-throated shirt emphasizing the intimidating breadth of his shoulders.

  Resisting the impulse to back away, Clare reached into the pocket of her cloak and pulled out the small book that was her only hope. Opening the volume to the handwritten inscription, she held it up for him to see. "Do you remember this?"

  The message was a simple one. Reverend Morgan—I hope that some day I will be able to repay all you have done for me. Affectionately, Nicholas Davies.

  The schoolboy scrawl stopped the earl as if he had been struck. His wintry gaze shifted from the book to Clare's face. "You play to win, don't you? However, you're holding the wrong hand. Any obligation I might feel would be toward your father. If he wants favors, he should ask for them in person."

  "He can't," she said baldly. "He died two years ago."

  After an awkward silence, the earl said, "I'm sorry, Miss Morgan. Your father was probably the only truly good man I've ever known."

  "Your grandfather was also a good man. He did a great deal for the people of Penreith. The poor fund, the chapel..."

  Before Clare could list other examples of the late earl's charity, Nicholas interrupted her. "Spare me. I know that my grandfather dearly loved setting a moral example for the lower orders, but that holds no appeal for me."