Sexual Hunger

by Melissa MacNeal

  “A vast body of water,” he murmured, so softly she had to lean forward to hear him. “Water all around…a rocking, and—” His hand flew to his head and he grimaced with pain. “Foul play. Raised voices! A loss of control over—” Rubio convulsed, even as his thoughts remained in the netherworld. His eyes flew open, fearful, and he released her hands as though they were scorching his. Fought for breath until he could settle himself.

  “What’s happening? What do you mean, foul play?” Her heart was pounding so hard she could barely get the words out. Never had she seen her brother look so frightened while he was in trance, as though horrible, painful things were being done to him in that other plane. He’d explained astral travel and how his soul left his body during these psychical forays, yet Maria had never fully understood how it worked, how he could slip inside the soul and body he connected with.

  Rubio stared at the opposite seat. This was the time he allowed his soul to reenter his body, so Maria sat still, pressing her lips together to keep from blurting out her questions. They were only a block from the town house. No doubt the Daringtons would arrive soon, after they’d dealt with the cancellations: the food and cake no one had eaten, the bills that must be paid as though she and Jason had actually married.

  Maria hugged herself. She was in no mood to endure Mrs. Booth’s opinions or Lord Darington’s temper, let alone the weeping and wailing Lady Darington and Jemma would delight in. She detested being their whipping girl: they would construe Jason’s disappearance as a sign that he didn’t want to marry her.

  And then it struck her, hard: what if his family insisted she move out of the town house? Where would she go?

  Rubio’s hand closed around hers. His long, soft fingers bespoke an artiste or a philosopher, but they gave her comfort; provided something to cling to, now that serious doubts would arise about Jason’s motives and methods.

  “Jason’s motives never changed, dear sister,” he murmured. “I sense he is injured. Most likely incoherent, so he has no idea he missed his wedding. His sole objective right now is to survive.”

  Maria’s jaw dropped. What could possibly have happened that—who could’ve overwhelmed him, physically and mentally, to the point he might die? “Oh, Rubio,” she breathed. “We must find him! We must do something! But how do we reach him?”

  Her brother stroked her hand between his. Never had she seen him look sadder as he gazed at her, as though she wore mourning rather than bridal white. “The pieces will fall into place, Maria—if we believe they will. You must keep your faith and hope strong and send them out to Jason in your prayers. Right now, it’s all he has to hang on to.”

  “Please, Mrs. Booth! I assure you this plate of bread and cheese is all I want, along with a pot of tea,” Maria insisted. The nosy old cook and Quentin had been hovering since Rubio left an hour ago, and she was reaching her wit’s end. Why was it more work to live with servants than to do without such insistent assistance? “My concern is for Jason’s well-being. The fact that he didn’t show up at the church—nor has he come here—tells me something is gravely amiss.”

  “We’re concerned for your well-being, as well, Miss Palladino,” Quentin remarked with a worried scowl. “The last thing we expected was to see you coming back here with your brother! You must be devastated, now that the biggest day of your life has turned into such a fiasco!”

  “And what of Lord and Lady Darington?” Mrs. Booth queried in a rising voice. “One might suppose they would come here to discuss plans for your future—”

  “Or for locating their son,” the butler cut in.

  Maria gasped, exasperated. “I suspect the Daringtons are indeed discussing their plans, and they won’t inform me until they’ve made their decisions. I’m only the bride, after all!” The words tumbled out before she could catch them: while she’d been holding up rather well, this nattering with the help would be her undoing. “I’m sorry,” she murmured. “I wish to spend the rest of evening in my room, undisturbed. You’re dismissed. Thank you both.”

  Was that how the lady of the house received time alone? Maria was too upset to care. She, too, had expected Phillip, Dora, Jude, and Jemma to roll up in their carriage at any moment—and the last thing she needed was their yammering in addition to what the servants had heaped upon her. No amount of concern would compensate for Jason’s absence, so she was damn tired of hearing about how she surely must feel or what Lord Darington and his family might decide. All the words in the world wouldn’t bring Jason back to her!

  She climbed the stairs with her tray, sighing tiredly. Once behind her closed door, she gazed around the too-cheerful yellow and pink room, the chamber where she’d expected to be celebrating with Jason before they left for an extended holiday in Spain. Her wedding gown hung outside the armoire, a sad testament to this difficult day.

  Maria gazed out her window, wrapping her dressing gown more tightly around her. Twilight always brought a sense of serenity to London, as the time between a bustling, busy day and the evening, when business was done and family matters held sway. Serene hardly described her mood, however: Rubio’s visions had scared her more than any decisions the Daringtons might make about her future…for if Jason was injured and incoherent, how would they find him? Help him? Sending out prayers seemed so trivial and ineffective….

  Yet she was in a unique position to call out for help of a more tangible sort, wasn’t she?

  Maria smiled, her pulse thrumming. She moved her vanity bench beside the window seat, set her tea tray on it, and then took up pen and paper. Ensconced in this little niche, overlooking the lamplit streets, she closed her eyes…assumed the persona of Miss Crimson, society columnist…smiled as a grand idea came to her, fully developed yet so simple. She would write as though she’d been a wedding guest—for she could not reveal herself as Jason Darington’s intended bride! Perhaps this point of view would give her a fresh perspective on the day’s events. Stir her to action. Place her above the debilitating pity others would heap upon her.

  Dear Readers, Miss Crimson entered Saint Paul’s Knightsbridge with high hopes for having her faith in love and marriage—her delight in a happily ever after—reaffirmed, she wrote. The words flowed from her pen, a sure sign of divine inspiration. Yet—as you may have heard—the wedding of Miss Maria Palladino to the dashing Jason Darington, heir apparent to Phillip, Lord Darington’s title and estates, left the guests gaping.

  It began as any wedding, with the gathering of family around the beautiful bride. Miss Palladino’s gown, an original design from the house of LeChaud Soeurs, befitted a queen with its layers of elegant lace and seed pearl embellishments. When I caught sight of her posing for a bridal portrait being made by Jude Darington, twin brother of the groom, she glowed with a rosy anticipation—not to mention the glimmer of an exquisite jeweled butterfly pendant unlike any I have ever beheld. Maria Palladino was the picture of bright-eyed anticipation, a dusky rose opening to the life of privilege and sophistication her dashing groom would surely provide. Her brother, Rubio Palladino, London’s esteemed trance medium, waited to escort her up the aisle.

  Maria paused, smiling as she nibbled the end of her pen. It was a treat to sketch her own wedding from a columnist’s viewpoint.

  Lady Darington and Jemma, her daughter, were exquisitely arrayed, as well, she scribbled. But as the minutes ticked by, the assembly of friends murmured beneath the organ prelude: where WAS the groom? What reason could he possibly have for not taking this lovely woman as his wife? Upon questioning Jason’s groomsmen, Lord Darington and his younger son set out to locate Jason while Father Stoutham assured the guests all would be well.

  WELL, indeed! The guests erupted in disbelief when Lord Darington canceled the ceremony! Then, an albino ferret scampered down the aisle and up a guest’s skirts, causing the crowd to disperse in hasty, shrieking dismay. One can only imagine the bride’s devastation, her concerns about her groom and her future. Yet her dignified grace under such scrutiny and pressure impre
ssed this columnist so deeply that I am moved to depart from my usual juicy fare to lend my assistance.

  Maria paused, her pulse pounding with the sheer nerve of what she was about to do. But damn it all, if Miss Crimson couldn’t come to the distraught Miss Palladino’s aid, who could? Who would?

  I implore you, Dear Readers: anyone knowing details of Jason Darington’s disappearance would be performing an act of tremendous generosity by informing me of his whereabouts! It’s quite plausible he’s ill or injured, unable to get word to his beloved Maria. Please submit any information to me in care of the Inquirer, as soon as possible, and I will see that this beleaguered bride and the Darington family receive your assistance. Something is gravely amiss, and we must use the power of the press to hasten Jason’s return. Thank you so very much for your understanding and cooperation!

  There, she’d done it! Maria stepped into the plain dark skirt she wore while delivering her columns, and then paused. The town house was silent, except for the delicate ticking of her mantel clock, but what if Mrs. Booth and Quentin were hovering in the hallway, peering through the keyhole? If she allowed the servants to stop her now, what did that say about her devotion to Jason? To the life she’d hoped to share with him?

  Maria slipped into her charcoal cloak and pulled the hood up over her hair. She paused outside her door to listen, chose the main stairway as the most direct route to the door, and within moments she was hurrying along the side streets. As she avoided the light from the gas lamps, she again realized how much more difficult her secret occupation would become once she became Jason’s wife.

  We’ll worry about that when the time comes, a voice much like Miss Crimson’s echoed in her head. And who knew when that would be? All she could do was move along this path she had chosen, hoping it would lead her to the man she intended to marry. She blinked away Rubio’s visions of dark, boundless water and Jason’s disoriented expression, slipped the envelope containing tomorrow’s column into the mail slot of the Inquirer’s door, and then hurried along the buildings’ shadows again, back to the town house.

  Had she done the right thing? Or had she asked for more trouble?

  Too late to worry about that! The wheels are set in motion…and please know I’ve done this for YOU, my dear Jason. I love you! So please, please come home to me!

  7

  “Never in my life have I felt so—exposed! Hung out to dry, like so much dirty laundry!” Lady Darington spewed. Then she grasped Jemma’s hands and peered into her daughter’s red-rimmed eyes. “Mark my words, darling! We shall hold the Inquirer responsible for such—such irresponsible gossip! And when I learn the identity of that vile, hateful Miss Crimson, I intend to tear her limb from limb! And you may watch!”

  “Oh, I intend to help you, Mumsy!” Jemma gushed. “Such slander—such a slight!—shall not go unanswered, so help me God!”

  Maria perched on her chair in the parlor, holding her face expressionless. While she was not surprised at this outburst, she again wondered if she’d done the right thing last night and if other readers would share Dora Darington’s outrage. Had she inadvertently endangered Jason by publishing her plea for help? Would she find an irate note from the editor in her postal box, informing her Miss Crimson’s column would be cut? This visit was a grim reminder of her vulnerability—and of how she might be depending upon her journalistic income soon, if Jason’s family booted her out.

  Across from her, on the striped ottoman, Jude pored over the morning’s newspaper. He, too, refrained from showing emotion, although his reasons were different from hers. What did he think about Miss Crimson’s bold request?

  He glanced up at her, clearing his throat. The rings beneath his eyes told of a sleepless night, either because his mother and sister had kept him awake with their tirade or because he was becoming more worried about his twin. “We had hoped to arrive this morning to protect you from Miss Crimson’s news, Maria. Or at least to warn you of it, before you were quizzed about the column’s contents,” he remarked wryly. “But being a man, I must plead ignorance, I’m afraid. Why are you so offended, Mum? Miss Crimson has called upon all of London to help us find Jason! What a gracious, generous thing to—”

  “Gracious?” his mother cried.

  “Generous?” Jemma echoed as she popped up from the settee. She glared at her brother as though he were a pile of horse manure on the parlor carpet. “How dare that mean-spirited gossipmonger rave about poor Miss Palladino and not even comment about our gowns? They came from LeChaud Soeurs as well, you know!”

  “And indeed I paid far more for my attire—and for Jemma’s—than I did for that wedding dress!” Dora Darington joined her daughter. The two of them paced around the perimeter of the room like caged tigers at a circus.

  “Even Willie received more coverage than Mum and me! And in the worst way!”

  Jude rolled his eyes. “Call her mean-spirited if you must, but she merely reported the facts about your runaway ferret, Jem. Do you think I wanted to spend the rest of the evening trying to trap him, in that enormous sanctuary?”

  Maria shifted, trying not to laugh. That explained why the Daringtons hadn’t descended upon her last night, and the vapid attitudes of mother and daughter justified the way she’d given them short shrift in print, didn’t it? What lady would speak, in front of an abandoned bride, as though a simple wedding dress represented the supreme act of charity rather than a gift from a family that could well afford it? A family that was using this wedding to flaunt their affluence.

  “Actually, I applaud Miss Crimson for taking our part,” Jude stated. He glanced at the column again, as though inspired by it. “Rather than stirring up doubt and speculation about why Jason didn’t show up, she has enlisted thousands of readers to watch for him. Anyone with information will be far more likely to slip her a note than to approach the police. No one wants to be subjected to an inquisition.”

  “The police!” Dora jeered. “Your father has already reported Jason’s disappearance to Scotland Yard. They know nothing!”

  “Probably miffed because a mere columnist upstaged them, too.” Jude’s gaze at Maria apologized for the ordeal these two were causing. He appeared eager to spend time alone with her—as though that would happen anytime soon.

  “And what does this matter, really?” Fresh tears dribbled down Jemma’s face as she wrung her handkerchief in her hands. “I wanted to meet the unattached men in attendance, a preview to my coming out. And now my hopes are dashed!”

  “You could’ve asked those unattached men to help me corner that ferret,” her brother muttered. “Not that your request would’ve endeared you to any of them.”

  “Jude! That’s quite enough!” Dora whacked his shoulder with her fan. “Must you always bait your poor sister?”

  He bit back a grin. “I’m making up for Jason. In case Jemma misses him more than she can say.”

  “If you’ll pardon my intrusion,” came a voice from the door. “I’ve come with your tea.”

  Maria could’ve kissed Quentin McCallum at that moment. They were in dire need of fresh air, and the butler’s bright smile cut through the gloom that was closing in around her. “Thank you, Quentin. Please set the tray on the table and I shall pour.”

  Nodding, he approached, but was intercepted by an indignant Dora Darington. “You’ll do well to remember who signs your check, Quentin,” she said in a low voice. “You shall place the tray on the sideboard, where I shall serve when I feel like it!”

  “Yes, milady. Of course.” With an obsequious bow, he paused beside Jemma. “Mrs. Booth sends her condolences and these lovely lemon tarts, knowing how you favor them, Miss Darington. Might I inquire if you’ve heard news about Jason this morning?”

  “If you call this news!” Lady Darington pointed at the newspaper her son was folding.

  “Ah, yes. That.”

  “Miss Crimson’s identity should be revealed, as much as my son’s whereabouts! I suppose you and Mrs. Booth shared a laugh at our ex
pense upon reading about the wedding?”

  Quentin folded his hands before him. He was the picture of cautious diplomacy in his dove gray coat and pin-striped trousers. “A most unfortunate turn of events,” he hedged, glancing around to see whom his allies might be. “And Miss Crimson’s request for assistance may well lead to her unveiling—for if your son is found because of her column, all of London will want to know whom to thank.”

  Dora’s smile suddenly shone like the sun come from behind a cloud. “Why, Quentin, I believe you’re on to something!” As she poured their tea, her face took on a feline delight. “When Jason is located—for I believe he will be—I shall personally request an introduction to Miss Crimson! To thank her for bringing my son home, of course!”

  As she accepted her tea, Maria’s knees quivered. This was an angle she hadn’t anticipated! And the butler seemed awfully proud of himself for mentioning it. She chose a tart, although she had no appetite for the beautifully crafted confection, which resembled a yellow rosebud. “I’m sure she must be someone perfectly ordinary, someone we’ve all seen at social events,” she speculated. “How else would she know what to write about, after all?”

  “How else could she harass so many of London’s finest families?” Dora countered. “I’ve always figured her for a vindictive biddy with nothing better to do. Perhaps a jilted mistress or a dumped debutante, now unable to catch a man. It’ll be fascinating to find out, will it not?”

  “Oh yes, Mumsy. We’ll have to have these incredible tarts when we celebrate that occasion, as well!” Jemma forked the last bite into her mouth, grinning at Quentin. “Please pass along my gratitude to Mrs. Booth. Her consideration has delivered this day from total ruination!”

  The butler fumbled with his tie. “Indeed I shall, Miss Darington! So happy to play a part in your recovery.”

  As though Jemma ever has anything from which to recover! Maria didn’t miss the butler’s between-the-lines efforts to gain the young lady’s favor, but as Dora and Jemma plotted the unveiling of Miss Crimson, she withdrew into her own thoughts.