“Miss Havershaw, I’m so pleased you could make it.” He took a deep breath with the intention of clearing his mind of wayward thoughts, but instead he filled his lungs with air laced with her scent. The realization launched him into a coughing fit. He reached for the nearby glass to quaff the reflex and took two deep swallows of wine meant to be sipped and savored. The alcohol fumes traveled quickly up the back of his throat, burning the inside of his nostrils, making it difficult to smell anything but Bordeaux. Which, of course, meant that he could no longer track her progress about the room.
“Miss Havershaw,” he said, grimacing, “why is it every time we meet I am reduced to this lamentable state?”
“What state is that, sir?”
Her voice sounded cold, impersonal. He supposed he couldn’t blame her. He had, after all, forced her hand to assist his purposes. In truth, her indifference toward him would lend itself to a smooth working relationship.
He cleared his throat hoping to avoid answering her question. It would serve no purpose to admit to weakness, especially where she was concerned. “I thought we might begin by reviewing some maps of India and its neighbors so you could better understand the politics involved in our endeavor. ”
“Did Shadow arrive safely?”
“Shadow?” Her question distracted him from his plan of attack. “You mean the cat? I believe he’s outside at the moment.” And hopefully finding his way home to the town house. He hadn’t anticipated the cat when he’d insisted she move into the residence. Returning to his original focus, he tried again to formally set the groundwork for their discussions.
“Before we begin, I think we should establish a foundation upon which to govern our lessons.”
“This is beautiful.” Her voice drifted to him from the vicinity of the octagon table and chairs at the far end of the library where he had placed a patterned silk robe for her use. “What is it?”
He frowned at the door, feeling a bit of a fool, then altered his stance to address her in this new location. Of course, part of the foundation he had wished to discuss was a method to easily track her at moments like this. The robe rose unassisted from one of the chairs and stretched out its sleeves to a near five-foot span.
“I thought you might be more comfortable if you were to wear something on those occasions when you were otherwise unclothed.”
“You mean naked?”
Her blunt words, so unexpected from a well-mannered lady, brought an instant response from his groin. He took a moment to regain his focus. “It’s called a munisak and is often worn by the native people of central Asia.”
“The colors are so vivid and bright, just like a painting, only I’ve never seen a pattern quite like this.”
Her delight surprised him. Not every woman would be as pleased with an uncommon gift so far removed from current fashion. Although he knew Miss Havershaw was unique by virtue of her special abilities, she was proving original in other aspects as well, an unanticipated complexity that should be interesting to untangle. A smile tilted his lips. “The people there have a unique method of dying the silk. I’ve been told the pattern is meant to resemble the shimmering mirages rising from the desert sands.”
He stood, waiting for her response, before realizing that he must appear a blooming idiot, standing at attention, grinning like a schoolboy. He glanced at the desk and fingered the maps, before clearing his throat. “Now if you study this top map—”
“I’ve never seen the desert, though I hadn’t imagined it would be as pink as this garment.”
He sighed. This was not proceeding at all according to plan. Miss Havershaw apparently had no interest in maps and lectures. Still, the hour was late and there would be opportunities for more formal lessons in the days ahead. If only for this one evening he could indulge Miss Havershaw in her appreciation of the artistry in the munisak. There’d be no harm. Leaning back against the desk, he abandoned his maps and raised his gaze to the robe dancing on unfelt air currents.
“The desert light and sand in central Asia share a complex relationship. One moment you believe you can see colors and shapes so clear you can almost touch them, and then, in a blink of an eye, they disappear. I’ve found that the heat and unending sand can be both bloody tortuous and lovely at the same time.” Not unlike the naked Miss Havershaw.
A bulge began to push against his pants. He silently cursed and stepped over to the wooden globe stand so as to be partially hidden from her view. He needed to forget, somehow, that she was luscious and naked if they were to effectively work together, but his traitorous body fought that notion.
The munisak swung high in the air, the bottom flaring out as if to take flight. Against his better judgment, he found himself asking, “Would you care for some assistance putting it on?”
“I believe I can manage.”
No shimmering mirage had ever intrigued him as did this magnificent floating robe. It lightly settled on her invisible shoulders, one brilliant sleeve straightened out before bending, then the other. The front edges of the robe nearly touched.
“It fastens by that little red tie.” He crooked his finger at the dangling ribbon, which if memory served correctly, should be in the vicinity right below her breasts. The bulge thickened.
“Yes, I can see that, Mr. Locke.”
However, rather than the ribbon magically looping itself in the fashion of a bow, the sleeves reached toward the ceiling before bending back at the elbow. The movement caused the unfastened robe to splay far apart before returning to its original position. Knowing what had just been exposed to his view—if only he could have seen it—caused his throat to constrict. That simple parting of the robe was clearly the most sensuous thing he had ever witnessed—or not witnessed.
“That’s better,” she said. “I had to lift my hair from beneath the robe.”
“Your hair?” His voice sounded tight and strained to his own ears, and why not? Lord, she made it impossible to think straight. He hadn’t anticipated that imagining what must lay just beneath the slit in the front of the robe would be far more stimulating than accepting that she was totally naked yet unseen somewhere in the room. His manhood throbbed.
“I’m afraid I don’t own any invisible hair pins or combs.”
Lord, he remembered her hair, soft with a shimmer like captured moonlight. It must be long and loose, as if she’d just stumbled from bed. He squinted as if that would allow him to see.
“I braid it into two thick ropes,” she said. “But without a ribbon to fasten it—”
“Locke? Are you back there?” Marcus! His voice boomed down the hall, mere steps from the doorway. What the devil was Marcus doing here?
The robe quickly sat in one of the chairs, then slumped to the side, letting the sleeves dangle over the wooden arm. Smart girl. If he didn’t know better, he’d believe the munisak had been carelessly tossed over an angled pillow on the chair.
James stepped away from the globe, hoping to intercept his friend before he entered the room, but he wasn’t fast enough. Of course, the painful bulge in his pants did nothing to assist speed. Marcus barged through the open doorway, his evening attire a bit disheveled, his cheeks flushed, and his voice a trifle too loud.
James grimaced. Judging from his demeanor, his friend had spent the better part of the evening in the gambling hells. While his spirits appeared characteristically high, bright glittering eyes and the high flush across his cheeks indicated he had spent a goodly portion of the time drinking as opposed to concentrating on his game.
“I thought I heard a woman’s voice.” He looked pointedly at James’s trousers. “I knew it, you dog. You’ve got a woman in here.” He glanced wildly about the room. “Where is she?”
James positioned himself so Marcus’s back would face the robe-draped chair. “Nonsense,” he smiled tightly. “There’s no woman here.” He glanced over Marcus’s shoulder and saw the top sleeve of the robe rise up, then flop down flat as if empty.
“You’re a liar, Locke.�
� Marcus sneered. “Just like one of those abysmal Indian snakes.” Using his arm, he imitated a snake’s sideways movement before he clapped James’s shoulder in a friendly salute, not acknowledging James’s resulting flinch. “Where are you hiding her? I heard her talking, I did.”
“I suspect you’ve heard quite a few voices this evening without the bodies to match.”
The robe made a few more innocuous movements, then stilled. Good, she was free from the robe. He had to admire her quick thinking, but where was she? His lips quirked. Best to get Marcus on his way and then track down Miss Havershaw. He turned to his friend. “Why don’t you—”
“What have we here?” Marcus stumbled over to the wine tray. “Two glasses?” He sipped from the full glass and raised one brow. “Fine French wine?”
“I tell you, again, I have no woman here. However, if you don’t believe one of your oldest friends, look about the room for yourself.” Even in his cups, Marcus wouldn’t abandon an argument without an opportunity to search.
Marcus leered, and tilted at an unnatural angle to look beneath the desk. He grabbed the top to help him regain his balance upon straightening. “A bit of skirt would do you good, Locke.” He tossed back the rest of the glass of wine, then laughed. “A bit of skirt would do us both good.” He raised his gaze to the back end of the room. “By George, is that what I think it is?”
He put the glass down, none too gently, and staggered over to the chair where the munisak lay. “You still have this thing? I would have thought after all that happened in that stinking hellhole, after all we went through in that rat-infested prison, you would have burned this rag and all the others.” His eyes widened. “Let’s do it now. You and me, for old time’s sake.” He stumbled toward the cold fireplace.
James put his hand on his friend’s shoulder to stop his progress and slowly pulled the robe from his grasp. “Why did you come here, Marcus?” And where the devil did Lusinda go?
“I heard you were back from Calcutta. I thought I’d come to see what my old pal Locke was up to.”
“Is it money?” James tossed the robe toward the chair and guided Marcus to the opposite end of the room. “Do you need to cover a debt?”
“The cards were not in my favor, tonight. Pembroke about cleaned me out.”
“Yes, I’ve heard he’s been on a bit of a streak of late.” James opened a drawer and removed a few notes, pleased to have discovered the means to send Marcus on his way.
LUSINDA WAITED IN THE DOORWAY. IT APPEARED TO BE the safest spot while the two men conversed. The newcomer, Marcus, was a handsome bear of a man with soft brown curly hair and thick lips that pulled in what she suspected was a permanent smile. He seemed a bit overbearing in nature, but she imagined many women might find that quality attractive. She preferred Locke’s quiet assertiveness to this Marcus’s physicality. Look how Locke had managed to steer the bear away from her robe. Nothing seemed to rile him.
She frowned. Even her attempts failed, though she had certainly tried. She had even insisted on bringing Shadow to the house on the premise that it would annoy Locke. If she annoyed him enough, he might recognize the folly of his scheme and let her return home.
Her fingers began to tingle, signaling her body was about to phase-back to full flesh. Jupiter! Had she known she’d need to stay invisible for an extended period of time this evening, she would have taken precautions. She turned away from the doorway to explore the back of the house. Hopefully, she could find some linens or a garment she could borrow until the stranger left the household and Locke could show her where her trunk had been placed.
The kitchen spanned the back end of the house, but the long tiled counters and the wooden worktable were devoid of any useable cloth. She did, however, find some candles and a tin of matches.
The tingling sensation increased, and her skin began to reappear with a thin milky white, almost translucent quality. It wouldn’t be prudent for Locke’s visitor to catch an accidental glimpse of her prowling around the ground floor of the residence. Using a lit candle as a guide, she found the servant’s stairs. Once she had ascended to the next floor, she ventured halfway down the hall before finding an unlocked door. She opened the door and knew immediately she had stumbled into Locke’s bedroom.
The room, extraordinarily large and open, held his scent, cinnabar and sandalwood, as if he had just left. Rather than the popular four-poster curtained bed, his wooden carved headboard rose and curved into a half-tester, thus leaving the large mattress open to the light and elements. Books were piled everywhere, and on the opposite wall, two towering wardrobes were set within an arm’s span of each other.
She should leave, she thought, and explore further until she found another sanctuary, but her feet, contrary to her thoughts, carried her deeper inside. Locke was busy downstairs; he wouldn’t know what she was about. A glow in a full-length mirror caught her attention. She looked closer noticing that she was the luminous one. She’d never seen herself in quite this fashion. It was hard to look away as the glow intensified and then began to cool. Her skin took on the appearance of white marble, and she fancied herself looking a bit like one of those grand statues on display in museums and gardens. She smiled; all she needed was some proper draping, an urn of water, and chubby cherubs dancing around her feet to be mistaken for a fountain.
However, this marble maiden better find something to cover herself unless she wants to be caught naked dallying in Locke’s bedroom. She moved toward the wardrobes. One was bound to provide a garment of suitable length.
She placed her candleholder on a table and opened the wooden doors of the first wardrobe to discover a woman’s garments, which would not have been alarming had the garments been hers. They were not. Shocked, she stared at the silks and linens, feeling embarrassed and a bit humiliated. She hadn’t thought to ask Locke if another woman shared this house with him. As Locke was an attractive man of an eligible age, she supposed she should have expected as much. Was it any wonder that his glib proposal that she move into this house slipped so easily from his lips? A bitter disappointment lodged in her throat. Perhaps her earlier misunderstanding about his intentions was not far off the mark, after all.
Footsteps sounded in the hall behind her and she quickly stepped behind the open door of the wardrobe, letting the wooden panel shield her from knee to forehead.
“Miss Havershaw?” Locke called. “I see candlelight. You must be in . . . oh . . . there you are.” She heard laughter in his voice and tilted her head around the side. He held out the pink robe. “I thought you might need this.”
“I believe I’ll need a bit more,” she said, letting her indignation at her recent discovery filter into her tone. “If I recall, that robe has a large slit down the front. Under the current circumstances, I doubt that alone will prove sufficient.”
“Current circumstances . . . ?” He looked pointedly at her bare legs. “I see what you mean.” He tossed the munisak across the bed, cocked a brow, and strode purposefully toward the wardrobe.
Panic seized her. Her fingers dug into the edge of the wardrobe door as the last defense between her and total ravishment. Her throat tightened making words difficult. “What are you doing?”
He stopped on the other side of the wooden panel, close enough to pull it from her grip. “I thought Lady Kensington might have something here that would suit. I’m sure she wouldn’t mind.” He fumbled among the contents of the wardrobe.
"L ... Lady Kensington?” Her grip loosened slightly on the door.
“She and Lord Kensington are at their country estate. They have allowed me to borrow their residence while I search for some vital information for the good of the Crown.”
“This is not your house?” Yet this room and the library seemed so attuned to him.
He stopped his searching and turned to her. Heat rose from her chest as she realized only a thin wooden door separated her bare skin from his perusal. Hoping that the shadows would hide her blush, she pulled back slightly from the
thin glow of the candlelight.
“I’ve made my home in India,” he said. “There are certain aspects of living in London that no longer agree with me. But”—he glanced over his shoulder, about the room—“I must admit that I appreciate Lord Kensington’s generosity. One could grow accustomed to living in such luxury, I suppose. ”
“Then there isn’t another woman in residence here?”
He laughed, a hearty sound. “Heavens, no, Miss Havershaw. I believe most of the servants went on with the Kensingtons. There’s a housekeeper who brings two girls with her during the day. Pickering, my assistant, plays butler and cooks when Mrs. Harrison is away. Otherwise, he prefers to keep to himself above stairs.” He glanced upward before turning his gaze back to hers. “Truly a skeleton staff. I’m afraid my needs don’t require much effort. I’m accustomed to doing for myself.”
He was so close, inches away in fact. His eyes glittered in the candlelight, and the flickering shadows accentuated the fine line of his lips and jaw. He had a magnetism that pulled at her. Indeed, she discovered she had pressed herself tightly against her side of the panel as if drawn to him. His gaze flickered to her lips. She sucked her lower lip between her teeth.
The movement apparently surprised him as he stiffened and turned his attention back to the wardrobe.
“Perhaps this will do for now.” He pulled out a diaphanous nightgown that would never be worn outside of an intimate encounter. “I’m afraid Lady Kensington is shorter and a bit broader in certain places than yourself. Of course, in your unbound state . . .” He looked toward the panel almost as if he could see through the wood. Her body heated as if she were standing before a roaring fire and not just a cold piece of cabinetry. He quickly dropped his gaze as if he too felt discomfort, and held the gown aloft. “Perhaps combined with the munisak, this will provide adequate coverage until you unpack your own garments.”
She pulled the nightgown from his grasp. “Stay there,” she ordered as she slipped deeper into the shadows between the matched wardrobes. Only a moment passed while she slipped the nightgown over her head and let the white, barely opaque fabric settle around her body. The expensive night rail was hardly better than nothing at all, which might be good and well for a married woman, but not appropriate for a single miss. Even one with her vastly limited prospects.
The Trouble With Moonlight Page 5