by Jane Feather
It was not a request, but an order. Faro removed her glove, then held out her hand. “Very well, my lord. I shall endeavor to provide the proof you require.”
His lips tightened as he recognized her sarcasm. She knew he wanted proof of her abilities more than he wanted proof of ownership. Or more likely, he wanted proof that her talent was nothing more than a parlor trick. One dark brow rose in silent challenge as he released the small bottle and it dropped into her hand.
It was a very unusual bottle, as deep green as the divan, yet different. Every color of the rainbow shimmered along its surface as if the glass were covered with a sheet of prisms. The untarnished silver that flowed in swirls to the chased silver stopper appeared almost liquid in the soft lamplight, the metalwork far too fine and unblemished to be of any great age.
Her curiosity aroused, she rubbed her thumb along a band of silver. The bottle felt very warm in her hand and that warmth spread through her like liquid sunlight. A flood of emotions followed, all of them stronger and more powerful than any she had felt during other readings. Yet they were not the sensations of violence or anger, but the emotions of lovers.
Her breathing quickened and her heart began to beat harder. Long ago she had abandoned the notion of suitors and marriage, but she had always wondered what it would feel like to be in love. The bottle gave her the answer, communicating the deepest loves and desires of everyone who had possessed it. And there were a great many of them. She saw fleeting pictures of lovers dressed in clothes that looked almost modern, lovers clothed in styles from centuries past, and lovers who stood in the darkest mists of time. The bottle was not just old, but ancient.
It was also possessed by magic. Very strong magic.
That sudden bit of knowledge made her panic. She opened her eyes and tried to release her hold on the bottle, but her hand wouldn’t cooperate. Then the bottle began to glow and she stared at it in wide-eyed wonder. The white light grew stronger, almost mistlike around the edges of her hand. Afraid of what her face would reveal to Lord Wyatt, she bowed her head and closed her eyes again.
What she saw was far beyond any vision she had ever relived. The object in her hand seemed determined to share all its secrets. Sweet, tender feelings of love turned shockingly erotic. Scenes passed before her eyes that were beyond her ability to imagine, an intrusion into moments of lovers’ lives that should remain private. She was in the very midst of every emotion and every image the bottle possessed.
Then the visions suddenly changed.
The new images were not of others, but of herself, as if she were somehow a part of the bottle’s history. She was in her bedchamber at Blackburn, and a single candle burned at her bedside. In that bed was a man. A very naked man who held her securely in his arms. In the image she didn’t seem at all averse to the embrace. The man’s face remained obscured in shadows cast by the bed-curtains, but she watched herself rub her cheek against her lover’s shoulder and felt adrift in a warm sea of contentment. His hand stroked down her back and she could almost feel his touch there in the library. Then he propped himself up on one elbow and his face was bathed in warm candlelight.
Her lover was none other than Lord Wyatt.
Faro’s eyes flew open as the bottle bounced onto the carpet. She felt dizzy and disoriented. Wyatt reached out to steady her.
“Don’t touch me!” The order wasn’t supposed to sound so rude. She simply didn’t know if she could contain her emotions if he touched her. Wyatt couldn’t possibly realize that. His hands fell to his sides and the compassion in his eyes faded to reveal emotionless pools of gold. They stared at each other in silence until she finally willed herself to look away from him.
He reached down and picked up the bottle, then stood up to tower over her. “Well? Can you tell me anything informative?”
Faro struggled to gather her scattered senses. She knew instinctively that the visions were hers alone, but perhaps he too had seen the bottle’s strange glow. “Did you see it?”
“See what?” His brows furrowed together in a scowl. “Don’t tell me this little bottle has a ghost in residence?”
“Not a ghost. At least, I don’t think it was a ghost.” She eyed the bottle warily, but it looked perfectly harmless in the palm of his hand. “You didn’t see the light?”
Wyatt’s lips curved into a humorless smile. “Your performance is most remarkable, Miss Burke. I would venture to say that there is not a better actress in all of England. However, the performance is over. Your charade as well.” He held the bottle toward her. “That is, unless you can tell me how I obtained this bottle, or the name of its previous owner.”
She shrank away from him. More specifically, from what he held. The bottle was dangerous, a threat of some sort, but one she couldn’t determine with her emotions in such turmoil. “I didn’t see that part of its history, my lord. The bottle is very old, owned by many people over the course of time. I… I could not see anything very clearly.” That was a lie, but she felt no compelling need to tell the truth. He would have her locked away. However, she did decide to give him a portion of the truth. “It is very hard for me to read any object owned or handled by many people.”
“Would you like another try?”
“No!” She wanted to be as far away from the bottle as possible. Her body felt very strange, as if her blood was thicker and warmer than usual. The light-headed, almost euphoric feeling worried her as well. She watched his mouth and studied the curve of his bottom lip, the slight indentations on his cheeks that might turn into dimples if he ever actually smiled. His black superfine jacket fit perfectly, but she found herself wondering what the muscles beneath it looked like. Especially when he shrugged the jacket open just enough to return the bottle to an inside pocket. It took every ounce of her concentration to comprehend his words when the way he moved proved such a distraction.
“I suspected as much,” he said. “My mother believes the little plays you stage are genuine. Of course, she also believes that thieves and brigands wear a black patch over one eye and limit their activities to the king’s highways and pirate ships. It would never occur to her that such a pretty package as yourself might be filled with rotten eggs.”
He thought her pretty? That astounded Faro as much as her sudden fascination with his hands. Why hadn’t she noticed before that he didn’t wear gloves? He had his arms folded across his chest in a gesture that displayed his hands perfectly. No, they were perfect hands, placed on display against the stark backdrop of his black jacket. His skin looked much darker than her own, his hands large and his long fingers well-shaped. Deliciously masculine.
Deliciously?
Faro shook her head. Where were these thoughts coming from? She stared down at her own hands and tried to discipline her wandering imagination.
“I am not so gullible as my mother,” he went on. “Whatever your reasons for coming to Blackburn House, I am here to see that they fail. You would be well advised to pack your little bag of tricks and return to London first thing in the morning.”
She looked up. The bits and pieces of his conversation came together at last. He was insulting her. Threatening her!
“Should you not take that advice and decide to stay,” he went on, “know the consequences. If you dupe my mother out of one farthing, one candlestick, one bauble of any sort, I will make certain you never receive another invitation from anyone in polite society. You will be an outcast. In short, I will ruin you.”
Faro marshaled her shaken nerves and stood to face him, hoping her wobbly knees wouldn’t betray her. “You make yourself perfectly clear, my lord. Now if you will excuse me, I think it would be best if I retire for the evening.”
“I agree. Tomorrow promises to be a long day and you will need your rest. I will explain to my mother that you were unwell and wished to retire.” He stared at her long and hard, the look in his golden eyes a clear warning. “Good night, Miss Burke.”
“Good night, my lord.” She hesitated in the doorway, then spo
ke in a soft tone. “By the way, that is a very unusual scar on your shoulder. Perhaps someday you will tell me how it came to be there.”
CHAPTER THREE
WYATT PACED THE length of the stableyard, oblivious to the bright sunshine and blue skies that proclaimed an end to the miserably long week of storms. Despite the fine weather, the scent of rain still lingered in the air along with the smell of mildewed hay. Pigeons lined the rooftops and cupolas of the stable, their low coos an agitated, almost puzzled sound. One of the birds paced along the peak of the roof, a near-perfect imitation of the man below. Wyatt remained unaware of the mockery, his thoughts centered on the woman he had all but ordered off his estate the night before.
He had been more abrupt with Faro Burke than he’d intended. No matter how determined he was to dislike the woman, his thoughts took the oddest turns when she was near him. In the library he had found himself wondering if her skin was as soft as he’d imagined, and if she could possibly taste as sweet as she looked, The urge to experience the answers to those questions plagued him long after she retired for the night.
The attraction he felt toward her annoyed him almost as much as the fact of her identity. Her preposterous claims to the occult only made his desire for her more baffling. The performance she gave in the library should have soured that desire entirely.
So she had mentioned his old fencing scar. Any number of people could have told her about it. That proved nothing but her cleverness. He was right to advise her to leave. Unfortunately, his mother had argued that the reading was inconclusive. She wanted Faro Burke to stay. After the warning he gave Faro in the library, today he wondered if his mother’s sentiments would hold any sway.
The stablemaster inadvertently informed him of the answer to that question when he mentioned that Miss Burke had also ordered a horse made ready this morning. Not a carriage horse that would take her to the village, where she could catch a mail coach to London, but a gentle mare with a ladies’ saddle that would carry her to the ruins of the old abbey.
The thought of spending another night under the same roof with her made his palms itch. The last thing he needed was another irksome female in the house. Caroline Carstairs promised all the trouble he could handle. Not that there appeared to be much amiss with the young widow. Indeed, he was hard pressed to find a reason not to like her. She was wealthy, beautiful, and seemed pleasant enough. He should be thankful to find such a promising bride with so little effort. He tried to picture a courtship between them but the image would not form. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t muster up the slightest desire to woo the lovely Caroline.
Faro was a different matter entirely. He could think of little but wooing her. Kissing her. Touching and caressing her. It still seemed a bad jest that he found himself lusting after the wrong woman. Caroline Carstairs was everything he wanted in a wife, everything he needed. Faro Burke turned his blood to liquid fire. Last night he had even dreamed of her, dreams so vivid that he awoke with a start, his body fully aroused. And it had happened more than once. She was like some sort of poison that had invaded him. He had to be rid of her before he did something foolish.
No matter his mother’s wishes, Wyatt intended to drive Faro Burke away. First he would remind her of their conversation of the night before, and he would probably not display much of the common courtesy he’d promised. If that failed to persuade her, he would become her constant, unwelcome companion until she changed her mind about staying. With any luck, she would take one look at him and march right back to the house. To pack.
The sound of boots crunching against the gravel driveway came to him, along with the soft strains of Beethoven’s Pathétique. His nemesis was humming, her voice light, the tune hauntingly pleasing.
Faro rounded the corner of the stables a moment later and Wyatt was startled again by the same sense of recognition he had felt the night before. His anger faded, replaced by unwelcome fascination. What was there about this woman that made him senseless each time he laid eyes on her?
She didn’t see him at first and he took that opportunity to study her, to search for the key to his weakness. Her face was turned toward the sun, her lips curved into a curious half smile. She wore a plum-colored riding habit cut in trim lines that had gone out of style years ago. Either she didn’t follow the current fashions, or couldn’t afford to. Still, the habit’s rich color made her blue eyes look very pale and mysterious beneath the dark fringe of her lashes. Her jaunty velvet cap was the same color as her gown, her face wreathed by toffee-colored curls. A square linen sack rested against her hip with its strap slung over her shoulders. As he wondered at its contents the humming came to a sudden stop, as did Miss Burke. His gaze returned to her face and he watched her lush lips form a perfect circle. She recovered her composure and her expression became a study of cool politeness. “Good morning, my lord.”
“Miss Burke,” he answered, his tone equally polite. “I thought you would be busy packing this morning.”
“The coach I hired will not return until next Friday.” She looked him squarely in the eye. “It seems I am stranded here until that time.”
“A mail coach runs through the village every day. I shall be happy to arrange a carriage to take you there.”
“Believe me, my lord, I have no wish to remain where I am not welcome. However, talk of my early departure seemed to distress your mother at breakfast this morning. I presented several polite excuses when I mentioned my decision to leave, but Lady Evelyn assured me that her other guests would wonder if I found her hospitality lacking in some way.”
His palms began to itch again. “Then you are determined to defy me in this matter?”
“I have no wish to insult my hostess, and she is determined that I stay.”
Wyatt gritted his teeth. His mother was really starting to irritate him.
“I hope you will not mind if I borrow one of your horses,” she said, with just a trace of uncertainty. “Lady Evelyn assured me that you would have no objection.”
“None at all.” Who was he to deny an unwelcome guest her entertainment? “The stablemaster tells me that you plan a ride to the abbey. The road to the abbey is difficult to find if you don’t know the way. It also passes near the cliffs and the footing is sometimes uncertain after long rains, too uncertain for you to venture there alone. I trust you will not mind my company.”
“There is no need for you to inconvenience yourself. I am an experienced rider and shall be fine on my own.” She glanced toward the stable. “Or, perhaps a stableboy could show me the way?”
Her frown should have lightened his mood. He wanted to annoy her, at least as much as her presence at Blackburn annoyed him, “The stablehands are too busy with the guests’ horses and their own duties for a jaunt in the country. I have nothing better to occupy my time at present. As long as my mother insists that you stay at Blackburn, we might as well make the best of the situation and declare a truce.”
She looked wary of the offer, and rightly so. He had no idea where it came from. A truce was hardly the first step toward driving her away from Blackburn. Then again, it could work to his advantage. He might learn something useful that would persuade his mother once and for all that he was right about Faro Burke.
“I know you do not like me, or even trust me,” she began.
He sensed a refusal and hurried to reassure her. “Sometimes I tend to form an opinion too quickly. Learning that you were Baron Rothwell’s daughter clouded my judgment, and I am a confirmed skeptic in matters of the occult and supernatural. Your difficulty with the reading last night did little to sway my beliefs. Still, my mother likes you and she tends to be a good judge of character. For her sake, I will try harder to keep an open mind about your claims.”
It was a challenge few women could resist, the opportunity to change a man’s opinions. He waited patiently for her agreement.
She arched one delicate brow. “Your vicissitude is to be admired, my lord, yet I am curious why my father would cl
oud your judgment of me.”
“I would think it obvious.” He racked his brain for the definition of vicissitude. Was she being sarcastic, or was it some truly admirable trait? He made a mental note to look the word up when he returned to the library.
Faro looked equally perplexed. “It is not obvious in the least. Did you dislike my father?”
“Yes, you could say that I disliked him.” Such a tame description for such strong emotions. He had hated Baron Rothwell with every fiber of his being. “Your father relieved mine of a very substantial sum in a game of cards.”
“Ah, I see.” She didn’t look the least surprised, and even nodded as if she had some understanding of his feelings. “Gambling was my father’s greatest weakness and his ultimate downfall. Unfortunately, he took a good many men down with him over the years.”
Wyatt didn’t know what to say. He hadn’t expected her to be agreeable on the subject.
“You are shocked,” she said, as if she had read his thoughts. “I know it is ill-mannered to speak disparagingly of one’s elders, but in truth I barely knew my father. He thought my brother and I were … odd. It is very difficult to feel any real affection for a parent who makes his dislike of his offspring so obvious. The last time we saw him was the winter my mother died. That was eleven years ago.” Her steady gaze didn’t ask for pity. Only for a measure of understanding. “You are only one of many who found reason to resent the baron, my lord.”
He looked away before the words she left unspoken could affect him. It was already too late. How could he hold her responsible for Rothwell’s actions when she had suffered an even greater injustice at her father’s hands? Rather than give in to the urge to make an apology, he looked up at the pigeons that sat along the peak of the stables and pretended they held great interest.
This truce was an extraordinarily bad idea. The last thing he needed was to spend the afternoon in Faro Burke’s company. Recognizing his weakness for her didn’t do anything to diminish it. Given an hour, she could probably convince him of anything. Unfortunately, it was also too late to retreat.