“Dance with me,” he said.
She said nothing, but put her hand in his. The faint, lilting sounds of a waltz reached them from the ballroom. Slowly they moved and began to dance.
This time there was no proper distance between them, for he could feel the brush of her legs against his own through her skirts. He drew her close to him, sliding his hand from her waist to her hip, and she did not pull away. Instead, she looked at him, saying nothing, as if her whole concentration was upon him, trying to penetrate to his soul. Her head tipped back to look at him, exposing the long column of her throat.
The bloodlust caught him, almost making him gasp.
No. Not now, and not Leonore. His life would sink further into unreality if he gave into it now. He shuddered, and the thirst receded.
“What is wrong, Nicholas?” Leonore asked. The distant music from the ballroom faded, and their steps slowed, then stopped.
“A chill.” He gazed at her, at her eyes and lips sculpted by the light of the moon and the shadows of the dark. Her body was still pressed against him, her legs almost entwined with his through her gown’s thin silk cloth. A different sort of lust overtook him. He bent his head, and his lips seized hers in a fierce kiss.
At first Leonore froze. Then his kiss softened, and she moved into his embrace. It was proper, he was her betrothed, she told herself, and then all rationality fled. No one had ever held her so close, and the closeness was suddenly a thing to be cherished. For all that it was foreign, it was also rare, and a hunger rose in her for it.
He must have sipped Lady Bennington’s champagne before their dance, for his lips tasted of wine. Beneath the scent of bay rum was a wilder tang, like a forest in autumn, and it mixed with the scent of the roses and the night. She moved her hands to his shoulders, and her hand came up behind his neck to touch the thick curls at the nape. His hair was soft and flowed between her fingers like silk.
“Nicholas …” she murmured against his lips, wanting to hear the sound of the name she’d said over and over again in her mind, but hadn’t willingly allowed herself to say aloud.
In answer, his lips came down upon hers again in a deeper kiss. His hands caressed her hips, pressing her hard against him. Heat flared there, and Leonore trembled and sighed a low moan. His mouth moved across her cheek to where her hair curled around her ear.
“God, Leonore, how I want you …” His whisper ended in a husky laugh, and his kisses trickled just below her ear down to her shoulder. He hesitated at her neck, and his tongue flickered out briefly to touch her there, before his lips descended further.
Her skin tasted sweet and salt to his tongue, and the agony of denying himself more than this taste transmuted into hot desire. He wanted to pull Leonore down to the grass and take her there, but he could not if he were to save himself from madness, and he groaned in frustration. It was madness itself, his desire for her: an amalgam of bloodlust and the abrupt hyper-acuity the thirst always brought to him. Now he could feel her breasts and thighs against him, as if her silk dress and his own clothes were nothing but mist. The heady scent of roses and lavender water made him dizzy; the music of her sighs seized his heart and made him want to weep. It was ten times the agony, for he knew once the thirst faded, he’d sink into the mind-killing dullness of the senses again.
One more taste of her, he thought, once more before I stop. He pushed aside the gathers of fine silk crepe that covered her breasts and kissed the revealed skin. Her breath came fast, and her hands clutched his shoulders tightly.
“Nicholas … I don’t … I want …” Her voice came out in a breathless sob.
He turned his face so that his cheek rested on her breast and, taking a deep breath, briefly closed his eyes. He pushed himself away from her, and though he tried to keep his hands steady, they trembled as he gently pulled up her bodice again. He did not want to look at her face, for he felt perhaps she would see his shame at his lack of control. The shame surprised him, for he had not felt it with other women—women whom he had seduced in the past. It was, no doubt, because he had not had to control himself with them, and anything that he took from them was amply paid for in coin or sensual pleasure.
“Nicholas …” He felt her warm fingers touch his cheek, the sensation already dulled, for the bloodlust had faded. It was as if a transparent cloth had formed itself about his body and muffled all his senses. He looked down into her eyes at last. A light dwelt within, and her mouth smiled, still soft with passion.
“Kiss me again,” she said.
A husky laugh erupted from him, and he gently did so. She responded eagerly, and Nicholas pushed her from him after a moment. “No, Leonore. You don’t know—” He stopped, then sighed. “You are altogether too tempting. And I am sure we are causing something of a scandal, for though I am certain we have not been seen, we have been gone long enough from the ballroom for people to notice.”
“Oh, heavens.” Leonore’s hands went to her face, covering her mouth, and she stared at him, obviously embarrassed. She had apparently not thought of the possible consequences of being alone with him outside. “I didn’t mean—”
He grinned. “I know. Let us hope our betrothal makes our absence more acceptable than it normally would.”
A distressed expression crossed her face. “They will know that we— How can they not guess when they see my blushes? For I do not think I will be able to look at anyone without doing so.”
Nicholas bent and picked up her shawl, which had fallen to the ground, and shook it out. Gently he placed it around her shoulders. “Never mind. We need not enter the ballroom again. It is late, and I can simply make an excuse for you to Lady Bennington, find your mother, and have you return home.”
She looked gratefully at him. “Yes, thank you.” He put her hand upon his arm and they walked around the house to the entrance.
He signaled a footman to fetch the coach and felt Leonore press his arm. “Please …” She glanced away, wet her lips, and then looked up at him again. “I hope you didn’t think I was—I am usually very much in control of myself and do not do improper things …”
Nicholas chuckled and caressed her cheek with a finger. “My dear, sometimes it is a pleasant thing to lose control.” He raised her hand to his lips, helped her into the coach that had just arrived, then went into the house to find her mother.
Chapter Six
Some thought it was scandalous, but most smiled indulgently. Clearly, it was a love match between Lord St. Vire and Miss Leonore Farleigh. For though no one had ever seen them in any sort of compromising situation, many noted they disappeared together at times, and when they were seen together, each glance they exchanged was as intimate as a private embrace.
It was worse than that, thought Leonore, if anyone really knew. Even thinking of it brought a heat to her cheeks. She brought her fan up to cool her face and tried to train her mind upon the musicians who were tuning up for the next piece—and failed miserably. She hoped none of Lady Rothwick’s guests would glance her way and see how discomposed she was.
She felt almost helpless against the onslaught of St. Vire’s —Nicholas’s—attentions. She could not even continue to keep a formal and mental distance from him by calling him St. Vire, for he was Nicholas to her now. It was unnerving how her gaze would inadvertently follow him about a room, how her hands seemed unable to keep from touching his hand, his sleeve, or his arm. Or how, when she would glance at him, she’d find him watching her, whether it was from across the room or beside her.
And Nicholas was expert at finding secluded places for their kisses—and not so secluded. That was the danger of it, what made it at once frightening and infinitely exciting. She never knew when he would draw her aside and kiss her, how long it would last, or if anyone would discover them. Every sense was achingly on edge because of that uncertainty, and when he touched her, even so much as a hand on her elbow, she felt her body begin to tingle in readiness for a possible caress.
Yet, he confused her, for he
’d call her “sweet” and all manner of endearments, but surely he could not be in love with her in less than two months. And his attentions had a flavor of wooing. But for what reason? They were already betrothed, after all.
Did she take joy in it? A small part of Leonore’s heart was not certain. When he looked at other women, he might be admiring, and a mischievous light might enter his eyes. But never did he look on other women as he did her, as if she were wholly desirable. He never said he loved her, and she told herself again it was not something she expected.
There was nothing to dislike in Nicholas, and much to admire. She should be content with that, she knew. More than his looks and charm, were his cleverness, intelligence, and undeniable kindness and generosity toward her. He refused any thanks for his little gifts to her, or the large account he had with Madame Etoile’s dressmaking establishment, laughingly saying that he was vain enough to want his wife-to-be to be dressed as well as he. But there was no need for him to extend his kindness to Susan. Leonore’s heart warmed to him for this. At first she’d been suspicious, for Susan was a pretty girl, and Leonore trusted no one. But it was clear even to her that his attention was wholly upon herself, and his kindness to Susan disinterested. For it was Leonore whom he watched, and he seemed to glance only reluctantly at others when she was near him.
And heaven only knew she was highly attracted to him … almost obsessed. That was the word with no bark on it. She knew if she so much as shook her head at his advances, he’d stop. She had managed to do it once, and he had ceased his kisses immediately. But just as immediately she felt bereft and shamelessly sought them again.
Even now, as she sat at Lady Rothwick’s musicale, she felt intensely aware of Nicholas’s thigh pressed against hers as he sat on the chair next to her. She wet her dry lips and tried to focus on the music. She was partially successful: Lady Rothwick had engaged superb musicians, and they played the Mozart divertimento excellently. She could not help herself; she wanted to see what he thought of the music. Turning to look up at him, she saw he was already looking at her. You wanted to ask him about the music, she told herself. But then his gaze lingered on her lips, and a slow smile grew on his own, as if he were thinking of kissing her.
“The music,” she blurted.
Nicholas’s eyebrows rose. “Yes?”
“Do … do you like it?”
He turned his eyes to the musicians, and Leonore felt she was able to breathe again.
“They are very competent.” His voice sounded indifferent, however, and she remembered he had been equally blasé about the opera they had attended. She frowned, thinking.
“You are not very musically inclined, are you?”
“No,” he replied.
“Why do you bother to come to the musicale, then?”
“To see you, of course.”
“Nonsense,” Leonore said testily, though she blushed. “You have seen me five times this week, and you need not come to a musicale for that. Why do you come?”
Nicholas gazed at her, and she thought she saw indecision in his eyes. Then he said, “I used to appreciate music very well. I cannot seem to do so now. Sometimes I come, hoping I can remember what it was like.” He still smiled as he had a moment ago, and she could almost think he was joking, but something in his eyes told her he spoke the truth.
“I see,” she said.
“You believe me?” His voice held a note of surprise.
“Yes.”
“Why?” The word seemed to come involuntarily from him.
She said, looking up at him, “Because I’ve come to trust you.”
Oddly, she knew it was true. She did not know quite how it had happened, or why she should, but she did trust Nicholas. Though he had teased her and was sometimes oblique in manner, he had—so far as she could see—never lied to her. When he stated a thing, he made sure it was so, time and time again. More than anything, he was the only man who did as he promised. Perhaps it was not saying much, for the men she had encountered at her students’ houses—fathers, brothers, guests—promised only things they could not give, each hoping to make her his mistress. She’d refused them all, for she was no fool and no harlot.
His face showed incredulity mixed with gratitude, and strangely, regret. “You should not trust me, you know,” he said.
“No, I should not, for in general I do not trust anyone except perhaps Susan. But I do, nevertheless.”
Nicholas stared at her, then looked away. “I thank you,” he said, and his voice sounded strained, even to himself. “But again, you should not. You know little of me, after all.” A curious feeling, warm and aching, twisted through his chest. He had intended to seduce her, slowly and carefully, and he had expected she’d succumb to it—as she had, so far. But trust? He had not expected it, had not thought of it, really. In truth, he did not want it. It was better she be a conduit for his goal, only a part—needed part, to be sure—of his cure.
Yet, he felt compelled to warn her … of what? He was being foolish. She would never know, for if she did she would never come to him willingly. Of course, that was it—if he told her a little bit of the truth, even warn her, and she still wanted to marry him, then it only proved how willing she was.
The musicians ended their piece, and the guests rose to exchange greetings and walk about a little. After nodding and smiling to a few new acquaintances, Leonore gave him a wry smile. “It is true. You do not reveal much of yourself—in words. But the very fact that you would warn me against you, shows me you are not as untrustworthy as you would make yourself out to be.” They also rose, and Nicholas took her hand and placed it on his arm.
He gazed at her coolly. “Beware, Leonore. Ours will be a marriage of convenience. I hope you are not falling in love with me.” I cannot afford to return it. If the magic does not work, your short life will have no place in mine. He thrust away the confused emotions that accompanied the thought. Better to train his attention on the moment.
“How very vain you are, to be sure!” Leonore replied lightly. “Have I said it?”
He grinned, relieved at her tone. “No, you have not, and you have caught me out again.” He brought her hand to his lips. Though she smiled, he could see the guardedness in her eyes again. He felt satisfaction at it but also regret, then almost grimaced at himself for being so contradictory. “You are very good for the state of my soul; I am sure when we are wed, you will improve me to sainthood.”
“No fear of that, my lord.” She looked about her, clearly startled, and Nicholas smiled to himself. He had taken her out of the conservatory, where the musicale was held, and down a long hall. She had apparently not noticed it. A fleeting uncertainty slowed his steps. Did she not notice because he had unconsciously put a glamour on her? Sometimes people did as he wished even when he did not purposely put a glamour upon them. What did it matter, after all? he thought impatiently.
He pushed open a door, and it opened to a small room, dark and apparently unused, for the moonlight streaming through the windows illuminated the Holland covers over the furniture. He reflected with a smile that it was certainly convenient he had been in most of the noble houses in London so many decades ago and knew the arrangement of the rooms well. He shut the door behind them.
The dim light showed her eyes, wide and vulnerable. He did not kiss her immediately, but cupped her chin in his hand, stroking her jaw with his thumb.
“You are quite right, my dear,” he said lightly. “I am irredeemable, a very bad man. I am surprised you have not guessed it yet, for I have led you to the edge of scandal more than a few times. Do you really think you should marry me?”
Her throat moved in a swallow. “I … have known of worse men.”
“Have you? But you do not know me well—yet.” He slid his fingers down onto her neck, feeling the pulse of blood at the base of it. He could put a glamour on her now, and she would never know if he drank of her. His hand tightened slightly as the bloodlust surged within him.
He looked
down at her; Leonore did not move, but simply stared at him. She trusted him, or so she said. He had told her when they first met he would never hurt her, and she appeared to believe it, for he never had—yet. Would he go against his word? He searched her face. Never had he put a glamour on her, but he could see her breath came quickly as she stared at him, definitely in his thrall. Or was it her damned trust again?
“I … know you well enough—more than many betrothed couples might in an arranged marriage,” she said. He saw her swallow again and felt the pulse quicken at her throat. “We have never gone over the edge of scandal, I think.”
Moving his hand lower still, he pushed the small puffed sleeve from one shoulder and her bodice from one breast. He watched her, the way her teeth bit her lower lip, the way her eyes closed at his touch. Ah, but she was delectable! Desire for her rose in him, and he smiled. He was becoming quite good at controlling his bloodthirst now, so that it burned low and fused instead with his lust for her lips and breasts and thighs.
“And what if we did now?” He ran his fingers up to her collarbone and then back down beneath her breast.
She shivered, opened her eyes, and stared at him. “Then we should have to marry immediately, of course. It wants but two weeks to our wedding, after all. Whom else would you be able to get to wed you at this late date?”
Nicholas laughed softly at her practical answer and seized her lips with his own. “ ‘Would she could make of me a saint/Or I of her a sinner,’ ” he quoted in a whisper against her mouth.
“The poet … Congreve,” she replied, her voice trembling now, obviously trying to retain some control over herself.
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