The truth trembled on the tip of his tongue. He wanted to tell her everything, for he was tired of the secrecy, and a part of him wanted her to know everything. It would be a relief, even if it meant she would run from him in horror. But he would go mad if she left him, and he could not risk that.
“No,” he blurted and felt a flash of irritation. How impulsive and graceless he was becoming! He’d tell part of the truth, then. Perhaps she would accept that. He poured himself a glass of wine and drained it. Glancing at the footman who came forward to take the empty bottle, Nicholas rose from his chair. “Perhaps we should remove ourselves to somewhere more comfortable than the dining room?”
Leonore nodded, clearly curious now, and stood up. “My sitting room, perhaps?” she said. He nodded and requested the footman to bring some refreshment to them there.
He went to her and put her hand on his arm as they left the dining room. She glanced at him, her eyes puzzled as they walked down the hall.
He had not been to her sitting room before, though she must have claimed it for her own for quite a few months already. An embroidery table was set next to a cozy-looking chair in front of the hearth. A cheerful fire played amongst the logs in the fireplace, and a folded, prettily embroidered fire screen leaned against one wall. It was a comfortable place, he noted with some surprise. He had not thought much about it, but it reflected what he glimpsed of Leonore when she let down her guard. He thought of his library in the attic. It was not comfortable at all, and he wished for the first time that it was. She gestured invitingly to a nearby plump chair that also faced the hearth.
“This is a restful place,” he said as he sat. “Very pleasant.”
“Thank you. I have always wanted a room for myself where I could have some quiet and do what I wished.” She smiled gratefully at him. “You were generous to let me have one.”
A pleasing warmth flowed over him. Here, then, was something he had given her, something she valued. He was glad of that. He waved his hand dismissively. “No, not generous at all. I have my own room, after all. Why should you not?”
Leonore frowned. “I do not know why yours should be in the attic, however. Would you not like a room like this one?”
He looked about him, at the fire and the ornaments upon the mantelpiece. The rug was soft beneath his feet, and the wing chair in which he sat held him snugly. It would be pleasant to have a room like this. But he shook his head.
“Not with the books I have,” he said. “I do not collect just any ancient volume, however. They are books on arcane lore, on witchcraft, and magic.”
Leonore leaned back in her chair and smiled. “Is that all there is to it?” she said. “I cannot see that as a reason why you should keep them hidden away in the attic. Magic is not real, after all.”
He felt his responding grin turn crooked. “Are you so sure?”
“I am not so superstitious. If magic were real, then why have I never seen it? Or anyone else, for that matter?”
“Have you never read fairy tales, Leonore, or ancient legends?”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Nicholas! They are only fairy tales. I know the difference between fantasy and reality.” She opened the table at her side, took out some embroidery, and began setting precise, even stitches. She gave him a derisive glance before attending to her needle again. “We live in the nineteenth century and are not uneducated serfs in fear of some sorcerer’s curse or witch’s evil eye. Magic? I think not.” She said it firmly, as if she had once believed in it as a child, but would not believe any longer.
Should he show her otherwise? He grinned, thinking of how shocked out of her good sense she would be. Well, perhaps not now. She would no doubt prick her finger on the needle and ruin the embroidery she was stitching so diligently. “Many people are not as sensible as you are, Leonore,” he said. “Our servants, for example. What will they think if they should come upon my books? They are not as educated as you or I.”
“We will tell them not to be so foolish,” Leonore said firmly.
“Really? And what are they to think of that, with my habit of waking only during the night?”
She bit her lower lip and lifted her eyes from her stitching. “Of course … you are right,” she said. “Thoughtless of me. We never had many servants, so I am not used to having them about.” She looked away from him, as if embarrassed by the admission.
Nicholas nodded, not commenting on her words, for he did not want to embarrass her further. A small porcelain figurine on the table beside him caught his eye. It was in the shape of a fairy, delicately made and painted, and its wings were those of a butterfly. He picked it up and turned it over, then looked at Leonore with a grin.
“So, you do not care for fairy tales, eh?”
She blushed lightly. “It was a gift from Susan, long ago. She fancied I would like it.”
“Now, I wonder why?”
“If you must know, it is because I used to read her stories and legends at bedtime, when she was a little girl.”
“And you thought fantasy was appropriate material for a young girl, oh Leonore-the-governess? On the other hand, I do seem to remember your fondness for the love poems of Congreve.” Nicholas shook his head dolefully. “My, my. I am amazed your employers allowed you to teach such … provocative material.”
“For goodness sake! Of course I did not teach these things to my pupils! How you tease!”
“Your sister, then?”
“I did not read any Congreve to Susan!”
He breathed a sigh of mock relief. “How thankful I am that you are not a corrupter of children,” he said, then eyed her sternly. “But definitely fairy tales?”
Leonore primmed her lips, but a laugh broke from her nevertheless. “Have I not said it?”
St. Vire gently rolled the figurine about in the palm of his hand. “May I hope, then, that you once believed in them when you were a child? That sometimes you wished they were true?”
“I have grown up since then and know these things are fantasy only.” Her hand came up to twist her necklace again.
“Really?” He put down the figurine on the table and reached over to caress her cheek. “Sometimes it is not a bad thing to dream and wish for things that seem impossible.” He snapped his fingers, and a cool puff of air next to her cheek made her start.
“This is for you,” he said. She stared at the red rosebud in his hand, and then at him.
“A trick,” she said.
He grinned at her. “If you wish.” He rose and went to her embroidery table, selected a pin, and fastened the flower to the bodice of her dress. She gazed at him uncertainly, and he gave her a brief kiss before sitting down again.
“What do you like to read, then, Leonore?”
She looked a little relieved at this change of subject and said, “Oh, some philosophical works—”
“Like Congreve.”
She burst out laughing. “Oh, for heaven’s sake! That is not a philosophical work, as you well know!”
“What do you read for pleasure, then?”
Leonore’s lips turned up in a smile. “Congreve, as you have so insistently pointed out. Keats, Byron, and Sir Walter Scott’s works, as well as Jane Austen’s.”
He reached beside his chair and pulled up a book. “And Walpole’s The Castle of Otranto, I see. Gothics, Leonore?”
“Where did you … I didn’t … I thought I had returned that to the library—”
“So you admit you have a fondness for gothics, then, eh?”
“Well, yes.”
“So do I. Shall I read for a while?”
She stared at him a moment, then nodded. He opened the book and began to read.
Leonore plied her needle while she listened. Her stitching slowed, for Nicholas read with such expression that she could almost imagine she was seeing the story as if she were in a theatre, watching a play. Occasionally he sipped the brandy that had been brought to the sitting room, but the pause in his reading did not disturb the pictures
that were in her mind. Finally, he ceased reading, and she found she had stopped her needlework and was staring into the fire. She looked up at him, still in a haze from the sound of his voice and the lulling warmth of the fire in front of her.
Nicholas had the book open in his lap, his hand about to close it. “You seem tired … would you prefer to retire to your bed rather than go to Lady Russell’s ball?” he asked.
“No … oh, I am a little tired, perhaps, but I am sure it is because of all the housework I have been doing. I would like to go out tonight, for I have been indoors all day and wish to do something different, but I don’t wish to stay past eleven.”
Was there disappointment in his eyes? But she thought she would please him by agreeing to go to the ball, for she knew how he liked to be in company. She almost retracted her words, but thought perhaps he felt disappointed because they would not be staying long at the ball, rather than that they were going at all. Well, they would go, and if he wished to stay past eleven, so be it.
She dressed in good time, but still in the most modest of gowns she had in her wardrobe. After all these months she would have thought she’d become used to the way her husband looked at her, but she was not. It made her think about him too much, a thing she had not resolved yet. She hadn’t given in to the impulse to stay at home tonight, however, despite the thought that if she had retired to bed as he had suggested, it probably would have been with him in it. Perhaps she was regaining a measure of control over herself, after all.
But when she saw Nicholas downstairs ready to leave for Lady Russell’s ball, his appearance a study in black, white, and red, she did not see how anyone could resist thinking of him. His coat was night black, and beneath it his waistcoat was black also, chased with silver designs. Pale knit breeches hugged his thighs so that she hastily looked away from them, blushing. Within the folds of his linen cravat winked his favorite ruby, the single touch of color in the chaste white cloth. The starkness of his dress made his face seem almost translucent, unearthly, as if he were some elemental spirit instead of a man, and the dark red of his hair and his vivid green eyes emphasized it all the more. He is all fire and air, thought Leonore, and then dismissed the thought firmly. She smiled ruefully to herself. Their talk of fairy tales and legends had made her think it.
Nicholas’s smile turned into a grin as he watched her, and he spread out his arms. “I hope you approve?”
Leonore smiled primly at him. “I will not cater to your vanity,” she said.
He shook his head morosely. “How grudging you are with your praise! I am sunk in despondency, certain you think me a hideous beast.”
“Oh, not hideous!”
“A beast, then?” He leered comically at her bosom.
“Silly man!” Leonore said, blushing. “If you must know, I think you quite beautiful, and a terrible beast for putting me to the blush. There, now! I have fed your vanity and there will be no bearing you for the next week I am sure.”
“Beautiful?”
Leonore glanced at him and saw that his expression was just as astonished as his voice. “Why, yes. You have a mirror. Certainly you can see that for yourself.”
“Well.” He cleared his throat. “Well, I … I don’t know what to say.” There was a tremor of laughter in his voice. “It is not how I would describe myself, certainly.”
“What you must say, is ‘thank you kindly, ma’am,’ and then take my hand and proceed to the carriage so that we may go to Lady Russell’s ball.” Leonore smiled triumphantly at him and could not help feeling a little gleeful that she had caught him short of words at last.
He laughed and took her hand, placing it on his arm. “Thank you kindly, ma’am,” he said.
They reached the Russells’ house in good time. Leonore danced a waltz with Nicholas, enjoying his gracefulness and the ease with which he led her around the ballroom. The dance ended, and she found herself next to Lord Bremer. He had been at her wedding, and she quite liked him and his wife, so she smiled at him.
He returned her smile, then looked at Nicholas. “Well, St. Vire, I hope you will not keep your wife all to yourself while at this ball.” He looked at Leonore and bowed. “May I request a dance, my lady?”
Nicholas grinned at him. “I shall be watching with a jealous eye, Bremer, so do watch your step.” He nodded at his friend and smiled at Leonore as Lord Bremer took her hand.
They danced a vigorous country dance, which left Leonore too breathless to make much conversation. She could not help glancing at Nicholas, who was also in the set, partnering a redhaired lady who was looking at him avidly. He caught her eye, and after sending Leonore a mischievous glance, gazed soulfully down at his partner, which nearly sent the lady swooning, if her dazed look and stumbling feet were any indication of her state of mind. Leonore bit her lip, trying to keep herself from laughing. If he did not know how handsome he was, certainly he knew how he affected the ladies and could use it to purpose.
“Beast!” she hissed at him as she passed him during the dance.
She caught Nicholas’s innocent expression from across the circle of dancers as Lord Bremer led her around a turn and had to bite her lip again to keep from bursting into laughter. She became warm from the effort, then was glad when the dance came to an end and she was able to fan herself.
Lord Bremer smiled at her and bowed over her hand. “A pleasure to dance with you, Lady St. Vire. Perhaps I can be so bold as to ask for another— Good Lord!” he exclaimed and groped for his quizzing glass. He put it to his eye and looked past her shoulder.
It must have been something quite astonishing for the impeccably polite Lord Bremer to break off and stare in such a manner. Leonore turned and looked past the crowd to the door of the ballroom.
Half the guests must have held their breath for a moment, for she could hear a definite lull in the noise in the room—the male half of the guests, reflected Leonore wryly. For the vision who had stepped into the room was the most extraordinarily beautiful lady she had ever seen. Her hair was black and thick, curling around her pale face in a dark halo. Her eyes were large, her lips sensuously red. As she moved, her fashionably low-cut gown shimmered green and blue over her limbs, like the waters of a lake in summer. Her escort, a handsome, well-dressed young man, looked at no one but her, even when Lady Russell came to greet them. Leonore could not blame him. How could any man resist anyone like this lady?
“I wonder who she is,” Leonore said, turning to Lord Bremer. But he had already left her and was wending his way through the crowd to the lady. Leonore grimaced. She had not thought Lord Bremer a ladies’ man. Judging by the way Lady Bremer was looking at him, Leonore was sure his lady would have a thing or two to say to him once they went home.
Leonore sighed and made her way to a chair at the side of the ballroom. She wondered where Nicholas was. When the country dance had ended, he had been directly across from her and Lord Bremer in the set. The next dance was a waltz, and though Nicholas had not requested it of her, he usually did not dance it with anyone else.
Looking about her, she spied him at last, only three feet away from her. She managed to catch his eye and smiled at him, but Nicholas only looked at her gravely for a moment. Then he, like Lord Bremer, looked across the room at the newcomer.
Suddenly, Leonore found that she could not look at her husband. She had seen him look at other women, beautiful women, and it had not bothered her, since Nicholas did not seem to take them very seriously. Now it was different. The woman across the room was also beautiful, and Leonore assumed any man would want to look at her. And yet she felt as if a hot, sharp knife had been thrust into her chest.
She wanted to run, pretend that she was not here, for the sight of her husband staring at this woman tore at her, and Leonore was horrified to find that she was jealous. An acquaintance paused for a moment beside her and said something cordial she did not hear, though she murmured—she knew not what—in response. Stop it, Leonore, stop it! she thought fiercely to herself. N
icholas has looked at other women before, talked with them, danced with them, and you never cared one whit. This is no different.
But she was not convinced. The expression on Nicholas’s face disturbed her, for there was recognition in his gaze. He knew this woman, and his stare said that he took her presence very seriously indeed.
Chapter Twelve
The nape of his neck tingled, as if the hairs upon it had risen in response to some threat. Nicholas looked up from the tittering redheaded lady at his side and searched the ballroom. There was nothing. He frowned.
“Oh, Lord St. Vire, I cannot think it is all that bad!” complained his partner. He looked at her blankly. Ah, yes. Mrs. Bradley.
“Not at all,” he replied, not caring what it was he had missed in their conversation. “But I think perhaps some lemonade would refresh you. Allow me to procure you some.” He moved away from her, ignoring her puzzled expression, and signaled a servant to bring a glass to his former dance partner.
Leonore was a few feet away from him, chatting with Lord Bremer, and he moved toward her. The tingling began again, and he hunched his shoulders to rid himself of it. He saw Lord Bremer start, his jaw dropping, and St. Vire followed his gaze. He froze.
Mercia had not changed at all. Of course she had not, despite the decades that had gone by. Her hair was still black, and Nicholas knew it was not from the dye pot. Her skin was as pale as his own, and her carmined lips as sensuous as he’d remembered them. She was still extraordinarily beautiful.
And no doubt just as dangerous.
He looked at Leonore for a moment, and then at the ballroom door. He was not sure if they could leave without drawing attention to themselves, for the door was across the room and the well-mannered Lady Russell would stop them with her long, polite good-byes. Damn! How could he be so stupid? The dream that had woken him this night had been a warning—he knew that now. He should have gathered up his belongings at once and taken himself and Leonore to his estates at Avebury, but all his thoughts had been on Leonore and the pleasure of her company.
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