"You're quite right. I have been too often stupid about women." He raised her hand and kissed her gloved fingertips. "Forgive me. I shall try to be wiser."
More double meanings. Clearly he suspected her identity, but he was not sure. Thank God for the mask and her careful disguise. However, the intense attraction throbbing between them could not be concealed, and the longer they were together, the more suspicious he would become. "I do not think that continuing to dance with you is wise, monsieur."
"Why should we be wise?" His right arm slid around her waist and his domino enfolded her like protective wings as he drew her back into the waltz. She caught her breath at the sweetness of his embrace. She had been right to be wary of silence, for without words to protect her, she had no defense against him.
Torn between longing to stay and the knowledge that she shouldn't, she compromised by vowing to leave as soon as the dance ended. But the music flowed on and on, far longer than a normal waltz, weaving a web of sound and desire. Gradually, the frantic beat of fear that had driven her for weeks eased, soothed by the warmth of his closeness. Her eyes drifted shut, and her cheek came to rest against his shoulder.
Dimly she knew that their dance was an act of mating as explicit as if they were lying naked on satin sheets, yet she could not break away. They glided through the turns of the waltz, their dominoes floating about them as diaphanous as mist, black and midnight blue swirling together.
Finally—yet too soon—the music stopped. They halted beneath a chandelier, their gazes locked as if bound by a sorcerer's spell. Behind his mask, she saw that desire had turned his eyes as golden as new minted coins.
She wondered what her own eyes showed, and knew that she must leave now. "Good night, monsieur," she said, her throat dry.
As she turned to go, he caught her wrist. "Don't leave yet," he said thickly. "Or rather, let us go together."
She twisted away from his grip. "Sorry, but I have already made plans for the rest of the night."
Hot wax spattered across her cheek from one of the candles above. She raised her hand, but his fingers were there first, gently rubbing away the fragments of cooled wax. "Come with me now. Surely your 'other plans' can wait for an hour."
He spoke with the calm confidence of a man who did not doubt that in an hour he could make her forget all other obligations. But hers were more significant than mere fornication, as alluring as that might be. She shook her head. "I'm sorry, monsieur, but honor forbids. Perhaps another time."
She sensed the flex of his fingers barely in time. Before he could pull off her mask, she slapped his hand away with her fan, shattering the ivory blades and ripping the delicate lace. "Do not seek to change the rules, monsieur," she snapped. "Such intimacy as we have shared is possible only because we wear masks. If I do not satisfy you, go seek the lady you think I resemble. She might be more accommodating."
"I can't help but wonder if I have found her," he said softly. "Though the appearance is different, the spirit is the same. Can there be more than one woman who shimmers with such a flame, and kindles such desire?"
Damnation. In spite of her best efforts, Strathmore was three quarters convinced of her identity. But not quite sure; if he had been, he would already have hauled her from the dance floor to a more private place.
Attack was safer than defense. She uttered a very French oath learned from the Parisian girl who had been her nursemaid, then turned away, her domino flaring wide. "You become tedious, monsieur. Do not trouble me again."
As she moved away, languidly rolling her hips in a manner quite unlike her usual walk, she could feel his gaze boring into her back. It took all of her willpower not to bolt. Only the knowledge that flight would confirm his suspicions kept her steps slow and steady.
She joined the largest group of people so that the earl would lose sight of her, then slipped out of the ballroom. When she was safely out in the foyer, she leaned against a wall, shaking. How could she have been such a fool as to let that happen? She should have walked away as soon as he accosted her. And how long had she been with him? Harford had intended to return to his room in an hour, and half of that must have passed. There was no time to waste.
Quickly she removed the pebbles from her slippers, for they were uncomfortable, and it was no longer necessary to alter her walk. Then she made her way upstairs at a speed just short of a run. Several times she saw other couples in corners or entering a bedroom, but all were too intent on their own concerns to pay attention to her.
Blackwell Abbey was U-shaped with a center section bracketed by two shorter wings. Dozens of identical doors opened onto the dimly lit corridors. To prevent guests from embarrassing errors, elegantly written cards announced who was in each room. She warily eyed the door marked with Strathmore's name, even though she knew that he must still be downstairs.
She reached the end of the corridor and fished out the key, then spent two frustrating minutes trying to open the unmarked door. Perhaps Harford was playing some kind of idiotic game with her.
Could she have come to the wrong place? She thought about it and realized that she had gotten her directions reversed and come to the east wing instead of the west. Mentally cursing herself, she retraced her steps, instinctively circling wide around Strathmore's door. Right around the corner, along the main corridor, right again. Last door on the left.
This time the key turned smoothly, and the door swung open to reveal a sitting room. She stepped inside with relief, then locked the door behind her so that she would have warning of Harford's return if she wasn't gone before he came upstairs.
A single candle lit the room. She studied her surroundings, wondering what to look for. Once before she had searched a room of Harford's, but then he had been a guest in someone else's house. This sitting room and the adjacent bedroom were places where he actually lived for part of the year, and he must have imprinted himself deeply into his surroundings.
She began searching. The bookcase contained an impressive array of salacious books, repellent and of no value to her. She opened the wardrobe and ran her hands between the garments, trying to find traces of some undefinable essence. Then she turned to his desk and began searching his papers with frantic haste while she prayed that he would stay longer at the ball than he had intended.
The desk contained two drawers full of bills, none of them paid. Another drawer contained highly explicit love letters written in different feminine hands. She skimmed them quickly, but it was all rubbish. Even the doggerel verse about "Roderick's remarkable rod" scanned badly. Obviously, Harford did not favor women with intelligence.
In the center drawer was a journal containing terse notes. She studied them for a few minutes and realized with distaste that it was a record of the women he had bedded, complete with evaluations of their skills and willingness to indulge his sometimes peculiar tastes. If she were actually the trollop she pretended, she would be destined to end up in these pages. He would have made a note of her tattoo.
She flipped through all of the entries for the last several months, but found nothing to confirm her suspicions. She was leaning over to pull out the lowest drawer when an angry voice barked, "What the hell are you doing?"
She jerked upright, heart hammering, and saw Harford glowering in the doorway. Dear God, why didn't it occur to her that he might have a second key? She must brazen it out. "Looking through your desk, of course," she said innocently. "I became bored waiting, monsieur, so I decided to explore."
"Next time, don't explore a man's desk," he said, his irritation fading with the quick mood change of the drunk. "You're French? I didn't notice that earlier."
Damnation, she had spoken in the character she had created for Strathmore! "In a bedroom, I am always French," she said throatily. "The French may be our enemies, but they are masters at the art of making love."
"Oh, I don't know about being our enemies. Napoleon's a damned clever fellow, far superior to our own royal family. We haven't seen the last of him." Harford remov
ed his mask, then unfastened his domino and dropped it over a chair. "Start undressing. I want to see if your face is as good as your tits."
It was the moment she had been waiting for. She stepped full into the candlelight and reached for her mask. Though her hair color was different, he would surely recognize her if he was the man she sought. She revealed her face, watching him with hawklike intensity as she waited for the reaction that would tell her all she needed to know.
Nothing! Not a flicker, not a widening of the eyes, only the careless comment, "A bit long in the tooth, but you'll do for a night. I've found that older females make good bedmates because they're so grateful."
A cold knot formed in her belly. He wasn't the one. He wasn't the one! She could not have explained how she knew, but she was positive. Though he might be involved in a tangential way, he was not the prime villain.
She had learned what she had come for. Now the trick was to escape without getting raped. "It isn't kind of you to mention my age," she complained as she edged toward the door. "A proper knight wouldn't say such a thing."
"Stop babbling about knights." He pulled off his coat and untied his cravat. "You came here to get bedded. I'm willing to oblige, but don't waste my time with female nonsense."
"You're not chivalrous at all." With a flounce she reached for the doorknob. "I don't think I like you anymore."
Moving with a speed that belied his drunkenness, he seized her shoulders and swung her around to face him. "You're not going anywhere," he growled. "It's too late for me to find another woman, so you're going to stay here and get exactly what you asked for."
His hot, wine-soured mouth clamped over hers. It was horribly like the incident at Bourne Castle when he had thought her a chambermaid. Suppressing her distaste, she made a sound deep in her throat, as if aroused by his crude embrace, and wrapped herself around him.
He groaned when she rubbed her hips against him, then began impatiently undoing his buttons. She waited until he was pulling his breeches down and off-balance. Then she shoved him violently in the chest. He crashed backward into the desk, then went sprawling on the floor.
Not stopping to see if he was hurt, she bolted out the door. The west wing ended to the left, so she turned right toward the main corridor. She was just swinging around the corner when she heard a bellow of fury followed by pounding footsteps. No doubt it was fortunate that he wasn't dead, but it was a pity he hadn't been knocked senseless.
"You'll pay for that, you little slut!" echoed through the halls above the sounds from the ballroom. Ordinarily, this much racket would bring people, but she supposed the other guests were too busy dancing, drinking, or fornicating to notice.
Knowing that he would be able to see her as soon as he turned the corner, she slowed long enough to try the nearest doorknob. Locked! She began running again, heading for the stairs to the ground floor. Once she got through the ballroom and into the garden, Harford would never find her.
Her plans changed when she saw Lord Mace and two other men talking at the foot of the steps. Perhaps she would be safe if she went to them, but she wouldn't have bet a ha'penny on it.
She swerved and continued along the corridor with the speed she had learned running over the Westmoreland fells. A few seconds after she turned the corner into the east wing, the pursuing footsteps stopped. Harford called, "Mace, did a woman just run down these stairs?"
"No," his brother replied. "What the devil are you up to?"
"Chasing a sly, troublemaking little tease," Harford said viciously. "I'll make her sorry she ever met me."
"Well, chase her more quietly, Roderick," Mace drawled. "There may be a few guests trying to sleep."
Gasping for breath, Kit used the brief reprieve to test the doors in the east wing. One was Strathmore's, the next two were locked. The fourth opened, and she breathed a sigh of relief which lasted until she heard the fevered sounds of a couple in the throes of passion. She retreated hastily, shutting the door behind her.
Harford's steps were approaching rapidly. In a few seconds he would turn the corner and see her. Frantically, she scanned the corridor. Another dead end. One of these blank doors probably led to a service stairway, but she didn't know which, and time was running out.
With her goal still unachieved, it would be disastrous to let Harford catch her. At the very least she would be beaten and raped. The worst didn't bear thinking of.
There was only one hope. Please God, let him be there and willing to help her in spite of all she had done to him.
With a feeling of doomed inevitability, she pivoted and fled straight to Strathmore's door.
Chapter 22
After his encounter with the lady in the blue domino, Lucien returned to his room, seething with a combination of physical and mental frustration. He had told his valet not to wait up, so after removing his domino and mask, he built up the fire, then poured himself a small glass of brandy and sat down to think.
There was no rational reason for his suspicion that the lady in blue was Kristine Travers; apart from height, there was no real resemblance between the two women. Nonetheless, he had been unable to shake the persistent feeling that it had been her laughing at him from behind that mask. Perhaps it was obsession that made him see her everywhere; that, and the knowledge that she was a mistress of disguise.
Yet he had gone thirty-two years without being attracted to a woman as intensely as he was to Kit. It made sense that he would also find her identical twin alluring, but it was hard to believe that a total stranger could also arouse him in precisely the same way. If he hadn't made a fool of himself with Kathryn Travers, he would have forcibly removed the mysterious lady's mask. A good thing she had disappeared into the crowd before he had succumbed to temptation.
With a wry smile, he finished his brandy. It was hard to be rational when waltz music from the ball throbbed through the air. Every rippling measure reminded him of how his last partner had felt in his arms. Maybe the lady in blue was a damned Travers cousin, which was why she affected him the way Kristine and Kathryn did. In the morning he would ask a few questions and see if he could find out who the lady really was, but now it was time for bed.
After he removed his coat and boots, he remembered that he hadn't locked the door on his return. He crossed the room and was reaching for the key when the door swung violently open, almost hitting him in the face. And headlong behind it came Lady Nemesis wearing the blue domino, ash blond curls, and false age lines of his earlier dance partner.
Eyes enormous, she gasped, "Harford's right behind me. Please..."
Explanations could wait. He instantly swung the door shut and turned the key in the lock. "Get into the bed and pull the covers over your head. Then stay put and don't talk."
As she dived for the bed, he stripped off his cravat and threw it aside, then yanked his shirt loose so that it hung over his breeches. As he was unfastening his collar button, a fist struck the door and Harford's voice barked, "Open up!"
"Go away," Lucien called back, his voice sharp with irritation. "I'm busy." As he spoke, he used one hand to rumple his hair and the other to twist a pinch of skin on his neck, leaving a red mark that looked like a love bite.
Harford bellowed, "Dammit, Strathmore, let me in!"
"All right, all right," Lucien said testily. "I'm coming." He scanned the bed, where Kit was a long, curving shape under the blankets. She was covered except for a fold of blue silk that hung down one side of the bed. He shoved the telltale fabric under the blanket, then ambled across the room, taking his time.
After snuffing all but one candle and donning an expression of intense exasperation, he opened the door. "Is the house on fire? I can't imagine anything else so important that it can't wait until morning."
In the hall was Roderick Harford, his eyes furious and his clothing disheveled. "I want the woman you have with you!"
Lucien's brows arched. "You can't have her. She's mine, and I'm anxious to get back to what we were doing."
"The teasing bitch tried to rob me! I caught her searching my desk, as bold as brass."
"Oh?" Lucien folded his arms and leaned against the door frame. "It can't have been recently, because I've been keeping her busy for the last half hour or so."
"But I just saw her come into this room!"
"Not in here," Lucien said positively. "Your ladybird must have gone through a different door. They all look the same."
Expression belligerent, Harford tried to shove past. "I want to see who's in your bed, and I'm not leaving until I do."
Lucien's arm whipped across the doorway, stopping the other man in his tracks. "I really can't permit that," he said in a voice of dangerous softness.
"I'm not asking your permission, Strathmore!" Again Harford tried to bull his way into the room.
Lucien grabbed the other man's right arm and yanked it up behind his back. When Harford began thrashing violently, Lucien twisted his wrist to a point on the edge of excruciating pain. "If you insist, I'm afraid that I shall have to call you out," he said coolly. "That would be regrettable—it's damned bad form to kill the brother of one's host."
Brought back to a realization of the circumstances, Harford stopped struggling. Lucien released his wrist, but the other man was not done yet. Furiously he said, "You and that slut are working together, aren't you?"
Lucien's eyes narrowed. "You are beginning to irritate me, Roderick. I am respecting the lady's privacy for reasons that have nothing to do with you."
"Why?"
Lucien rolled his eyes heavenward. "Quite apart from normal gentlemanly behavior, there is the regrettable fact that not all husbands are tolerant of their wives' amusements."
After another silence Harford gave an embarrassed laugh. "A married woman. I should have thought of that."
"Yes, you should have. Now kindly seek your felonious female elsewhere. The next door to the left is a servants' stair, isn't it? Perhaps she went that way."
Dancing on the Wind: Book 3 in The Fallen Angel Series Page 19