The Black Angel (The St Ives)

by Barbara Samuel

  A thousand faces, Phoebe had told him, and he thought he had seen them all by now—the nondescript wallflower on the steps the first day, the butterfly sailing toward her brothers, the siren at dinner that night, the hoyden sword-fighting, the mischievous wench in men's clothing.

  As she came down the stairs to him now, he saw all of them, and more. The butterfly danced in the many-colored jewels winking in the siren looseness of hair piled so that it appeared ready to tumble free at the slightest touch. There was a hoydenish roll to her hips and mischief on the tiny smile curling her lips, and even a hint of the wallflower afraid she would not please in the shyness he caught in her eyes.

  But most of all she was devastatingly desirable. It seemed so small a word to capture the essence of the way she looked, he thought, his breath caught high in his chest. Candle flame cast an aura of gold about her shoulders, kissed the swell of breasts beneath fabric that caught the light in wicked and not so wicked ways, revealing now the shape of a thigh, a breast, the dip of her waist, and then just as quickly hiding all. She moved like a queen, graceful and straight, but there was no halting the natural roll of her hips, the elusive but unmistakable sway of heavy breasts barely contained in the airiest of fabric, the elusive but definite strut of a woman who'd known the flesh of a man and counted it a delicacy.

  She met his eyes and glided toward him, the depth of dark blue knowing and hinting of laughter. "Will I do?"

  And although he had joined with her before, his imagination gave him the most startling vision of her hair tumbling free over her shoulders as he pulled up those gossamer skirts. He imagined himself beginning at her knee and tasting the flesh up her thighs, imagined the heat and pleasure he could give. He imagined how the fabric would dampen with her sweat, how closely it would mold her temptress's body.

  He was most arrestingly aroused, simply by looking at her, and he raised his eyes to her face. "Cáer." He finally moved, feeling slightly dizzy, and took her gloved hand, lifting it to his face. "I will not even be able to look at you," he murmured, and to illustrate his meaning, pulled her to him with one hand.

  And that only made it worse, because her eyes widened as he rocked his hips against hers ever so lightly, and beneath the fine fabric her nipples appeared. A hint only, and only because he knew to look. For a moment they only stood together, breathing each other's breath, before Tynan said, "I suppose we shall both have to beware revealing our desire."

  She smiled. "Speak for yourself."

  In that moment his fear doubled, tripled, and he found his hands gentling on her arms. Cautionary words made their way into his mouth but were never spilled, for in that instant he raised his head and saw Fiona standing in the shadows, an expression of warning in her eyes.

  So he only bent and kissed his wife, one time, to see him through till evening. And it was in his heart, if not on lips:

  I love you.

  He fancied he could taste the same on her mouth.

  * * *

  In the carriage, Adriana sat next to Tynan as they traveled the short distance to the Duchess's fashionable address. Both of them were silent, and after a moment Tynan reached over and took her gloved hand in his own.

  It was Adriana who spied the house first. Towering four floors, the pillared mansion was built of pale brick, and every window blazed. Oil lamps, hung from posts at three-foot intervals, cast a festive light over the walk where carriages queued up to deposit their glittering contents. Silks and satins and velvets swirled into the flickering light, and jewels danced. Laughter and chatter perfumed the cold night.

  Without speaking, Adriana gripped Tynan's hand more tightly. Her stomach roiled so violently she put her other hand to her mouth. She thought of all the people within, all the knowing looks that would be cast over her, all the speculation that would go on behind the men's eyes, and she shrank back in her seat, making a little cry. "I cannot do this, Tynan," she said in a small voice.

  "Ah, but you can, lass," he said gently. More gently than she deserved. "Where's that haughty chin now?" Two fingers touched her jaw and pushed up. "Think of Julian."

  But she noted the brooding darkness in his face and was not reassured. "What if this only sets more of them against us all?"

  "Never," he said. "Remember, Adriana, that you are not only beautiful—you are charming and intelligent and amusing. Dozens of those women have done far more than you did, and simply had the good luck to not be caught. They do know that."

  Impulsively, she leaned forward and pressed a fervent kiss to his mouth. "Thank you," she breathed.

  "Shall we?"

  He helped her from the carriage, and offered his arm, and Adriana smiled up at him. "One for all."

  His eyes tilted up at the corners. "Aye."

  And then there was nothing to do but go forward. Breathlessly, Adriana clung to his arm and told herself this was a game. A game in which she was the daughter of a king of the sidhe, and the man on her arm the most compelling creature on the earth, the god of love.

  When they entered and were announced, there was a soft, rippling hush on the breath of the assembled dancers, but it rippled from one side of the vast ballroom to the other, so it never did seem as if it stopped the room. Adriana knew her color must be high, but she tilted her head and forced herself to meet the gaze of those who looked up at them.

  And as if the pair of them created a fairy glamour, she saw only admiration in the faces of the people below. One or two turned a head away with pursed lips, but it was men who did it, men she suddenly realized, who had likely been influenced by tales from Malvern's mother.

  On the women's faces she saw expressions ranging from mild amusement to blazing smiles. One glared and turned away, trying to turn her daughter's attention, but the young woman refused to move, and catching Adriana's gaze, she gave her a faint bow.

  Then the next group was introduced. Tynan and she were swept forward, to present themselves to the Duchess. Adriana had never seen the elusive and famous widow, but had heard tale of her beauty for many years, so it was a surprise to see a woman in her sixties, very plump but somehow saucy, holding court from an oversized chair. She had ropes of white and black pearls entwined in her elaborate coiffure, more pearls around her neck and wrists, and a stunning purple silk gown.

  Tynan drew Adriana forward. "Your Grace, may I present my wife, the former Lady Adriana St. Ives, now Adriana Spenser, Countess of Glencove?"

  Adriana curtsied prettily and rose to find the Duchess's twinkling eye upon her. "Why haven't we seen you at Court? I knew your father. You look nothing at all like him, thank the heavens."

  Adriana grinned.

  "But you take after him in other ways, I think. That adventurous spirit. Gemini! The man could never be still. I was sorry to hear of the uprising. He took it hard." The Duchess waved her fan. "But all's well that ends well, eh? Your brothers are home, safe, and you've snared yourself this dashing husband."

  "The fortune was mine, Your Grace," Tynan said.

  "I believe it was." The Duchess turned her gaze to the group behind them, dismissing them, and they moved away. Adriana let go of a breath, and found her hands were trembling slightly, but the overall sense of relief made her giddy.

  "Well, Aonghus," she said airily. "I believe there are some ladies who long to dance the minuet with you. And my task here is plain."

  "Save me a dance," he said, raising her gloved fingers to his lips. "Remember, I'm smitten with you, and a besotted husband shall dance with his wife, however gauche it appears."

  "Beware Malvern's mother," she said, spying her in the crowd.

  "And Stead," he countered, cocking his head toward the man, standing erect and ill-tempered by a potted palm.

  "I will." She looked at him full on, allowing her love to shine in her expression even if there was no courage in her to express it aloud. "Thank you," she whispered.

  They parted, each to the tasks they'd set for themselves. Before Adriana moved past two groups, she was snared by a
woman in yellow satin. "Lady Adriana! Or is it Countess?"

  Lady Julia was Margaret's sister, and her smile was knowing and bright. "Countess," Adriana said with a smile, accepting a glass of ratafia as she joined the small knot of women clustered beneath a torch that showed off their jewels and figures in the best light. One, a tall slim brunette Adriana did not recognize, turned her back. Seeing this, a second woman also turned away, and they departed haughtily. Adriana looked at Lady Julia and most subtly lifted a shoulder.

  The encounter set the tone for the evening. There were those who shunned her, and there were those who did not. Once the dancing began, she was much in demand, and she forgot those who wished her ill.

  And to her amazement, she discovered she was quite adept at the political byplays she needed to engage. Light banter came easily to her, and she was able to guide nearly any opening to her own ends. She found her husband was respected, and to her surprise, rather feared for his great intelligence. It was nothing specific that was said, only hinted at. She would have to remember to tell him that his face of unrepentant rake was no longer working for him. Anyone who spent more than an hour in his company could not help but see the fierce intelligence and prodigious energy underlying his rakish face.

  On one question she met no success. None were willing to let any hint of their feelings about Julian known. She worried over it a little as she helped herself to a plate of supper, sugared plums and sliced roast beef, still pink at the center, and pickles and sardines.

  "May I assist you?" Tynan said, coming up beside her.

  "Only to fill yourself a plate and join me."

  Leaning close, he whispered. "I would so like to join you."

  Adriana laughed. A night of triumph, she thought with satisfaction. All would be well.

  Chapter 18

  Much later, Adriana made her way back to the ball after taking time to blot her face and breathe some of the cold night air. A little giddy with ratafia and power and the promise of Tynan's hands and lips, she laughed softly to herself, remembering everything to tell Phoebe.

  It was quiet and cool along the balcony that ran the length of the back of the house, and she smoothed a lock of hair into place, mentally composing the letter in her mind.

  If he'd made a single noise, she had not caught it. Her first sense of danger was a fierce, bruising hand on her arm, and an alarming strength that pulled her nearly off her feet. She opened her mouth to scream, but a hand clamped over it before she could make a noise. She smelled an odd, sweetish odor along with a powerful note of port, and knew immediately it was John Stead.

  Fear burned her. She shoved back with one elbow and connected with ribs, but although his breath whooshed from him, he did not let her go, only dragged her backward into the shadows and swung her around so her face was to the wall, her arms trapped in one single hand. It was a painful position, her neck at an odd angle, the cold wall against her chest, and she held still for a moment, trying to gather her defenses.

  "If you scream," he said, "they'll all come running, and I'll make it look as if you were my willing wench." His hand was hard against her mouth, and he bent close to bite her shoulder. Adriana shuddered in revulsion, closing her eyes in an attempt to stem her panic. One shoulder was shoved painfully hard against the corner and his body held her in place, her wrists easily captured in one hand at unnatural angle. "And your brother will almost certainly be transported, if not hanged."

  He said, "Help me here," and Adriana thought he was speaking to her until another set of hands were on her wrists, pulling them up over her head. Only the hand over her mouth kept her from slamming her face into the wall.

  "You've no idea how long I've awaited a chance to revenge myself on your husband," Stead said, and most shockingly, shoved his hand into her bodice. She made a protesting cry, and he ground hard against her hips, though he didn't seem to be particularly aroused.

  Think! She went utterly still, thinking to take him off guard, but he only took it as further invitation, his nasty hands groping at her crotch beneath her dress. The other man laughed, and another hand rubbed her breasts, and Adriana fought the revulsion they brought out in her.

  For one long, endless moment, she endured it, some part of her weeping at the indignity while the other wanted to curl up in shame and another screamed in a shrew's voice that she deserved it. Deserved it. She'd asked for this by flouting Society and taking her own lover, and by harnessing her sexuality to be used as a tool to gain her brother's freedom and her husband's will.

  And then something wild broke in her, an anger so clean and hot and true that it lent her the strength of a hundred men. With a roar, she flung her body backward, using her skull as a weapon. With a jarring impact, she connected with Stead's face, and before he could react, she bit down with vicious strength on the hand over her mouth.

  There was a noise, a growling sound of rage she recognized as coming from her, and she heard her dress tear, but it didn't matter. The hold on her wrists loosened, and she swung her head back again, and her elbow when she wrenched it free. A blow struck her head, and tears filled her eyes at the pain, but she did not cease her determined struggle. With elbows, with feet, with every part of her body, she fought back, and only when she heard footsteps did she let go.

  The footsteps had been running away—Stead's accomplice. Abruptly, she was free, and turned with a savage growl. Stead backed away, holding his bleeding left hand in his right.

  "You'll never touch another woman like that again," she said in a low voice. A voice so deeply angry and low that it shook.

  Unrepentant, he sneered, "What will you do, have your brother call me out?"

  Which of course was impossible and he knew it, and as if they'd been momentarily stunned into silence, all the places he'd touched her—hurt her—suddenly stung all together. Her arm and breast felt bruised by his brutal hands, and her wrists, and a spot burned on her cheekbone, where she had been scraped against the wall.

  "No," she said quite clearly, raising a hand to her face. "I rather think my husband will manage this one for me. Be at the sycamore at Hyde Park at dawn." Her heart swelled as she said that, and not in a way that was pleasant. Cold fear invaded her at the thought of that misty dawn five years before, but she did not reveal it, only manipulated him into the one condition that was critical if this were to succeed. "Shall he bring the pistols or will you?"

  He laughed wildly. "A duel. How utterly splendid! But as the challenged, it is my right to choose the weapons, and I choose swords."

  She managed a shrug of deepest ennui. "As you wish. It shall please me to watch you die by any method."

  With arch manners, he bowed. "Till dawn, then."

  He moved away, whistling, and only then did Adriana shatter. She managed a handful of steps on legs that trembled violently, but then was forced to lean hard against the balustrade and carry her hands to her face, breathing deeply, fighting tears of humiliation. She gritted her teeth against collapse, steeling herself on gulps of air.

  The cold steadied her after a minute, and she looked at herself, trying to take stock. The gown had torn a little at the bodice, and she could feel wisps of hair loose around her face, and there was no doubt the sign of tears on her cheeks. She could not return to the ball in this state. Nor could a single soul be allowed to see her this way. Wildly, she looked over her shoulder, trying to think of some solution, and she spied a set of glass doors that led to an upper bedroom. With any luck, she could find a cloak and wash her face, then summon a servant to fetch Tynan for her.

  The doors opened at her touch and Adriana slipped into the dark within, silently closing the door behind her. The room was blessedly silent, although she could hear the sound of the music beyond. She paused for a moment, catching her breath, then attempted to move forward, and barked her toes against a chair. Wincing in pain, she squeezed her lips together, bending down to rub them.

  The inner door burst open, spilling a rather tipsy male voice and a low, knowing
laugh from a woman. The two tumbled into the room before Adriana could think what to do. The woman carried a candelabra, and she halted instantly when she saw Adriana. "What are you doing here?"

  The man was vaguely familiar to her, but Adriana did not know the woman. Her black hair was loosened, as if she'd just come from a fresh embrace, and Adriana blushed as she realized the pair had likely retreated here to make love. Self-consciously, she touched her hair, and wondered how badly her gown was soiled. "I must have drunk too much ratafia," she said. "I could not remember the way back."

  "Mmm." The woman waved the man away, and with a scowl at Adriana, he backed into the hall. The woman closed the door and took up the candelabra, carrying it over to the table near where Adriana stood as if rooted, her toes still stinging.

  The woman narrowed her eyes. "You're the one in the scandal sheets." The violet-blue eyes, so startling against her black hair, were frank. "Were you really as bold as they imply?"

  Adriana considered her options and decided this woman, whether her motives were good or ill, was the only chance she had in this moment. "Not quite," she said with a sigh. "But bad enough."

  "Was he worth it?"

  "Is any man worth that?"

  "Some might be." She poured water into the basin and dipped a cloth into it, then gave it to Adriana and gestured to the mirror over the washstand. "Your face is bruised."

  Adriana moved, bending to see the damage wrought by Stead. "Dammit!" she cried, and realized she was not alone. "I'm sorry."

  The woman smiled. "I don't think it was that glorious creature you're obviously so besotted with who did that. I suspect his hands are much more… delicate."

  "It was not my husband." Adriana blotted the scrape on her cheek where blood welled out of a hundred tiny cuts, and saw that she would have a remarkably black eye by morning. Her glorious gown had torn in a short diagonal line between her breasts, too, and it made her furious. "But since I'm going to kill this one, it doesn't matter. He won't bother anyone else."