A Passionate Performance

by Eileen Putman

  Justin did not want her admiration. He did not want to sit here and perform tricks like a trained animal. Those first few nights the cards had helped pass the time and somehow drawn them together. But tonight the cards made him restless and uneasy, for they underscored the barriers between them. It was not just the gap between his card skill and her understanding of the art behind it. There were other barriers as well.

  In public, Sarah must pretend to be his mistress. In private, they acknowledged the charade, but that created a different sort of tension. The line between what was and what wasn’t could not be crossed without destroying the masquerade. Justin knew instinctively that if Sarah were his mistress in truth, the plan would be lost. He needed her to perform the role he created for her without any of the complications that might enter into the relationship were it to become real.

  His plan was too precious, his goals too vital. He would not let her distract him from the thing that drove him. He would not accept her criticism, nor give her arguments weight. Neither would he allow himself to be moved by her physical charms. She was no more to him than any of his employees.

  Perhaps greed was behind her efforts to dissuade him from his scheme. Perhaps she did not wish to relinquish the house, the gowns, the servants. Perhaps she thought that as long as she made herself amenable to him, as long as she applauded his card tricks and refilled his brandy glass, they could continue indefinitely.

  Justin slanted a gaze at her. She was not trying to make herself amenable now. She appeared to be looking at the cards, but her eyes were not focused on them. Perhaps he ought not to have spoken so bluntly in carriage. The tiny furrow in her brow made him wonder whether she had the headache.

  Ruefully, Justin realized where his thoughts had taken him: He’d spent the better part of the last half-hour obsessing over her every expression, her every move. That would not do. Abruptly he rose.

  “You are leaving?” Surprise lent her voice a breathless, husky note.

  “Yes.”

  “But you have not stayed long enough to...that is, to keep up appearances.” Flushed, she bit her lip, and Justin wondered why it was that a woman of her worldly experience found it difficult to speak of such a topic.

  “A man who has quarreled with his mistress might not be inclined to remain overlong in her presence.” Even as Justin said those words, he was aware of a sudden impulse to reach for her, to pull her into his arms. It caught him up short.

  “That is, I am certain the servants will not expect our, er, every night to be one of carnal bliss,” he added.

  She searched his face. “I suppose not.”

  Justin made to brush by her. She touched his sleeve. It stopped him cold.

  “I am sorry for my harsh words,” she said quietly. “I know you believe your cause is just.”

  Justin eyed her in surprise.

  “But when I saw Lady Greywood, I realized how much the past can poison the present — and the future,” she said.

  “I see. In exacting revenge, you think I will turn myself into a monster. It is a predictable female response. You are wrong.”

  She shook her head, and Justin could not help but admire how the diamond ornament reflected the auburn luster of her hair.

  “Not a monster,” she said. “But vengeance can destroy the soul. I do not wish that for you.”

  “The condition of my soul is none of your concern, Miss Armistead.” He turned away, unwilling to give her purchase. His soul, indeed.

  Again that slight pressure on his sleeve. “No, I suppose not. But I do not wish to be the instrument of your downfall.”

  Justin looked pointedly at his sleeve. Instantly, she withdrew her hand. He met her gaze.

  “Nor will you be. Goodnight, madam.”

  “Goodnight,” she whispered.

  But Justin found that his feet would not move. He remained there, motionless, unable even to avert his gaze from hers, helpless as a lamb. When he did not move, her mouth shaped into a little frown of puzzlement. She was no more puzzled than he, Justin thought ruefully.

  “I am not accustomed to receiving apologies,” he said at last.

  A sudden smile swept her features. “No,” she said softly. “I am quite sure you are not.”

  And still Justin could not make his feet take him to the door, where they very much needed to be in order to escape that dazzling smile. Worse, she was looking at him expectantly — or perhaps hopefully — but he could not imagine why.

  “I have no use for this type of fencing,” he said stiffly. “If there is a point you wish to make, then do so.”

  She took a deep breath. “I should like another chance.”

  He frowned. “A chance? At what, exactly?”

  “A chance to plumb the mysteries of that trick.”

  A card trick. This was about a card trick. And yet, not.

  Staring into her green eyes, Justin felt that he was plummeting headlong down a cliff and into some deep abyss. And suddenly he saw what was at the bottom: need. His. For her.

  That revelation very nearly rocked him backward on his heels. Surely there was enough of his father in him to give him the strength to resist one woman’s charms. Surely there was enough of his father’s ruthlessness to banish the need that threatened his scheme.

  What had Anh said? That Sarah would be the instrument of his destruction? Was this what he had meant?

  Summoning all of his strength, Justin shook his head. “It is late.”

  Her face fell. “Good night, then, my lord.”

  Still he did not go. No woman had ever made him feel so powerless. And tormented by desire.

  There. He had named it.

  What if he gave in to the force that was drawing him to her? What if he swept her up the stairs to that florid bedchamber? What would it be like to share that plump featherbed with her?

  She wore the same emerald gown as in his dream, the same diamond ornament in her hair. Truth merged with illusion, and he had brought that about. Did he possess a sorcerer’s skill to have foreseen his own fate?

  Justin shook his head, trying to obliterate the image, the fantasy, the woman before him. But it was useless. She was there, looking at him with eyes that put him in free-fall.

  “Sarah.” He scarcely recognized his own voice.

  Her eyes widened. She saw it before he did.

  With a low growl, Justin pulled her into his arms. A man would be a fool to believe in magic. And a fool not to.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  This kiss was not intended for an audience.

  That was Sarah’s fleeting thought as Lord Linton put to shame those other, practiced kisses he had bestowed on her for the servants’ benefit. This kiss burned, its heat new and unfamiliar, yet somehow resonant with recognition, as if it had been waiting all along to make itself known.

  His arms were strong, safe. They enfolded her, surrounded her, claimed her. Sarah clung to him.

  She did not know how to kiss a man, not like this, anyway. Instinctively, her lips parted. His hands slid down her back, crushing her against him, and even that was not enough. Sarah felt dizzy from desire, whether his or hers she did not know. She knew only that she was powerless to stop it — and had no wish to.

  Crushed against his chest, Sarah could scarcely breathe. Strangely, that no longer seemed necessary. Then he loosened his hold, long enough to sever the kiss and look directly at her, searching her face. There was nothing sinister or fearsome in that grey gaze — only a passion that mirrored hers. But as their gazes held, she detected something else there as well: Doubt. Uncertainty. Dismay.

  He regretted the kiss. And yet, his arms remained around her waist, encircling her. Sarah realized he would free her if she wished.

  She did not.

  Respectable young women did not allow base desires to dictate their behavior. Even in the unseemly world of the theater, Sarah had always held herself apart, knowing instinctively that it was not in her to banish her respectable upbringing for something so f
leeting as passion.

  This was different.

  Slowly, he bent to kiss her again, but his lips did not linger on hers. Instead, they trailed slowly down her neck, along her shoulder. Sarah gave herself over to the warmth of his mouth as it brushed lightly along the exposed rise of her breasts. Slowly, his lips traced the path defined by the neckline of her gown. Her hands crept upward, clutching his hair, curling it around her fingers. A little moan escaped her.

  With a growl, he slipped the fabric of her gown off one shoulder. In the next moment, Sarah felt the delicious heat of his mouth on her nipple.

  “My lord,” she said breathlessly. The voice didn’t sound like hers.

  He stilled, and raised his head to look at her. His eyes were dark with need. They held a question — a lover’s question, Sarah realized.

  He was hers. Her lover. Her love.

  Silently he watched her, waiting, not concealing the fire in his gaze. Staring into his smoldering eyes, she realized that she belonged to this man with the devil’s thirst for revenge and a sorcerer’s skill with illusion.

  But — was the emotion that filled her now but a mirage of his making? She saw nothing false in his eyes. But as well she knew, the line between artifice and truth often blurred.

  Sarah closed her eyes, denying him for the moment the answer he sought. Any woman would ache to call him her lover.

  But not her love. Never that. Justin Trent could not love. Revenge owned him. There was no room in him for anything else. Except perhaps desire.

  She would settle for that, Sarah realized. What he stirred within her banished all else, including everything she thought she knew about herself. If there was meaning to her struggle to hold herself up to some righteous standard of respectable behavior, she could no longer recall it.

  In a man incapable of love, desire would have to do.

  Opening her eyes, Sarah met his gaze, knowing there was nothing to save her from her fate.

  ***

  In that moment, Justin knew he would have her. In one fluid motion, he lifted her into his arms. He would not make love to her on the small divan in the room where they had spent so many hours keeping each other at arm’s length. It would be in that bedchamber filled with peach and amber and the plump featherbed of his dream.

  He would undress her slowly, easing that emerald gown off her as if it hid a treasure beyond price. She would be his, the woman of his dreams.

  No, she was not that. She was an actress, a woman who traded in illusion. But he would discover her secrets, unmask her until she opened herself to him, fully.

  He carried her up the stairs. They did not speak. It would be a relief to exchange fantasy for flesh and blood. He would know her in all the ways a man could know a woman; that knowledge would disarm her power. Those green eyes would command him no more. He would once again control his fate.

  They reached her bedchamber. The door was partially ajar, and he carried her inside. A cloud of peach satin surrounded her as he placed her on the plush comforter. A brace of candles had already been lit, the restless flames reflected in her eyes as she watched him silently from the bed.

  Justin thought fleetingly of the other women he had brought here, the women for whom he had paid as surely as he had paid for Sarah. He could not recall their names or faces. They had meant little to him, except as cover to further his reputation as a libertine, all in the service of his plan. Nor did they expect more. They had been wise in the way such women were wise.

  Sarah had never displayed that sort of wisdom. He’d always found that odd for a woman in her profession.

  Justin reached down and plucked the diamond ornament from her hair. He allowed his hand to linger, savoring the silkiness of those auburn tresses as they slid through his fingers. They fanned out over the pillow, framing her face. His eyes drank in her beauty.

  She did not speak, but regarded him with a clear, unflinching gaze. If anything, she seemed mildly curious. She made no move toward him, only watched him intently.

  A woman ought to know her art better than that, Justin thought uneasily.

  He shook off the thought as he trailed his fingers along the curve of one shoulder, the one yet protected by her gown. Her skin was soft, lush. His pulse quickened anew. He wanted more — all. He slid the fabric lower.

  Desire ripped a shudder from him as he touched the smooth fullness of her breast.

  “You are mine,” he whispered, daring her to disagree.

  “Yes,” she said softly. And still she watched him.

  Justin pulled her into his arms, cradling her against his chest, impatiently pushing the gown to her waist. The comforter slid to the floor. No matter. He would warm her with his body. He felt oddly protective as he held her. He would keep her safe. She would never want for anything.

  “Sarah,” he rasped.

  She shivered, and he wrapped his arms around her more tightly.

  “Are you cold?” he asked.

  She shook her head.

  Was she frightened? “I will not hurt you,” he said.

  “I know.” She gave him a timid smile.

  He frowned. Something was not right. Sarah Armistead was not timid.

  Reading his hesitation, she put her arms around his neck, bringing him closer. In any other woman, that would have immediately assuaged his doubts.

  But Sarah was not any woman.

  “Damnation,” he growled. “Will you stop this game of cat and mouse?”

  “What do you mean?” she asked uncertainly.

  “Your eyes say one thing, your body something else.”

  “That is not true — that is, I do not think so.”

  “I’ll have no pretense,” Justin warned in a husky voice. “Tonight you will dance to my tune.”

  Her brow furrowed. “That is not very gentlemanly.”

  He frowned. “No woman has complained —”

  “That must be gratifying.”

  Justin knew he had missed something. They were talking too much — and past each other, for that matter.

  “Sarah,” he said. “What is this about?”

  She took a deep breath. “In truth, I am new to this.”

  “What?” He blinked.

  “I know you think that an actress is experienced in such matters. But the truth is, I am not. I have never done, er, this. But no matter. There are times when one must simply charge ahead.” She smiled up at him encouragingly. Bravely, he might have said.

  “Good God.” Belatedly, Justin realized his hand still rested on her breast. Instantly, he pulled away.

  She read his rejection and reached hastily for her gown, pulled it up to cover herself. Her cheeks were flushed. “I-I am sorry.”

  Were those tears in her eyes?

  Justin rose abruptly, the taste in his mouth suddenly bitter. “I suppose you have a vial of sheep’s blood stashed somewhere to scatter upon the sheets.”

  At her confused look, he shook his head in disbelief. “A virgin, by God! You did not mean to settle for a thousand pounds, did you? You wanted more — much more.”

  Her little gasp inflamed him further.

  “You meant to bind me in the most effective way possible — by pretending an innocence any man would find laughable in a woman of your circumstance.” Justin picked up the comforter from the floor and flung it over her. “Did you think to cajole a proposal of marriage? Or merely to wrangle another year or so of my protection?”

  She stared at him in apparent shock. “I — have you gone mad?”

  Justin flung open the chamber door and turned to regard her. The look on her face was one of sheer horror. Almost, but not quite, convincing.

  “It is you who have lost your wits, madam. You are not so talented an actress after all. You once made me believe you were Harry’s wife, but now you attempt the impossible. There is nothing I do not know about illusion. Do you understand?”

  “I understand only that revenge has destroyed you,” she said quietly. “It has eaten away at your
soul until it is as black and empty as the night. You see evil where there is none. You see lies where there is only truth.”

  Justin turned away and stepped into the hall.

  “But you see nothing, my lord,” she called after him, her voice clear, strong. “Nothing.”

  Even as he reached the street and his carriage, her words echoed in his brain, would not let him be. You see nothing.

  That was not true. He saw well enough that this woman threatened everything. Now he knew what Anh meant.

  ***

  “Well, my dear. I suppose it is not every day that Justin loses you in a card game.” Lady Devon eyed her sympathetically. “I am certain he is not himself. I have never known Justin to fail in a game of chance.”

  Sarah smiled, but it took great effort to hide her mortification. Putting her up as the stakes in his game with Lord Pembroke said more eloquently than anything else what she was to him: a commodity, a thing to be bought and sold as much as his matched bays or carriage. And even though the game took place in the home of one of the ton’s most respected hostesses, it was nevertheless humiliating. She was not the viscount’s property and would never consider herself bound by the results of a card game. But no real lady would be put on public display like this, forced to watch as her protector handed her over with nary a blink of the eye.

  With Lady Manwaring’s insouciance, Sarah smiled carelessly at those who had gathered to watch the card play. But the role did not sit well on her shoulders tonight. Truth be told, she no longer knew where the boundaries of the role left off.

  Nothing had been the same since that disastrous night a week ago. Lord Linton had been distant and cold ever since. They no longer played at card tricks at night but merely sat in silence, waiting for time to pass before he could leave.

  In public, the contempt he displayed for her was no longer pretense. The message that he had tired of her was all too genuine.

  To be sure, he still needed her; she was essential to his plan, which was why Sarah knew he was but toying with her now. Losing her to Lord Pembroke was doubtless for show, to put her in her place. It was not yet time for the finale of their charade, so he still needed her.