Until the last two days, the outward life comfortably represented the inner man. Now there was friction. He felt it when the twins talked to him or pulled at his coat sleeves or merely looked at him. He felt an inward tug of affection—natural enough, for they were darlings. He didn’t mind that at all. What he minded were the other feelings. Old dreams and hopes rose like sad ghosts: the girl he’d wanted to marry ten years ago, the children he’d imagined, the family of his own to care for, and for whom he’d wanted to conquer the world... until he’d come to his senses and realized that empire building left no room for domesticity. Until now, he’d experienced no regrets. Now, he held another man’s children and ached with a sense of loss.
They might have been yours, the ghosts mourned.
And that, Marcus supposed, was one horrible secret.
***
Christina frowned at her reflection in the mirror. “I must have ordered this gown with Paris in mind,” she told Penny. “It doesn’t seem altogether suitable for a country house fete.”
“It’s perfectly suitable,” said Penny. “Your figure is excellent. I can’t think of any reason to hide it.”
“I can. I don’t wish to be viewed as a dashing young widow. People are too quick to believe that when we put aside our mourning, we leave our morals behind as well.”
Provocative, Marcus had said last night. The remark still stung, though Christina knew it was unjust and had argued accordingly. She tugged at the low-cut bodice.
“Do leave it be,” her friend said. “If I believed it immodest, I’d say so. It’s no more revealing than what you wore last night, and even Julius—who can be a trifle pompous at times—approved. He said it was about time you stopped dressing like a vicar’s wife.” Penny studied the open jewelry box. “You must wear diamonds, of course. That simple pendant you wore last night was—”
“Objected to,” Christina said.
Penny looked up, her eyebrows raised. “Was it, indeed? I can only conclude it was Marcus who raised the objection. On what grounds, I wonder?”
“He said it was... distracting. And my gown was provocative,” Christina answered crossly.
Penny laughed. “Marcus does have a disconcerting habit of saying whatever is on his mind.”
“I shouldn’t have told you.” Christina moved away from the mirror. “But the matter has been plaguing me. Which is ridiculous. He was only goading me, picking a quarrel, which you say he always does, with everybody. But he never used to—”
She turned her attention to selecting earrings. “It was a sore spot, that’s all. Arthur’s sisters didn’t approve of the wardrobe I selected after I left off my mourning clothes. They tried to make me feel like a tart.”
“Don’t tell me about the aunts, Christina. I know all about the tiresome creatures.” Penny stepped closer. “I’d much rather hear what else you and Marcus quarreled about... as you never used to do.”
“That isn’t what I said—meant.” She snatched up the pendant. “I hardly knew—know him.” She fumbled with the clasp.
“Let me.” Penny took the necklace from her. “You’re trembling.”
“I’m chilled. I should have worn a warmer gown.”
“You’ll feel warmer shortly,” Penny said as she deftly fastened the necklace. “The gentlemen will swarm about you and strive their utmost to raise your temperature. Marcus will have to fight his way through the throng if he wishes to take exception to your attire. And your other beaux, naturally, will leap to your defense. The evening promises to be most exciting.”
“I don’t want any beaux,” Christina said, pulling on her gloves. “But everyone will think I’m... I’m looking out for a man—because of this dratted gown.”
“You’re just nervous, because you haven’t been in company—frivolous company, that is—in eons. But we’ll stop and visit the boys, and let them admire us, then get more of the same from the girls. After the children are done telling us how pretty we are, we shall be prepared to face the rest of the world with sublime assurance.”
***
When Marcus stopped to bid his nephews good night, the two women were leaving.
“A topaz,” said Penny, studying his stickpin with what Marcus felt was a far too knowing expression. “It matches your eyes.”
“It was supposed to match my waistcoat,” he said stiffly. “It was also supposed to be subtle. According to Beau Brummel, a gentleman’s attire shouldn’t call attention to itself.”
“I didn’t know you were a devotee of Brummel’s,” said Penny. “I thought you employed a valet to worry about your clothes, since you couldn’t be bothered.”
“Since my valet is still in London, I’m obliged to be bothered.”
At the moment, Marcus was a great deal more than bothered. Christina was wearing a sapphire silk gown. The style was severely simple, bare of ruffles and furbelows, shorn of anything that might distract one from the sensuous curves it enfolded. She might as well be naked, he thought. It was all the same to him—or rather, to the mindless flesh and blood Marcus, whose muscles tightened painfully, whose fingers curled helplessly into his palms.
The other Marcus—the rational, civilized one— coolly answered several more teasing comments from Penny and dutifully complimented the ladies. He promised to join them downstairs very soon, certainly before the guests began arriving, and kept his face utterly expressionless as he watched them walk away.
Then he entered the boys’ bedchamber and tried to calm down.
That took more than twenty minutes, which he filled with a story about Aegean pirates. And now he would be late for the party, because he still needed to say good night to the twins, as he’d promised earlier.
He hurried down the hall, round the corner, then stopped short. Two blonde heads poked out of the doorway. Two little faces were looking expectantly his way and lighting up with smiles. Something inside him lit up, too, and made him feel enormously pleased with himself as he continued toward them. He endeavored, however, to appear stern.
“Shouldn’t you be in bed?” he asked, with a reproachful glance at the naked toes peeping out from under their flannel nightdresses.
They both nodded.
“Why aren’t you, then?”
“We were waiting for you,” said Delia, taking his hand.
“To say good night,” said Livy, taking the other.
“Indeed. Without your robes, without your slippers, standing in a draughty doorway. If your mama finds out—”
“We won’t tell,” said Delia. “Will you?”
“You are little minxes,” he said. He snatched them up and carried them to their bed. Then he simply let go and dropped them, which they found hilarious and delightful. So much so that they demanded he do it again.
“No. It’s not playtime. It’s time to sleep,” he said. “Under the bedclothes with you.”
After they had crawled into their respective places, he pulled the blankets up over them.
“Will you tell us a story?” Livy asked.
“A ghastly, horrible one?” her sister amplified. “Mama told one, but it wasn’t horrible at all.”
“It was too short,” Livy said. “Mama had to hurry.”
“As I ought to,” he said. “The grownups are having a party, remember. It would be very impolite of me to be late—which I shall be, if I stay to tell you a story.”
They thought this over. “You mustn’t be late,” Livy said at last.
“Will you dance with Mama?” her twin asked.
“Yes, of course. I shall dance with all the ladies who let me.”
“Mama will let you,” said Delia.
“She likes to dance,” said Livy.
“I’m glad to hear it.” Marcus neatly tucked them in.
Livy elbowed Delia, who elbowed back harder. Before Marcus could remonstrate, the latter said, “Livy wants to kiss you good night.”
He told himself the request wasn’t significant. They were affectionate children who liked him, t
hat was all. He bent and politely presented his cheek to Livy. Her lips touched it, light as an angel’s wing.
“Me, too,” said Delia. She gave him a hug, along with a noisy smack.
He felt the tug again as well as the sadness, stronger than before.
They weren’t his. He wished they were. Wished it fiercely.
He straightened, and forced a smile. “Good night and happy dreams, my little angels.”
***
To Christina the ballroom seemed thick with ghosts. The men swarmed about her just as Penny had predicted, and just as they’d done ten years ago. The compliments now were warmer, the flirtations bolder. Otherwise it was all the same because, like the young girl of the past, she scarcely heard a word, only answered automatically, while all her consciousness fixed on the one man who kept away.
That also was just as he’d done all those years ago, even though the barriers of the old days no longer existed. Christina was no longer a green girl, and he was no longer a social outcast.
She answered her dance partner’s compliments and witticisms while she wondered why Marcus was avoiding her. They had managed to get along so well last night—after that short, nerve-wracking row—and today, too. But not altogether well, she silently amended. The past remained like some galvanic current, pulsing under the surface of every-thing they said and did. There was tension, and she couldn’t believe she was the only one who felt it.
The dance ended. The next, she knew, would be a waltz. She looked toward the windows where Marcus stood gazing into the darkness. He was not very far away. She could see the gold glints the candlelight made in his tawny hair. On a summer day long ago, a timidly conventional girl had crossed a distance like this.
She collected her courage and moved quickly, before she could think twice, and didn’t pause until she stood three feet from his black-clad back.
“Marcus,” she said.
Stiffening, he turned to her.
“Won’t you dance with me?” she asked.
***
Marcus looked at her—all of her: the shatteringly beautiful face with its pale gold halo, the gown, vividly blue against the snowy purity of her skin, and the sinuous curves it clung to and caressed. He thought, What’s the use?
He also thought, No, not again.
He said, his voice strained, “I don’t think that would be wise.”
“Oh,” she said. Her lashes lowered, her mouth turned down a fraction, and she was turning away.
His heart ached, his fool heart, and his fool hand wanted to touch her, bring her back. He kept his hands by his sides. “I mean yes,” he said hoarsely. “Of course I mean yes.”
Of course, he thought, as her blue gaze swept up to his. Of course he wanted her. How could he help it? How could he let her turn away?
The music started up. Last night, he had scarcely touched her, yet he’d felt the jolt and the current pulsing between them. But last night he’d been tired and vulnerable, he told himself.
He brought his hand to her waist... and the shock of contact darted through his nerve endings. She gave a tiny gasp, and stiffened... shocked, too.
“Too late now,” he said under his breath. One over warm gloved hand firmly clasping her waist, the other tingling against her gloved palm, he whirled her into the dance.
It seemed as though every eye in the ballroom was fixed on them. And why not? This was the first waltz of the evening, and he of all men had won the privilege of partnering her. How shocked they’d all be if they knew Christina Travers had broken the rules and asked him.
“Why did you ask me?” he said.
“Because you forgot to ask me.”
“I see. Every other man in the place has fallen victim to your snares. Now your conquest is complete.”
He spun her into a turn that brought her thigh against his and made the silk gown ripple about his legs. He thought of soft thighs pressing against his and of the rustle of sheets. His breath quickened and his grip of her waist tightened.
“Marcus,” she gasped.
He looked down. Her face was pink. “What is it?”
“You are driving the whalebone into my back.”
“Whalebone?”
“My stays,” she hissed, flushing more deeply.
Of all things, she had to remind him of her undergarments. Reluctantly he eased his hold. “What the devil do you want with a corset? You scarcely even dressed.”
He gazed down at the creamy expanse of bosom offered to his view—and that of every other male in the ballroom. “By my calculations, you took three hours, only to come out half-naked.”
Her head went up. “I am not half-naked. And I did not take three hours. Only two. And a half. Stop looking at me that way. You’ll make everyone stare.”
“If you didn’t want people to stare, you should have put on the rest of your gown.”
“Oh, very well,” she said. “Look if you must.”
“Of course I must. There is that great diamond, like a tavern sign, demanding my attention.”
“Yes, Marcus,” she said patiently. “I wore it on purpose to vex you.”
He was vexed—not by the diamond but by the circumstances. Waltzing was very much like making love to music, but not enough like.
He wished her low voice didn’t beckon so irresistibly. He wished he didn’t find her combative retorts so adorable. Above all he wished that he hadn’t found the woman of twenty-eight so very much more exciting and desirable than the girl of eighteen.
He drew her closer.
“I thought we were supposed to keep twelve inches apart,” she said breathlessly.
“I’m too old and set in my ways to start following such stupid rules now,” he said, also painfully short of breath. But then, waltzing wasn’t the mildest of exercises.
She, too, was growing overheated. Her face was flushed, and there were traces of moisture at her temples. A strand of silky hair was coming loose near her left ear. It was making him desperate.
He drew her into another turn, steering her to a doorway, then through it, to the dimly lit hall that led to the backstairs.
“I think we’d better talk,” he said. He let go of her waist and, taking her by the hand, led her into the shadows. He was aware of her body tensing in resistance, though she didn’t try to break away.
“I suppose, because I asked you to dance, you’ve leapt to certain conclusions,” she said, a shade of belligerence in her voice.
“Yes,” he said.
“I suppose as well that you think my gown constitutes a deliberate provocation.”
“Oh, yes.”
“I don’t see why I must dress like a dowd or obey every persnickety rule of behavior to please you,” she said.
He bit back a smile. “But you aren’t trying to please me,” he said.
“Certainly not.”
“You’re trying to drive me distracted.”
“I’m not trying to do anything.”
“And you’ve succeeded.” He brushed the way-ward strand of hair back with his thumb. She trembled.
“I suppose you think I’m going to kiss you now,” he said. “I suppose you think you’re irresistible.”
“I suppose you think you are,” she said.
“I must be. You couldn’t keep away.”
“I did not drag you into a dark hallway.”
“I didn’t drag you.”
“You said you wanted to talk.”
“Must you always have the last word?” he asked impatiently. “Will you not give one inch?”
After a moment’s consideration, she let out a sigh. “Very well,” she said. “Kiss me if you must. You might as well get it out of your system.”
“Very well,” he said. “If you insist.”
Still holding her hand, he bent toward her. Her head tilted back ever so slightly, ever so reluctantly. Her fingers tightened on his and that small pressure vibrated through him... a pulsing current, irresistible.
He bent closer. A bre
ath away from her lips he paused, his heart hammering. He remembered vividly the aching loss, the grief and rage... weeks, months of it. But he also remembered the sweetness and tender yielding of the kisses he had stolen long ago.
His lips touched hers and there was a shock, sharp and sweet at once, and softness, too, so familiar... and the piercing ache of yearning. It was the yearning that made his arms slip round her to gather her close, and kiss her long and deeply... as he’d never dared to do all those years ago.
But it was different now. Christina was no longer a naive young girl, easily frightened by desire. Her mouth parted to his coaxing tongue and she melted against him, answering his erotic summons with a woman’s tender passion.
She was as warm in his arms as homecoming, warm as love and belonging. Yet this was no safe hearth, either, he speedily discovered, for her warmth fueled his need, and the fire built swiftly.
Her firm breasts pressed against the wool of his coat, but it wasn’t enough. His hands moved over her back, pressing her nearer, but still not close enough, for this was gloves on silk, and he wanted flesh on flesh. His hands moved to the base of her spine, to the sweet curve of her hips. She was near enough to be aware of his aching arousal. He wanted her closer still, wanted to crush her to him, but that would only make matters worse. He was already losing control.
He released her mouth. He meant to release her altogether, but the instant she began to pull away, his hands fastened on her waist.
“You can’t go back now,” he said thickly. “You’re all... mussed.” Delectably mussed. Her neat coiffure was tumbling undone, her gown was tantalizingly rumpled, and her breath was coming in quick gasps. He thought about how much more tousled and heated he might make her, and his own breathing grew more labored. He tugged her closer. She stiffened, resisting.
“Don’t tease, Christina,” he said. “I only want another kiss.”
“No,” she said. “I gave you the inch you wanted, and you took ten miles. Then you have the audacity to tell me I’m mussed—as though I did it myself— on purpose to vex you, I suppose.”
Falling Stars Page 5