“Thank you. For the letter.”
“You are welcome. I meant every word.”
“Though it was foolish of you to send it, you know.”
“Yes. I know.”
“What would I have done if Clyde had taken it upon himself to open my letter? He would have assumed…”
George angled his body toward her, his fingers brushing the nape of her neck, by accident or design. She shivered. Pleasantly.
“Your husband’s fate is in his own hands. If he touches you again with ill intent, he will regret it.”
Katherine opted not to share the threat she had been given this morning. The last thing in the world she wanted was her husband and George in a duel at dawn. To lose Clyde would be no great loss, but to lose the companionship of this man beside her… That would be a tragedy. How could she feel this way after knowing him so brief a time? It felt extraordinary, surreal. It felt like…fate. She chastised herself for believing in such things, pulling at her gloves in agitation.
Her world was constructed so that one married to continue the aristocratic line, to keep the family estate whole, to pass on a legacy. When she first married Clyde, she’d hoped that they might come to love one another. But after their first coupling, which was rough and awkward and uncomfortable, and then after the second and third, she had been assured that she could never love a man whose touch repulsed her. She was thankful when he lost interest, presuming he sought comfort elsewhere. She was right. However, she had not realized his philandering took place under her own roof.
George slid closer and placed his hand atop hers. She stopped fidgeting and watched as he slowly picked up one of her hands, removing the white glove finger by finger. He draped the glove on his opposite knee. She let him take her hand into his, facing palm up. He trailed his index finger along the lines of her palm, exploring the delicate features of her hand by touch.
Katherine’s pulse raced as if she’d just taken an exhilarating ride on her favorite mare. Yet she remained still as stone, watching him discover every line and crevice.
“You have awakened something within me, Katherine.”
She wanted to shout her joy and realization that she felt the same. But she could not, still holding on to that idea that she should be a proper lady. She should obey and be faithful to her husband, as much as he did not deserve the devotion. She should bear him sons and be happy with the prospect of continuing the line. Society had an order. But her heart, her poor, helpless heart, yearned for so much more than her husband or society could provide. She was falling into a place where there was no return to her proper self. If she stepped across this bridge, she would burn it and never look back.
His finger lulled her into trancelike pleasure. How could one’s hand on another be erotic?
“We cannot have a tryst in a church, George.”
He stopped his exploration and looked at her with surprise. “I do not want a tryst or some wayward assignation with you, Katherine.”
“What else could you want with a married woman? I cannot marry you.”
He curled his hand around hers, enveloping it entirely. Rough calluses rubbed her knuckles. He did not look like a man who would have calluses. What on earth could he be doing to have them?
“I want”—he captured her gaze, luring her with the sincerity of a simple word which conveyed so little and so much—“more.”
She licked her lips and swallowed hard, mentally walking across the bridge step by steady step. “So do I.”
He smiled, and her world filled with sunshine and light. “Will you come to the house party?”
“Yes.” She glanced down at her hand as he slid the glove back in place, like a gentleman redressing his lover with tenderness and care. The vision of this simple act made her breathless, and made her yearn for…more. “I will be coming alone. Well, with my maid.”
He pulled the glove tight at the wrist. “Good. I had a feeling Lord Blakely was not the kind to attend a house party.”
“But you knew I’d come?”
“I’d hoped.”
They were once more lost in each other. The world could’ve burned around them while they shared a moment of pleasure in one another’s eyes, knowing they both felt the same undeniable, inevitable pull.
He stood from the pew. She took his offered hand and her parasol and let him lead her into the aisle. While she expected him to release her, he wove his fingers through hers instead. She wanted to rip off that damned glove again and feel him, skin on skin.
“Someone might see us,” she whispered, though the two old ladies had never even turned their heads.
George pulled them to a stop in the vestibule, holding on to her hand. He looked upward. “Who? God?”
Katherine smiled. “If He is watching, then we are certainly not in His favor.”
His grip tightened, keeping her still as he edged even closer. So close she could feel his breath on her cheek. She wanted to press her lips to his lovely jaw, his cheeks, his neck. Her breath came quickly once again. Heat crawled up her chest.
He did not smile or smirk at her obvious arousal. His expression shone with desire, matching her own. “I do not believe that at all.”
He lifted her hand toward his lips. She thought he would place a kiss on top of her gloved knuckles. He did not. He turned it over and brushed his parted lips against her wrist, sweeping twice across her pulse, lingering in agonizing pleasure. Katherine had always thought it ridiculous when reading in her saucy novels of a woman swooning with desire. Not anymore. She fairly thought she might faint right there in church with George’s lips on the tender skin of her wrist.
“Till Monday, my lady.”
She did not miss his emphasis that she was his lady. The steely look of determination on his face was proof enough. He did not care that society’s laws barred such a connection between them. Neither did she. She took the last step across the proverbial bridge.
“Till Monday, George.”
Chapter Nine
“And Duncan, inform Mrs. Baxter that Miss Karroway has confirmed as well, but Mrs. Karroway will not attend. Lady Katherine will accompany her.” George paused, a thrill running through him at the mere mention of her name. “That brings us to a count of ten plus the ladies’ maids and valets attending the gentlemen.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll inform her straight away.”
Duncan took his leave from George’s study, shutting the door behind him.
“Not a very large house party,” said Jude, sprawled in his favorite leather wingback in front of the fire.
“I didn’t want a large one. I kept the invitations to a minimum.”
“Are you sure this party is a good idea?”
“I am certain,” said George, sitting at his desk to scrawl another note for his housekeeper. “There is no other way to keep Katherine preoccupied and safe while we investigate her husband and his dealings with Calliban.”
“Plus, you can rest assured that Katherine is nowhere near Damas,” added Jude with a grin.
George leaned back in his chair. “Precisely.”
“Or her husband.”
George made no comment and finished his letter with a detailed flourish. His silence was agreement enough. Jude went on.
“Right. But our goal is, of course, to discover what nefarious deeds Calliban is up to and send him back to Hell, if we can.”
“Of course,” agreed George, eyes narrowing on his friend, who was grinning like a fiend. “Go on. I can see that you’ll burst soon if you don’t say whatever it is that’s on your mind.”
“Oh, what’s going on in my mind isn’t nearly as interesting as what’s going on in yours.”
“What the devil are you getting at?”
“Are you really going to deny that having Lady Katherine Blakely under your roof for several days isn’t the true motive h
ere?”
“I will deny it.” George stood to face the window, hands clasped at his back. The sun was setting, draping the landscape of Thornton in an array of lavender. The tree line of the woods in the distance transformed to deep purple. George knew he was on the right path, but an ominous foreboding sank into his chest all the same. “I don’t want her for a few days, Jude. I want her forever.”
There was no reply from the man with a smart remark for everything. Moments later, he said, “You do realize she is human, don’t you?”
“Of course I do.”
“Let’s say she would agree to leave her husband, which is highly unlikely with her standing in society. How would you go about telling her that you’re not really Lord Thornton, but that you’re actually George Draconis, George the Dragon Slayer, Saint George of myth and legend, savior of damsels in distress?”
George did not answer the charge except to say, “I am not a saint.”
“Ha! That is for certain. Not the traditional saint, at any rate.”
The truth was, George was a Flamma of Light with no true definition. Yes, he was the legendary George who slew the dragon, put on a saintly pedestal for his deeds of bravery. The dragon, of course, was the demon spawn of Damas. George destroyed the creature before it could take a maiden back to its master. That was the beginning of his rivalry with Damas, when the prince learned George was a powerful adversary.
George had never relinquished his role as protector, not since the day he was born or the day he died to the human world among martyrs.
“I am not planning on dragging her into the depths of a life of sin and misery. I simply want—”
“You want to save her. From that pathetic excuse of a husband.”
“Yes.”
“That was too easy,” said Jude, now pouring himself a whisky. “What else?”
“She—” George was rarely without words, but the damned woman rendered him speechless, even in thought. He wanted her. Her. Not for her body or her beauty. He wanted more. All.
“I see,” said Jude at his side as he passed him a glass.
George took it. Jude raised his.
“To damsels in distress—no, to one lovely damsel in distress. And to our fearless commander’s success in saving her from it all. Whatever the all may be.” He mumbled the last.
George clinked his glass to Jude’s and knocked the liquid fire down his throat. Fearless, he was not. When it came to Katherine, he feared everything. Keeping her safe. Winning her heart. Losing her heart. Losing her. Never in his life had a woman wrapped him into such turmoil and need. The sight of her overcame him with both pleasure and pain. He’d not known its like in the centuries he’d lived on earth. It did not matter they had just recently met. Their first dance had sealed her around his soul. She’d opened up to him in a way no woman ever had, least of all a mere stranger. Not with words. With one sorrowful look, she had shown her true self—sad, alone, yearning. The look that mirrored his own, which he kept hidden from the world. Her outer beauty was nothing compared to what he saw within, what he wanted to hold and cherish as his own.
Was he mad for wanting such a thing? It did not matter. He’d set his course, and he wasn’t veering away. He rubbed his thumb along the pads of his fingers, remembering the way her soft hand felt in his, the way her voice trembled with desire. He wouldn’t let her go. He couldn’t. He would have to find a way to tell her who and what he truly was. He wouldn’t seduce her as Lord Thornton. Though he legally held the title, that was not his true identity. He would not endeavor to win her with a lie. But he had never revealed himself to any human who was not on the cusp of becoming a Dominus Daemonum.
“Do not forget your original goal,” said Jude, setting down his glass.
“Alexander? I have not and will not forget him.”
“Though I’ll admit I’m surprised Uriel hasn’t made an appearance and chastised you for showing favoritism. Even if Alexander is your last living relative.”
The sun slipped beyond the woodland, draping the world in the coolness of early night. George turned to his wall of books and slid out a long, thin drawer concealed between two shelves. He’d had the cabinet custom made. The carpenter in the village had not asked questions about this unconventional piece when he received a tidy sum for his work in advance.
George unlatched the glass casing and removed the harness, looping it over his waistcoat and strapping the buckles at his chest. He then lifted his iron broadsword, Silversong, and sheathed it over his shoulder to lie diagonally against his back.
“You know you can’t murder her husband in cold blood. Against the rules, my friend.”
George shot him a look. “You are not my keeper. And as my closest friend, I’d think you’d know me well enough by now that I have no intention of murdering the man. Though he may well deserve it.” He grabbed his overcoat draped over his desk and slid it on, casting illusion to hide the hilt of his sword showing out the collar.
“Look lively, demon hunter. We have work to do.”
* * * * *
George and Jude began the evening at Harron House, hoping to follow Blakely to his evening activities. But he had already gone out for the night. They adjourned to White’s and pretended to enjoy drinks and a game of cards while eavesdropping on a pair known to be in Blakely’s circle. They’d positioned themselves at a table a short distance away but still within earshot. When the portly, ruddy-faced Lord Talcombe pulled up a chair to this nearby table of whist and mentioned Blakely’s name, both George and Jude stilled. George flicked down a card, his stomach churning. His scowl could be viewed as a result of losing the game, not because of his distaste for the loathsome Lord Talcombe. “Indeed,” said Talcombe. “A new and, shall we say, more alluring club than anything you’ve experienced before.”
“Is that so?” asked the gentleman known as Rupert, smoking his cigar. “I rather enjoyed the last venture Blakely introduced to us.”
“As did I,” agreed Talcombe. “But I’m promised something grander, more exceptional than anything before.”
“Details,” said the other. Bailey was his name. “You’ve intrigued me but offered no specifics. I imagine this extraordinary new experience will be rather expensive.”
“True,” agreed Talcombe. “But well worth the price.”
“And where is this club?” asked Rupert.
Talcombe eyed the surrounding tables.
“Present this at Willow Wood at midnight.” He placed two coins on the table.
“You won’t regret it, gentlemen,” said Talcombe before taking his leave. After several moments during which the pair said nothing, Rupert said, “What do you think? Are you game for a little adventure of Blakely’s making?”
Bailey replied, “Why not? I’m bored with the old. The Season has run dry. Let’s have a bit of fun.”
George and Jude waited for them to leave before making a hasty exit after them. Once outside, they moved to the closest shadow between street lanterns and, without saying a word, sifted to the gates of Willow Wood. Actually, they sifted into the brush just beyond the gates.
A guard in black livery stood at the entry, watching the entrance of Calliban’s home.
“Now we know for certain that Blakely is in league with Calliban,” said Jude.
“And most probably Damas as well.”
“That is probable but not certain,” Jude countered. “I’ll be back.” He disappeared with a sift out of sight.
George observed the guard closely. No shining red eyes, so he was a high demon, able to completely mask the beast within. He looked out of place, with the build of a Highland warrior rather than an English gentleman. Interesting that Calliban would employ one of the demon aristocrats to guard the gate, typically a menial job for lower demons. But Calliban had quite the prize he was hiding from the world. His Vessel. Sadly, from what George could tell, s
he was too far gone to save. With her vacant stare and submissive obedience, she was Calliban’s creature now. There was no need for a Flamma of Light to attempt a rescue. There would be no point, except to put her out of her misery once and for all. The elite guard was there to protect her from other demons taking Calliban’s valued prize.
Jude reappeared, snapping with Flamma energy. “I tested the wards. Too strong to penetrate. They circle the estate, but there is something peculiar on the other side of the property. Let me show—”
George silenced Jude with a quick wave of the hand. A carriage rolled up to the gate. The guard stepped forward and opened the door. A gentleman within leaned forward out of the door into the moonlight and handed over his coin.
“Rupert,” mumbled George.
“And his friend,” added Jude as a second hand extended from the dark within the carriage to drop another coin into the guard’s palm.
With a scrutinizing once-over, the guard waved them through the gates. The carriage wobbled onward. A shadowed figure with red eyes appeared as they passed. The guard motioned for the figure to follow. The lower demon crept along the hedges just beyond the carriage, following its winding path away from the great mansion.
“Where does that lead?” asked George.
“I think I know,” said Jude. “Come with me.”
Jude grabbed hold of George’s forearm and took them both into a short sift, pulling them into the black Void for mere seconds; then they were standing along the back of the property.
“There.” Jude inched closer to the gate and pointed through the wrought iron, across a lake glittering with ripples of moonlight. “I saw a gentleman step from his carriage and enter that small atrium.”
George edged as near to the gate—electrified with dark wards—as he could without being singed.
“What is that? It’s too small to be anything but an entry.”
The Deepest Well Page 7