Midnight Angel by Lisa Kleypas
Tasia struggled against him, wedging her hands between them. As her face came close to his shoulder, she caught the traces of brandy and tobacco smoke that clung to his coat. It was a good, comfortingly masculine smell. She stopped pushing against him. He was very strong and warm, the steady beat of his heart filling her ear. No one had ever held her like this except her father, when she was a child frightened of the dark. Her throat clenched against a swell of tears.
“No one's going to hurt you.” Gently he smoothed her hair. “I'll keep you safe. You have my word.”
No one had ever offered to keep her safe. It had a strange and powerful effect on Tasia. Tears flooded her eyes, and she blinked furiously to keep them back. He was only saying those words in a misguided attempt to be kind. He didn't know what it meant, how much she needed. He didn't know how desperately alone she was. “You can't promise that,” she said, her teeth chattering. “You don't understand.”
“Make me understand.” He sank his fingers into her tight chignon and pulled her head back, staring into her face. “Tell me what you're afraid of.”
How could she? How could she admit that she was afraid of being caught and punished for her crimes, and most of all that she was afraid of herself? If he knew what she had done, what she was, he would hate her. Her mind lingered on that, his sneering contempt if he knew…if he knew…The stinging tears spilled over her cheeks, and she began to cry with a force that hurt. The harder she tried to stop, the worse it became. Stokehurst groaned and hauled her close, tucking her head against his chest.
Sobbing violently, she clutched her arms around his neck. He held her in a smothering grip, pressing words of comfort into her hair, her throat, his breath warm on her skin. He rocked her gently, until several minutes had passed and the fine linen of his shirt was sodden beneath her cheek. “Hush,” he finally whispered. “You'll make yourself ill. Hush now.” His palm rubbed warm circles across her shoulders and back. “Take a nice, long breath,” he said, his jaw scraping against her temple. “Another.”
“They c-called me a witch,” she said wretchedly. “Before.”
The stroke of his hand stopped, then resumed its leisurely pace. He was quiet, giving her the time she needed.
Her words burst out in a shivering torrent. “Sometimes I would see things…about people I knew. I-I could tell if an accident would happen…or if someone was lying. I had dreams, and visions. Not very often, but…I was always right. Word traveled all the way to Moscow. People s-said I was evil. Witchcraft was the only way they could explain it. They were afraid of me. Soon the fear turned into hatred. I was a danger to everyone.” She shuddered and bit down on her lower lip, afraid of what else she might confess.
He cuddled her against his shoulder, making a soothing noise.
Gradually her hiccupping sobs faded to sniffles. She rested heavily against him. “I've made your shirt all wet,” she said in a small voice.
He reached in his coat and found a handkerchief. “Here.” As he held it to her nose, she blew with a childish gust that made him smile. “Better?” he asked gently. Tasia took the handkerchief from him and nodded, blotting her eyes. Now that the tears were over, an ache that had lodged in her chest for months was gone. Stokehurst tucked a loose lock of hair behind her ear, his thumb drifting over the soft lobe.
“You were angry with me tonight,” Tasia said hoarsely. “Why?”
Luke was tempted to give her any one of a half-dozen meaningless replies that came to mind. But he owed her the truth. He traced the web of tear tracks on her cheek with his fingertip. “Because you're going to disappear someday, without ever having told me who you are or what kind of trouble you're in. You're more of a mystery with each day that passes. You're about as substantial as mist in the moonlight. It made me angry that I couldn't have something—someone—I wanted so badly. And so I tried to hurt you.”
Tasia knew she should pull away from him. Her instincts told her that he wouldn't try to stop her. But she was mesmerized by the sweep of his fingertips along her skin. A pleasant ripple of sensation went through her.
Lightly he caught her jaw in his hand. “Tell me your real age,” he said. “I want the truth.”
She blinked in surprise. “I already told you—”
“What year were you born?” he insisted.
Tasia winced. “Eighteen fifty-two.”
He was quiet for a moment. “Eighteen.” The way he said it, the word sounded profane. “Eighteen.”
Tasia felt the need to defend herself. “Actual years aren't important when one considers—”
“Spare me a repetition of the years-don't-really-matter speech. They matter a hell of a lot for what I've been thinking about.” He let go of her jaw and shook his head, as if the day's events had been too much for him to deal with.
Unnerved by his silence, Tasia stirred against him. He seemed to have forgotten he was still holding her. “My lord,” she said apprehensively, “I suppose you intend to dismiss me now?”
He scowled. “Do you have to ask that every time we have a conversation?”
“I thought that after what happened this evening you might—”
“No, I'm not going to dismiss you. But if you ask again, I'll personally boot you off the estate.” He followed the surly statement with a kiss on her forehead, his mouth warm and light. Drawing his head back slowly, he looked into her eyes. “Do you feel all right now?”
Tasia was completely bewildered by his behavior. “I-I don't know.” She moved away, though she longed to stay in his arms and hide from the world. “Thank you for the handkerchief. I'm sure you want it back.”
He glanced at the wad of soggy linen she held out to him. “Keep it. And don't thank me. I was the reason you needed it in the first place.”
“No,” Tasia said softly. “You weren't the reason. I've held everything in for so many—” She stopped and folded her arms around herself. She turned toward the round window, where their images appeared in a rippled distortion. “Did you know the ancient Russians used to build their fortresses on top of hills? When the Tartar invaders attacked, the Russians would pour water over the hill, on all sides. In a very short time it would turn to ice, and no one could climb up. The siege would last as long as the ice and the supplies held out.” She traced the curved edge of the window with her fingertip. “For a long time I've been alone in my fortress. No one can join me, and I can't leave. And sometimes…my provisions fail me.” She glanced at him, her eyes luminous, like opals. “I think you understand that very well, sir.”
Luke stared at her intently. She refused to look away, seeming calm—but there was a visible throbbing in her throat, just above the edge of her black silk collar. He touched the rapid pulse. “Go on,” he murmured. “What else do you think you know about me?”
Suddenly the moment was shattered by a crisp voice.
“Ah, here you are!” Lady Harcourt stood at the doorway, a fixed smile on her face. She spoke to Tasia, but her gaze went to Lord Stokehurst. “We've all been concerned about you, my dear.”
“I'm fine,” Tasia said, while Stokehurst's hand fell away from her.
“So I see. The evening turned out to be more dramatic than I expected. Madame Miracle has fled, and the guests are entertaining themselves with music. Fortunately we have some accomplished pianists present.” Lady Harcourt gave her full attention to Stokehurst. “Your concern for the servants is admirable, darling, but it's time to return to our guests.” Moving forward, she slipped her arm through his. As she tugged Stokehurst from the room, she paused to glance back at Tasia. “Miss Billings, your little spell—or whatever you care to call it—seems to have upset Emma. If you had done as I suggested and kept her away from the guests, none of this would have—” She stopped at a brief murmur from Stokehurst, and shrugged. “As you wish, darling.”
Tasia clutched the handkerchief even more tightly. Her face was expressionless as she watched the pair leave. They were a handsome couple, both tall and magnificent. Stoke
Moving slowly, she picked up the chair in her room, which had been knocked over in her stumbling haste. She restored the icon to its usual place. Her face felt hot and puffy. She touched her tender eyelids and winced at the sting.
“Oh, Miss Billings!” All of a sudden Emma rushed into the room, all flying curls and excited eyes. “Miss Billings, that horrible old witch is gone. I sent her away. Were any of the things she said true? Did you really live in a palace? Oh, you've been crying!” She threw her arms around Tasia. “Didn't my father find you?”
“He found me,” Tasia said, and laughed unsteadily.
As they descended the stairs, Iris kept hold of Luke's arm and looked at him with simmering displeasure. “Well, your shy little governess managed to ruin the evening with her theatrics.”
“I'd say your fortune-teller deserves all the credit.”
“Madame Miracle only revealed what the spirits told her,” Iris said defensively.
“I don't care if the spirits appeared in top hats and danced on the table. Madame Miracle should be shot.” Luke's mouth hardened. “Right along with me. Between the two of us, we managed to make quite a spectacle of Miss Billings.”
“Miss Billings made a spectacle of herself,” Iris corrected. “And what happened tonight is proof that she is dreadfully immature, Luke. You must hire someone of a more suitable age to teach Emma. They're a pair of scheming children. I wasn't going to tell you, but I overheard the two of them the other day, plotting to get you to marry Miss Billings!”
“What?”
“They're hatching a plot. Emma wants you to marry the governess. It's rather adorable, but at the same time, it should make you think twice about the wisdom of hiring a naive girl just out of the schoolroom—”
“You're making too much of it,” he said brusquely. “While I don't doubt my daughter's enthusiasm for her governess, I can assure you that Miss Billings has no ambition to marry me.”
“Being a man, you would be fooled by her facade. She's a conniving creature, and she's trying to manipulate the situation to her advantage.”
Luke gave her an ironic glance. “First she's naive, then she's conniving. Which is it?”
Iris marshaled her dignity. “Obviously that's for you to decide.”
“There's no need to be jealous.”
“Isn't there? What about the scene I just witnessed? Are you going to deny that she means something to you? Would you have touched her like that even if she were a homely old hag? Oh, she's set a neat trap for you. A lovely, helpless girl, all alone in the world, staring up at you with those big gray eyes, asking you to play the white knight and rescue her from her dreary little life…How could any man resist?”
“She hasn't asked for anything,” he said, stopping on the stairs to face her. “And they're blue, not gray.”
“Oh, yes,” Iris sneered, bracing her hands on her hips. “The color of mist on the lake. Or maybe violets touched with morning frost. I'm sure you can come up with some lovely comparisons on your own. Why don't you go upstairs and write an ode? Don't give me that condescending look, as if I'm being unreasonable! I refuse to compete with some scrawny girl for your attentions. I don't play well in a crowded field, and in any case I deserve better than that.”
“Are you working up to an ultimatum?”
“Never,” Iris spat. “I wouldn't dream of making it that easy for you! You want me to make you choose, and then everything will be convenient. I'd sooner cut my tongue out. Just don't make the mistake of coming to my bed tonight, or any night, until you can convince me that you're not pretending I'm her!”
His gaze raked insolently over her voluptuous figure. “It's not likely I'd confuse the two of you. But in any case, you won't be bothered with my attentions tonight.”
“Good!” Iris snapped, and sailed ahead without him, her skirts trailing grandly in her wake.
The rest of the evening was pure hell. Luke didn't ask or care if the guests were enjoying themselves. They had all assembled in the music room, partaking of refreshments while various members of the gathering volunteered to show off their skills at the piano. The group was buzzing with gossip beneath the strains of music being played.
Charles approached Luke, coming to stand with him at the back of the room. “Stokehurst,” he muttered, “what the devil is going on?”
Luke shrugged defensively and set his jaw. “I apologized to Tasia for my behavior. You can reassure Alicia that everything is fine.”
“I can't reassure her when I'm not convinced of it myself!” Charles sighed deeply. “Alicia and I would like Tasia to return to us. We'll find some other situation for her.”
“That's not necessary.”
“I believe it is. Good God, man, I asked you to keep her safe, to hide her…and you exposed her to your guests like some carnival attraction! It's only out of fear of drawing further attention to Tasia that Alicia has refrained from taking her away this very evening.”
A flush covered Luke's face. “It won't happen again. I want the girl to stay.”
“Is that what she wants?”
Luke hesitated. “I think so.”
Charles frowned at him. “I've known you for too many years, Stokehurst…there's something you're keeping from me.”
“I give you my word I'll protect Tasia. Tell Alicia that I regret what happened. Convince her that Tasia is better off staying here. I swear I'll protect her from now on.”
Charles nodded. “Very well. You've never broken your word in the past—I'll have to trust that you won't start now.”
Casually Charles walked away. Luke stood alone at the back of the room, feeling guilty and strangely confused. Everyone shot speculative gazes at him, except for Iris. She sat a few yards away, pointedly ignoring him. Luke was well-aware that if he had any desire to visit her bed that night, he would have to exert a considerable amount of charm, followed by an apology and the promise of a visit to the jeweler's. But he didn't want to make the effort. For the first time, the thought of sharing Iris's bed left him cold.
He was consumed with thoughts of Tasia. Whatever had happened in her past was bad, he had no doubt of that. She had experienced a lot—too much—in her short lifetime, and had survived it on her own. She was an eighteen-year-old girl, unwilling to ask for help, or trust anyone who might offer it. And he was too old for her, a man of thirty-four with a half-grown daughter. He wondered if she had ever given a thought, even a passing one, to the difference in their ages. Probably not. So far there had been no sign that she was attracted to him: no flirtatious glances, no lingering touches, no effort to prolong their brief conversations.
Come to think of it, he had never seen her smile. Certainly he hadn't given her reason to. For a man who was known as having a way with women, he had been remarkably uncharming to her. An ass. And it was too late to retrace his steps and undo the damage. Trust was a fragile thing, built one careful piece at a time. With his actions tonight, he had destroyed any hope of gaining her confidence.
It shouldn't matter so much. The world was full of beautiful women, women of intelligence and charm. Without conceit Luke knew that many of them were readily available to him. But in all the years since Mary, no one had caught his interest as this girl did. Brooding in silence, Luke drank steadily, turning grim and unsociable. He ignored his responsibilities as host, and he didn't give a damn what anyone thought. Many of the faces he saw were the same faces he had seen at the parties he hosted with Mary at his side. Year after year the patterns repeated themselves, round and round like a spinning wheel.
He was thankful when the group finally broke for the evening, everyone heading off to cavort with their bed partners of choice. Biddle, the valet, was waiting in his room in case he needed assistance. Luke snapped at him to turn down the lamps and leave. Sitting in a chair, fully clothe
“Mary,” he muttered, as if by saying her name he could conjure her out of the shadows. The stillness of the room mocked him. He had held on to grief for a long time, until it had somehow dissolved on its own, leaving…nothing. He thought the pain would be there forever. God, he would prefer that to this emptiness.
He had forgotten how to enjoy life. It had been easy in his boyhood—he and Mary had laughed all the time, relishing their youth, their hopes, blindly trusting in their shared future. They had faced everything together. Was it possible to find that with someone else?
“Not bloody likely,” he muttered, raising the bottle again. He couldn't stand the prospect of more disillusionment, more pain, more shattered dreams. He didn't even want to try.
Sometime in the middle of the night, Luke set down the half-finished bottle and wandered out of his room. The moon was a huge disk in the sky, strewing white-gold light through the windows. He made his way through the quiet mansion, lured by the thought of cool breezes outside. He crossed a stone courtyard and went through an opening in the tall box hedges that bordered the garden.
Luke's feet crunched on the graveled walkway as he proceeded to a marble bench set in a patch of greenery. Hyacinths spread their heavy fragrance through the air, mingling with lilies and heliotrope planted in lush beds. He sat on the bench, sprawling his legs out comfortably. Then he was still, his attention caught by an ethereal shape moving among the hedges. He thought he was hallucinating. But there it was again, the elusive gleam of white.
“Who is it?” he asked aloud, his heart thumping. The movement stopped, and he heard a gasp.
A few soft footsteps, and then she appeared.
“Miss Billings,” he said, a quizzical note in his voice.
She was dressed in the peasant costume she had worn the night he had kissed her, a simple skirt and a loose white blouse. Her hair was loose, streaming down to her hips. A light-colored shawl was draped over her head. “My lord,” she said breathlessly.