Midnight Angel by Lisa Kleypas
“Well, the bedroom door will be closed,” she said firmly. “Until we are married.”
Luke's expression turned stony as he realized she would not budge. They exchanged a challenging glare. Abruptly Luke turned and walked away, his broad back tense beneath his shirt.
“Where are you going?” Tasia asked, half-afraid he would change his mind about everything.
“To arrange a wedding,” came his muffled growl. “A damned quick one.”
Seven
Tasia saw very little of Luke for the next few days. He spent nearly every waking moment arranging for the private wedding to be held in the estate chapel, and in the evenings he returned to Southgate Hall to inform Tasia of his progress. She was never quite certain what his mood would be, for Luke was alternately tender and aggressive with her. Sometimes he would hold her as if she were made of fragile porcelain, wooing her with soft love words. But he was just as likely to pin her to the nearest wall and behave like a sailor on shore leave with the first available streetwalker.
“I'm coming to your room tonight,” he said after one particularly heated episode, when he had yanked her into a dark corner and kissed her for five minutes.
“I'll lock the door.”
“I'll break it down.” His knee pushed between her thighs, delving between the layers of her skirts. He fastened his mouth to hers, thrusting his tongue deep, and she writhed against him in growing pleasure. His breath struck her cheek in hot bursts. “Tasia,” he groaned, sliding his mouth to the tender hollow beneath her ear, “I want you. I want you so much I ache.” He grabbed her wrist and pulled it low between their bodies, molding her hand around the hard ridge of his loins. Tasia lost all count of the sweltering minutes that passed as she stood there returning his kisses, feeling him throb intimately against her palm.
“We must stop,” she gasped. “This isn't right. You're not being fair.”
“Tonight,” he insisted, pulling roughly at the buttons of her high-necked gown.
Tasia tore herself away from him, wobbling a little as she discovered that her knees had turned to jelly. “You will not come to my room,” she said stubbornly. “I would never forgive you.”
Luke's frustrated passion found vent in an explosion of temper. “Dammit, there's no difference in being together now or two days from now!”
“Except we'll be married then.”
“You were willing enough to share my bed before.”
“That was different. I thought I would never see you again. Now I'm going to make a place for myself in this household, and I will not lose the respect of the servants and your daughter by behaving like a strumpet.” Her voice was quiet but firm, allowing no possibility that she would change her mind.
Luke was willing to try. In the short silence that followed, his approach softened from angry demand to wily coaxing. “Sweetheart, everyone here respects and adores you. Especially me. I need you. I can't help being impatient to hold you. All I want is to make you happy, to please you…”
Tasia watched him suspiciously as he drew closer. All at once he made a grab for her. She evaded him neatly, skittering out of his reach.
“Damnation!” His curse echoed in the hall as she hurried away.
“Don't you dare follow me,” she said hastily, vowing not only to lock her door but also to wedge a chair against it.
The next morning Luke approached her in the breakfast room. Tasia removed her attention from the landscaped scenery outside the arched windows and gave him a tentative smile. She remained sitting at the round oak table as he came to her. Luke motioned away a maid who was engaged in clearing the dishes.
“Good morning,” he said, looking into Tasia's upturned face. Once again he was the self-possessed aristocrat, his passion safely banked, his expression implacable. “May I join you?” Before she could answer, he pulled out a chair and sat beside her. “I have to leave for London in a few minutes, but first there are two questions I want to ask you.”
She matched his businesslike tone. “Very well, my lord.”
“Does it meet with your approval if I ask the Ashbournes to witness the ceremony?”
Tasia nodded. “I would like that very much.”
“Good. The other thing I need to know is…” Luke hesitated and reached out to her knee, toying with a fold of her skirt. His intent blue eyes met hers.
“Yes?” Tasia prompted softly.
“It's about the wedding ring. I wondered…if something like this would be acceptable.” As he spoke, he opened his hand.
Tasia's eyes widened at the sight of the heavy gold band in his palm. Carefully she reached for it, holding it up to examine the pattern of roses and leaves carved on the glinting surface. The gold held the warmth of his skin.
“It's a family ring,” he said. “No one's worn it for generations.” Luke watched as she rolled the ring between her delicate fingers, contemplating the golden circle. She brushed her fingertip over the carved roses. “To the English,” he said, “the rose is a symbol of secrecy. Long ago a host would hang a rose over his table to ensure that everything said beneath it would be kept private.”
Suddenly Tasia had a fleeting image of a man and a woman in bed, the woman's long fingers outstretched as the ring slid past her knuckle. The man was dark-haired and bearded…and his eyes were blue. The vision faded, and Tasia knew who the lovers were. She looked at Luke with wry amusement. “Your ancestor William gave this to his mistress, didn't he?”
A smile softened the stern line of his mouth. “They say he loved her from the moment they met until the day he died.” His caressing gaze swept over her. “I'll understand if you'd prefer something else, maybe with precious stones. This ring is old-fashioned—”
“No, I want this one.” Tasia closed her hand over the ring. “It's perfect.”
“I hoped you'd feel that way.” Luke leaned over, resting his arm on the back of her chair. Their faces were very close. “Forgive me for last night. It's not easy, having you so close and not being able to take you to bed.”
Tasia's lashes lowered. “It's not easy for me either.” Feeling a rush of warmth and attraction, she inched nearer to him, her lips parted invitingly. She hadn't slept at all well after their skirmish last night. Alone in the darkness of her bedroom, she had craved his restless kisses and the warmth of his body next to hers.
Luke smiled and pulled his head back just before her mouth could brush his. “No, you little tease. You'll only start something you won't let me finish.” He stood and pried the ring from her hand, brandishing it threateningly. “But after I put this on your finger, I'll have you whenever I want—and propriety be damned.”
The guest room Emma had chosen for Tasia was one of the prettiest in Southgate Hall, with a sleigh-shaped bed draped in peach silk brocade and thick golden tassels. Emma sprawled on the carpet with a plate of pastries she had stolen from the kitchen, alternately feeding Samson and herself. The dog lazed beside her, licking his lips after gobbling each offering.
Tasia sat in a chair with a basket of mending, stitching the torn cuff of a man's shirt. She couldn't help laughing at the sight of Emma and Samson's sugar-dusted faces. “Should you be feeding him so many sweets?” she asked. “I'm sure it isn't good for him—or you, for that matter.”
“I can't help being hungry. The taller I get, the more there is to fill up.” Emma crossed her long, skinny legs and sighed. “I'll never stop growing. I hope the foreigner I'm going to marry will be a tall man. It would be dreadful to look down at one's husband all the time.”
“Whatever his height, he'll be just right for you,” Tasia said.
Emma continued to leaf through the pages of a ladies' magazine, poring over descriptions of the most recent fashion designs for autumn gowns. “Bronze will be all the rage this year,” she said, holding up the book for Tasia to see. “Miss Billings, you must have a walking dress made exactly like this one, with the scalloped edges and the bows on the wrists. And little bronze boots to match!”
“Oh, it would be,” Emma said earnestly. “Besides, anything would be a pleasant change after wearing nothing but black and gray.”
Tasia laughed. “I'm very fond of pink,” she said dreamily. “The shade so pale that it's almost white. There's nothing more beautiful than pink pearls.”
The comment produced a rapid flipping of the pages. “I saw something toward the back…an evening gown that would be perfect in that shade—” Suddenly Emma stopped, looking at her with wide eyes.
“What is it?” Tasia asked.
“I just thought…what shall I call you now? You won't be Miss Billings anymore. And calling you Stepmother is horrid. But you're not old enough to be my mother, and I don't think it would be right to call you that…would it?”
Tasia set aside her mending, understanding the reason for the child's concern. “No,” she said gently. “Mary is still your mother, and will always be, even though she's in heaven. Your father won't ever forget her, and neither will you. I'll be your father's new wife, but I won't replace her. She has her own place, just as I'll have mine.”
Emma nodded, seeming reassured. She came to sit by the chair, making a tent of her pointed knees and her skirt. Her flashing blue eyes, so like her father's, met Tasia's. “Sometimes when I'm alone, I think she might be taking a peek at me from behind a cloud. Do you think it's possible that people watch over us from heaven?”
“Yes, I do,” Tasia said, treating the question seriously. “If heaven is a place of perfect peace, then certainly they must be able to. I imagine your mother would be very unhappy indeed if she couldn't see for herself that you were all right.”
“I think she knows you're with Papa and me. I think she's glad, Miss Billings. Maybe she even helped you to find us. She wouldn't want Papa to be lonely anymore.” Emma hesitated as Tasia turned her face away. “Miss Billings? Have I made you angry?”
Tasia looked back with a wavering smile. “No, you've brought tears to my eyes,” she said, dabbing at her face with a sleeve. She leaned close to kiss the top of Emma's red head. “I have something to tell you, Emma. My name isn't really Miss Billings.”
Emma looked at her consideringly. “I know. It's Tasia.”
“How did you find out?” Tasia asked in astonishment.
“The other night after supper I heard Papa call you that, just as I was leaving the room. And I wasn't surprised, because I've always thought you were more than a governess. You can tell me the truth now—who are you, really?”
Tasia smiled ruefully as she stared into the girl's face. Emma's blue eyes were alight with curiosity. “My real name is Anastasia Kaptereva,” she admitted. “I was born in Russia. I had to leave my home and come to England because of some trouble I was involved in.”
“Did you do something wrong?” Emma asked incredulously.
“I don't know,” came Tasia's soft reply. “As strange as it sounds, I don't remember much about it. I'd rather not tell you any details. All I can say is that it was a terrible time in my life…but your father has convinced me that I should try to put it behind me, and look only to the future.”
Emma's long-fingered hand crept over hers. “Can I help you somehow?”
“You already have.” Tasia turned her palm and squeezed the girl's hand affectionately. “You and your father have taken me into your family. It's the most wonderful thing anyone could have done for me.”
Emma smiled at her. “I still don't know what to call you.”
“What about Belle-mère?” Tasia suggested. “That's how the French say Stepmother.”
“Belle means pretty, doesn't it?” Emma asked with a pleased expression. “Yes, that's a perfect name.”
“If only there had been time to have a proper wedding gown made,” Alicia lamented, helping Tasia put the finishing touches on her appearance. “You should have a fresh new gown of your own, not another old one of mine.” They had altered an ivory summer dress from Alicia's wardrobe, but the fit wasn't as perfect as it might have been. “At least you'll be married in white.”
“In this case, white is questionable,” Tasia said. “It would be more fitting if I wore a red dress. Scarlet red.”
“I'll choose to ignore that remark.” Busily Alicia fastened white roses on the thick braided coils at Tasia's nape. “Don't feel guilty, dear, if you, er, forgot yourself with Luke. Most women would, if they were alone with him for more than five minutes. He's an irresistible man…unless one happens to be married to Charles, of course.” Alicia pretended not to notice Tasia's blush, and continued to talk lightly. “It's strange, but I didn't like Luke at all when I first met him.”
“You didn't?” Tasia said in surprise.
“I suppose I was jealous of the way Charles worshipped him. Everyone in their circle repeated the clever things Stokehurst said, and talked about his latest escapades. None of them liked to make a move without asking his opinion first, even when they were deciding which girls to court! When I finally met him, all I could think was, ‘What a spoiled, self-centered young man. What in heaven's name do they all see in him?’”
Tasia laughed. “What caused you to change your mind?”
“I realized what a good husband he was to Mary. Remarkable, really. With her, Luke was considerate, tender—all the things that men are usually afraid to be, thinking they might appear weak in front of others. And he never looked at another woman, no matter how they threw themselves at him. I came to see the strength of character beneath Luke's arrogance. And then there was the accident…” Alicia shook her head in wonder. “Losing Mary, and being maimed for life…he had every right to be bitter and self-pitying. Oh, how Charles dreaded visiting him that first time! ‘Stokehurst will never be the same,’ Charles told me, just before he went to Luke's sickbed. ‘I don't think I can bear to see what's left of him.’ But Luke had become more of a man, rather than less of one. He told Charles that he didn't plan to waste time feeling sorry for himself, and he wanted no one's pity. He intended to honor Mary's memory by giving Emma a happy life, and teaching her that outward flaws didn't matter, because only the inside of a person's heart is important. Charles came home with tears in his eyes, and said he admired Lord Stokehurst more than any man he'd ever known.”
“Why are you telling me this?” Tasia asked, her voice husky.
“I suppose I'm trying to say that I approve of what you're doing, Tasia. I don't believe you'll ever regret marrying Stokehurst.”
Uncomfortably Tasia turned to check her hair in the mirror. She avoided the sight of her own tear-brightened eyes. “Until recently all I've allowed myself to think about are the Angelovskys, and the dreadful thing I may have done. I don't know what my feelings are about Lord Stokehurst. I can't put them into words yet. But I do know that I've begun to turn to him in a way I've never turned to anyone.”
“That's a promising beginning, I think.” Alicia stood back to look at Tasia. “Lovely,” she pronounced.
Tasia reached back to touch the flowers in her hair. “How many are there?”
“Four.”
“Could you pin on another, please?”
“There's not room, I'm afraid.”
“Then you must take one away. I'll wear either three or five.”
“But why?…Oh, yes, how could I have forgotten?” Alicia smiled as she recalled the Russian tradition. “An odd number of flowers for the living, an even number for the dead.” She glanced at the large arrangement of blossoms that Tasia would carry into the chapel. “Must I count your bouquet for you?”
Tasia smiled and picked up the mass of flowers, regarding it speculatively. “There's no time for that. We'll have to assume it's the correct number.”
“Thank God,” Alicia said in a heartfelt tone.
Despite the solemnity of the occasion, Tasia wanted to laugh at the sight of Samson waiting patiently by the door of the estate chapel. The dog's leash had been affixed to one of the back pews to ensure his noninte
The aloof faces of carved saints looked down from the walls. The chapel was small and slightly musty, candlelight warming the smooth stone and dark wood with its yellow glow. Tasia had a feeling of detachment as she stood next to Luke, with Emma at her right and the Ashbournes on his left. She repeated the vows in a voice that didn't seem to be her own.
How simple and astonishingly intimate this was, compared to the grand two-hour ceremony she would have had to endure in St. Petersburg. If she had married Mikhail Angelovsky, there would have been at least a thousand guests, and an Orthodox bishop to perform the rites. She would have been swathed in white brocade, silver fur, and a silver crown that complemented Mikhail's gold one. There would have been a procession around the altar, and the Angelovskys would have insisted that Mikhail carry the ancient Russian symbol of husbandly authority, a silver whip. And she would have been forced to kneel and kiss the hem of his ceremonial robe, in the ultimate gesture of subservience. Instead she had left it all behind, in a trail of blood and deception. Now she was in a foreign country, exchanging marriage vows with a stranger.
Luke held her hand firmly and spoke the words that would bind her to him until death. She looked into his clear blue eyes, her detachment vanishing. The last threads to the past were severed as she took another's name as her own and felt his ring slide onto her finger. Tasia knew an instant of panic just before he bent and fitted his mouth over hers. It was not a gentle kiss, but a brief, hard one. You're mine now, was his unspoken message. Now and forever…and nothing will part us.
The servants' hall rang with cheers as Lord and Lady Stokehurst appeared in the doorway. Luke had given the servants the next day off and supplied enough wine and food for an all-night celebration. People had come up from the village to play instruments and take part in the gathering. A crowd rushed around the newlyweds, offering congratulation. Tasia was touched by their warmth.