Midnight Angel by Lisa Kleypas
Luke sat up and cradled her against his broad chest, rocking her as if she were a child. She couldn't see him in the darkness, but his arms were hard around her, and his low voice was close to her ear. “It was just a dream,” he murmured. “Nikolas is far away, and you're safe in my arms.”
“He's going to find me. He'll take me back there.”
Luke continued to rock her slowly. “My sweet little girl,” he whispered. “No one's going to take you away from me.”
Tasia tried to gulp back her tears. “I'm s-so sorry about today. I don't know why I said those things—”
“Hush. It's all over now.”
Suddenly she erupted into giggling sobs. “I'll go crazy if I have another nightmare like that. I can't stop it from coming back. I'm afraid to sleep.”
Holding her close, Luke whispered against her hair, endearments, meaningless phrases to comfort her. His muscled shoulder was tense beneath her wet cheek. Tasia gave a shuddering sigh and breathed in the scent of his skin. His hand was resting on her side, his thumb touching the outer curve of her breast. “Don't let go,” she whimpered, turning to him with her body, her entire being, wanting him with a depth of hunger that frightened her.
“Never.” He kissed her, his tongue skillfully exploring her mouth. At the same time, his hand moved over the soft rise of her breast. He allowed her no words, no time to think as he pulled her from the nightmare and replaced it with a dream of exquisite fire. His fingers skimmed the surface of her breast and pulled lightly at her nipple, worrying the tender flesh until it gathered to a point. Covering the bit of textured silk with his mouth, he used wet flicks of his tongue to stimulate her. Tasia's head fell back as liquid rushes of feeling washed over her, and she was bathed in the healing warmth of desire.
He pushed her down on the bed, flat on her back. Tasia lay in trembling submission, waiting for his touch, his warmth to cover her. There was nothing but stillness. Her eyes opened as she strained to find him in the darkness. “Please…” Blindly she reached for him, her groping hands finding only empty air.
She felt his mouth on her stomach, kissing and licking in a slow path from one hipbone to the other. Her muscles tightened, and she groaned his name. He was unmoved by her urgency. Brushing away her importuning hands, he feasted on her body as a gourmet savoring exotic cuisine. A swirling lick over her breast, a teasing bite at her waist, a string of kisses along her inner thigh. Driven to wanton shamelessness, she writhed and opened her legs wide. He laughed softly and slid his fingers into the tender opening of her body. She gasped as she felt his touch slip easily inside her, stroking deeply, probing with knowing gentleness.
His breath burned the silken hollow of her groin. He rubbed his mouth and nose into the mat of delicate hair, reaching with his tongue, dragging it deep through the fragrant softness. Using his mouth and his fingers, he teased her to the brink of fulfillment, drawing away just before she could climax.
Tasia gave a high-pitched moan, arching in frantic welcome as he swung over her and positioned himself between her thighs. He entered her in a smooth, hard glide. She convulsed at once with a scream of pleasure. He continued to move at a measured pace, sweat beading on his skin as he fought for control. She wrapped her arms around his neck, lost to everything but the feel of him pushing hard within the succulent depths of her body. The tide of sensation approached again, and she tensed beneath him while stinging tears slipped from her eyes. “I love you,” she sobbed against his taut throat.
He deepened his thrusts, nudging against her womb, and she shuddered in ecstasy. Her body tightened around him, making it impossible for him to contain his passion. He joined her in a soul-wrenching climax, groaning at the wholesale shattering of his nerves. They stayed locked together, breathing hard, twining around each other in fierce reluctance to let the intimacy end.
“I love you,” she said again, when she had the strength to speak. She buried her head against his chest. “I was afraid to say it before.”
He smoothed her long hair in a gentle, repeated motion. “Why did you now?”
“I can't live that way any longer, being afraid of what's in my heart. And I don't want there to be secrets between us.”
Luke pressed his lips to her forehead, and she could feel that he was smiling. “No secrets,” he whispered. “No lies, no fear…no past.”
“If it all ends tomorrow, at least we've had this,” she said, drugged with sleepy pleasure. “It's more than most people ever have. It should be enough.”
“A lifetime wouldn't be enough.” Luke kept her wrapped close, her hair spilling over him in dark rivers of silk, her sleek limbs tangled with his, her warm breath on his shoulder. He felt the mingling of fragility and resilience within her. Although he was not a religious man, a silent prayer resounded through him. Thank you, God, thank you for leading her to me…How he had come to merit her presence in his life was a question better left uncontemplated. He wouldn't tempt fate by wondering.
During the month they had been apart, Emma seemed to have grown taller. She came into the London villa, red curls flying, and launched herself at Tasia with a peal of laughter. “Belle-mère! I've missed you and Papa so much!”
“I've missed you too,” Tasia said, hugging her tightly. “How is Samson?”
“We had to leave him in the country.” Emma pulled back and made a face. “He cried dreadfully. It took two servants to keep him from running after the carriage. He kept howling like this—” She demonstrated a mournful dog wail, making Tasia laugh. “But I told him it wouldn't be long before we all returned.”
“Have you been keeping up with your lessons?”
“No. Grandmother never makes me study, except the times she tells me to ‘go along and read a big book.’ And Grandfather is always busy paying calls to his friends, or lurking in corners trying to pinch the housemaids.”
“Oh, dear.” Still smiling, Tasia walked with Emma to the front of the entrance hall, where the duchess had paused for a private word with Luke.
Her Grace, the Duchess of Kingston, was an imposing woman, tall and slender, with brilliant silver hair and dark, hawklike eyes. She was dressed in pearl-gray and plum silk, and a remarkable straw hat with a high “flower-pot” crown. There were two dead stuffed birds perched on the sloping brim of the hat.
“She killed them herself,” Emma said in a deadpan tone, and grinned at Tasia's wide-eyed glance.
Luke stood with his mother, listening attentively as she gave him a detailed account of Emma's behavior for the past month. “She would be more at home living in the woods with wild creatures than under a civilized roof,” the duchess proclaimed. “Fortunately I have a calming influence on Emma. She always benefits from the time she spends with me. You'll find she is much improved since you saw her last.”
“How gratifying,” Luke said, giving his approaching daughter a wink. “Where is Father?”
The duchess frowned. “Away on some romantic peccadillo. He snaps up silly young girls like an old cat hunting baby birds. You should be pleased by his absence. Otherwise he would be busy chasing your new bride round the villa.”
Luke grinned and kissed his mother's wrinkled cheek. “Nothing that tying him to a heavy chair wouldn't solve.”
“You should have suggested that years ago,” the duchess replied sourly, appearing to store the idea for future consideration. She raised her voice and turned toward Tasia and Emma, who waited tactfully nearby. “I came to see what kind of woman could manage to bring my son to the altar. I would not have thought it possible after so many years.”
Luke watched with pride as Tasia stepped forward to greet the duchess. “Your Grace,” she said softly, and dropped in a supple curtsy. The duchess looked at Luke, making no effort to hide her surprise. Whatever his mother had expected, it was not a young woman with such royal bearing.
Tasia looked particularly beautiful that day, her dark hair swept in a chignon fastened with diamond-studded hairpins, her white throat gleaming through a scar
Luke tried to see her through his mother's eyes. Tasia had a quiet self-possession that was uncommon to anyone outside a convent. And there was a sweet solemnity in her eyes, the look of a child at evening prayers. How she could keep that look of innocence in spite of his corruptive influence was a mystery to Luke. But his mother would definitely approve, in spite of the fact that she still believed Tasia to be a mere governess.
“Welcome to the family,” the duchess said to Tasia. “Although one must observe that you entered it under curious circumstances.”
“Your Grace?” Tasia said, pretending not to understand.
The duchess frowned impatiently. “There is gossip in every corner of England concerning your mysterious appearance, and your precipitous marriage to my son. So precipitous, in fact, that the duke and I were not even invited.”
Luke interrupted hastily. “We decided to keep the ceremony private, Mother.”
“So it seems,” came the frosty reply.
Tasia winced, remembering her brief conversation with Luke over the question of inviting his parents, ending with his flat statement that they would only bring interference and unwanted questions to the ceremony. Her slight movement caused the gold cross to swing on its long chain, attracting the older woman's interest.
“What an unusual piece,” the duchess remarked. “May I see it?” Receiving Tasia's nod of permission, she lifted the ornament in her gnarled fingers. The filigree cross had been designed in the Kievan Russian style, with many tiers of thin gold thread and tiny gold drops to give it texture. The center was inset with a cluster of blood-colored rubies and a small, perfect diamond. “I've never seen such workmanship,” the duchess said, carefully releasing the necklace.
“It belonged to my grandmother,” Tasia replied. “From the time of her baptism until her death, she always wore a cross around her neck. This was her favorite.” Obeying a sudden impulse, she removed the necklace. She took the duchess's heavily veined hand in her own soft one and pressed the cross into her palm. “I would like you to have it, ma'am.”
The duchess was clearly startled by the gesture. “I have no wish to rob you of your keepsakes, child.”
“Please,” Tasia said earnestly. “You've given me a gift more precious than anything in the world…your son. I should like to give you a token in return.”
The duchess looked from the gold cross in her hand to Luke, as if debating their respective worth. “There may come a day when you'll decide you've been shortchanged,” she said dryly. “Nevertheless, I accept your gift. You may place the cross around my neck, child.” She cracked a smile as Tasia fastened the chain. “I approve of my son's choice,” she said. “You remind me of myself when I was a young wife. I will lecture Luke later about being a respectful and sympathetic husband.”
“He treats me very well,” Tasia assured her, glancing impishly at her husband. Luke appeared to be dumbfounded by his mother's comments. Sternly Tasia held back a smile. “Your Grace, would you allow me to walk with you to the lavender suite? I took the liberty of having it prepared for you.”
“Yes, indeed. I do have a fondness for those rooms. Lavender is flattering to my complexion.”
The two women walked away arm-in-arm, while Emma and Luke watched in openmouthed silence. Emma was the first to speak. “She made Grandmother like her. Grandmother doesn't like anyone.”
“I know.” Suddenly Luke laughed. “She may be a witch after all, Emma. But don't tell her I said so.”
The next few days passed in a pleasant fashion, although Tasia was dismayed by the amount of time Luke was gone. When he returned late every evening, his clothes reeking of cigar smoke, his breath tainted with port, he offered only cryptic explanations of the business meetings he had been obliged to attend. “Only men are present at these meetings?” Tasia had asked suspiciously, helping him off with his boots as he sat on the bed.
“Old, gray-haired men with big bellies and yellow teeth.”
Tasia examined his shirt collar closely. “That's a relief. I should hate to start examining your clothes for traces of perfume and rouge every night.”
Slightly drunk, and happy to be alone with her, Luke pulled her on top of him. “Feel free to examine everything,” he invited, burying his nose and mouth in her sweet-scented hair. “Nothing to hide. Look here, in fact…and here…” He rolled and crawled amorously over his giggling wife.
In the daytime Tasia was usually busy with the duchess and Emma as the three of them shopped for house furnishings and paid calls to acquaintances. The duchess had undertaken to introduce Tasia to her most favored friends, old society lionesses who were charmed by Tasia's inflexible good manners. Such a modest, gently bred girl, they exclaimed approvingly. So different from the frivolous modern misses who knew nothing of how to employ a needle and thimble, and often didn't bother with gloves or curtsying. Tasia's decorum pleased the old ladies to no end, causing them to declare that their faith in the future of civilized society had been restored.
The duchess spent the afternoons resting in her room while Tasia oversaw Emma's lessons. To Tasia's delight, Emma had started writing a play. “I'm going to be a stage actress,” Emma informed her. “Imagine me, treading the boards at the Theatre Royal…I would make the most splendid Lady Macbeth ever!” She demonstrated her thespian talents by performing the sleepwalking scene from Macbeth with an enthusiasm that sent the duchess reaching for her smelling salts.
Upon receiving an invitation for a party to be given by Lady Walford in honor of her daughter's birthday, Emma declared violently that nothing short of an apocalypse would make her attend. “I'll be the tallest one there! I'll be taller than all the boys! And someone will say something about the color of my hair, and I'll be obliged to hit them in the nose, and there'll be a terrible scene. I'm not going.”
Luke's fatherly talk with Emma failed to make any impression on her. He looked perplexed and vaguely harassed as Tasia questioned him about the conversation. “She doesn't want to attend,” he said shortly. “Forcing her to go will only make her miserable.”
Tasia sighed. “I don't think you understand, my lord—”
“You're right,” he said darkly. “In spite of my best efforts I stopped understanding Emma when she reached the age of seven. You handle her.”
“Yes, Luke,” she said, restraining a wry smile. Luke was a devoted father, but when Emma's problems could not be solved with presents and kisses, he seemed at a loss about what to do.
Tasia went to Emma's room and tapped gently on the closed door. When there was no response, she pushed the door open and looked inside. Emma was sprawled on the floor, sorting through her doll collection. There was a mutinous expression on her face.
“I suppose you're going to say you want me to go to the party,” Emma muttered.
“Yes.” Tasia sat beside her, her skirts billowing and setting in a shimmering green pool. “It's an excellent opportunity for you to make friends with some girls your age.”
“I don't need friends. I have you and Papa, and everyone at Southgate Hall, and Samson—”
“And we all adore you,” Tasia said, smiling. “But that's not enough, Emma. I know from experience. I grew up every bit as sheltered as you've been—more so—and I never had friends my age. I don't want you to be as lonely as I was.”
Emma scowled. “I don't know how to talk to them.”
“All you need is some practice.”
“Papa said he wouldn't insist that I go if I didn't want to.”
“I insist,” Tasia said quietly. She saw the flash of surprise on the girl's face, and continued before Emma had a chance to respond. “We'll have a new dress made for you. I saw a beautiful color of silk in Mr. Hodding'
Emma was shaking her head. “Belle-mère, I can't—”
“Just try,” Tasia coaxed. “What's the worst that could happen?”
“I'll have a dreadful time.”
“I think you could survive one dreadful evening. Besides…you may even enjoy yourself.”
Emma groaned theatrically and occupied herself with rearranging the row of dolls. Tasia smiled, knowing her silence meant she would attend the party.
Luke sighed in relief as he closed the bedroom door, shutting out the rest of the world. He had spent yet another full day in meetings with bankers, lawyers, and businessmen. The endless haggling had tired and annoyed him. Not only did he serve on the boards of a railway company and a brewery, but he had reluctantly accepted a directorship at an insurance office.
He disliked the world of finance, preferring the role of gentleman landowner that had been passed down through his family for generations. He was not inspired by stocks and shares. He took satisfaction in plowed fields, growing crops, and a good harvest. But it was no longer possible to survive on agricultural rents alone. For the sake of his tenants as well as his family, he had invested in urban properties, factories, and railway stock, which brought in enough money to allow him to keep the rents low and make improvements on Stokehurst land.
The old gentry had mocked Luke for succumbing to the vulgar mercantile pursuit of wealth, but he had seen their estates shrink, their rent rolls plummet, and their tenants go bankrupt. Society was transforming rapidly, the aristocratic way of life crumbling as industrialists rose to prominence. Many a noble family who had once possessed unthinkable wealth had become penniless, because they wouldn't react to the changes around them. Luke wouldn't let that happen to the people who depended on him. His land would never turn to overgrown weed. And his daughter would never be obliged to marry someone for his wealth. With all that in mind, becoming a businessman—unappealing as it was—seemed a small price to pay.