Heart of the Tiger

by Lynn Kerstan

  She could not seduce him, never gave thought to trying. This would be a negotiation, like the one that preceded the marriage, except that on this occasion, only she had anything to lose.

  No. She had everything to lose. Even so, she rehearsed none of what she would say, nor did she dare to imagine what would follow. If she kept thinking about it, she would almost certainly fail.

  Firelight gleamed off the gold bands on her forefinger and her little finger—twin promises she’d yet to keep—and she thought of how he had looked at her when he placed them there. For his sake, whatever the cost, she must do this.

  The short walk through the sitting room that lay between their bedchambers felt like a hundred miles. Her palms and forehead were damp, her knees shook, her mouth was dry as ashes. He had returned late, she knew, gone directly to his rooms, and ordered a supper tray. That was two hours ago. Perhaps he was asleep. Probably he was drunk.

  The door loomed before her like the portal to the underworld. Now her heart was jumping in her chest like a March hare. She reached for the brass knob, wondered for the first time if the door was locked, decided she ought to be polite and knock.

  No response.

  Then she wondered if he might have a woman in there with him. One of the maids, perhaps. She’d seen how some of them looked at him. Or the mistress she’d told him he should acquire. She hadn’t thought he might bring his mistress to the house, but it was, after all, his house. She knocked again, a trifle louder, her courage sifting away with appalling speed.

  Before it entirely disappeared, she grasped the knob and turned it. The door swung open.

  Beyond it, she could see almost nothing. Her gaze went to the orange-red coals in the fireplace to her right. She moved inside. Shivered. It was like stepping into an icehouse.

  She blinked as her eyes adjusted to the darkness. The outlines of furniture took shape before her. Atop a three-staged platform in the center of the room rose an enormous canopied bed. Along the wall to her left she saw tall armoires, what looked to be stands of drawers, and side tables. Heavy oak and mahogany furniture from a bygone era, if it was anything like the furnishings in her own bedchamber.

  What was missing, in this room where she’d never been, was her husband.

  She sensed him, though, and followed the vibration inside, directly to the bed. It was empty. So she went around it, and saw at the far end of the long, long room, a shaft of light pouring in through a pair of open French windows. On either side, curtains billowed in the midnight breeze.

  She felt like an iceberg sailing across the great North Sea. But she had come this far, and her goal, her last and enduring goal, waited for her on a small balcony, facing into the night, head lifted to the sky. The full moon lit his bare, scarred back and wide shoulders. Loose white muslin trousers, tied with a drawstring, hung low on his narrow hips. On the marble railing, a glass of brandy glowed like an amber coal.

  At the sound of her slippers brushing over the carpet he stiffened, the muscles in his back bunching like fists. He didn’t look around.

  She moved to him, took her place beside him. His chest and arms, sprinkled with curling black hair, were silvered bronze. His breath fluttered like gauze in the winter air.

  “I love the moon,” he said quietly, as if they’d been standing together for a long time. “It’s so alone, hanging there between the earth and the stars, wondering which direction to go. Some nights it comes to earth, round and full, and I want jump on it and ride it back to the stars.”

  His deep voice, achingly gentle, pulled at her until she surged like the moon-snared tide. In that one turbulent moment, drawn to his shining, tempting sky, she almost broke free to go with him. But another night, moonless and cold, was less gentle than his soft voice, its terrors more real than his call to star flight.

  She was rooted in the frozen ground, in her guilt, in the duty she owed to a future she had not expected to have. “I’ve been thinking,” she said.

  “I’m afraid to ask.” A touch of self-mocking humor in his voice. “What will it cost me?”

  Straight to the point, as always. Well, she was a Keynes now, at least by name. She threw him back a Keynes answer. “The rest of your life.”

  “You’ve got greedy, Duchess. And you must be cold. Come inside and I’ll build up the fire.”

  She looked up at the moon, at the star-spun sky, and thought it might be easier here, where the cold of her skin matched her cold heart. “I’m well enough,” she said. “And it’s too beautiful a night to walk away from.”

  “Then wait a moment.”

  He was gone only a short time and returned wearing a black silk banyan loosely belted at the waist. He’d brought a velvet dressing gown, also black, and helped her slip her arms into the sleeves. The heavy fabric enveloped her, the sleeves dangling well beyond her hands, the folds of velvet pooling around her feet. He was smiling a little as he wrapped the woven tie twice around her waist and secured it in front with a little bow.

  “If you stand on the hem,” he said, “your feet will keep warm.”

  She did so, and then it felt as if he entirely enveloped her, as if his body and not his robe were wrapped around her. He adjusted the collar, rolling it to protect her neck from the cold, and stepped away. “Now then. What’s this about?”

  She should have rehearsed. It was all so clear in her mind, but she could not think how to begin. “The f-future,” she began. “With what we need to do.”

  Silence. He picked up his glass, examined its contents. “Are we back to the divorce?”

  “No. Well, not yet. It isn’t what I want.”

  His gaze flicked over to her. “What, then?”

  “I want us to build something, to create something good and productive and enduring. You must admit, sir, that we have, the both of us, spent the better part of our lives seeking destruction. We were avengers, and no matter how right it was that Beast Keynes be prevented from doing more harm, we have let him rule us.”

  “Not precisely rule, but yes, I was committed to bringing him down. It was necessary. My real crime was not killing him years earlier.”

  “That’s as may be. I feel much the same. But we must contrive to escape the hold he has on us, and the prison, if you will, of what occurred in the past. It has had me in its grip for nearly half my life, and when I was not plotting a fanciful revenge, I was hiding myself behind my father. I would still be hiding, had you not compelled me to marry you. But everything has changed now, and I must change with it.”

  “Into what, Duchess?”

  “Into precisely that. A duchess. The murder, the marriage, all happened so quickly I never truly considered what I had landed into. Then, at Beata’s party, when Lord Gretton asked when you would make your first speech in the Lords, and what subject you would address, I thought I’d choke. You are to be part of the government!”

  “Not if I can help it. And if I make a speech, my first and last, I can say only that it will be short. You are taking this all too seriously. The government wants no part of me, I assure you.”

  “We can discuss that later.” She had let herself wander afield, trying to impress him with how impressive he was and could be. “I have been useless and a coward. You have been neither, but you are the last male—Helena Pryce told me this—of your family, and because your four predecessors squandered all that the earlier generations had built, it now falls to you to restore the Keynes legacy. It is no small thing to be a duke, sir. There are responsibilities, to the land and to its residents. To the country itself.”

  “Do you think I have not considered that? What else have I been doing these last weeks?”

  “What you always do. Setting short-term goals and achieving them. But what happens when the land is profitable and the servants and tenants are thriving? What will you do with yourself then?”

 
; He sliced her an unamused grin. “I’ve a feeling you are about to tell me.”

  “That’s what I’ve been trying to do. Except it has sounded like a lecture, when I know very well that you will see your duty and fulfill it.” Her hands were tightly clenched. “The question is, am I able to fulfill mine? I don’t know the answer. In small ways, I have been testing myself, and sometimes I have succeeded. I believe I can learn to manage your household, here and in London. You have made me unafraid to exhibit myself in society. I am not confounded by our notoriety, or my insignificant birth, or my voice, or my hands.”

  “You shouldn’t be. But you look as if you’re about to shoot off sparks like a fireworks display. What does confound you?”

  Here it was, then. No more distractions and evasions. She took a deep breath of frosty air. “I do not know,” she said, “if I can be a true wife to you.”

  “We’ve covered this ground. You said it was likely you could not bear a child, and I told you I care nothing about producing an heir.”

  “You should. You must. I—”

  He gripped her shoulders, not ungently, and looked steadily into her eyes. “Get this straight. I understand about your . . . accident, and that you may have been damaged. But many perfectly healthy men and women fail to have children. Nor are there any guarantees about providing an heir to the title. My brother sired only females. It’s a gamble, Duchess, for every man and wife, a gamble I’m more than willing to take with you.”

  “But—”

  The fingers tightened. “If you’re about to insist I replace you if you fail to breed, don’t. We are not livestock. On those grounds, I will not give you a divorce.”

  “Very well. It would be an offense, I suppose, to second-guess the Creator. But that’s not the same as my fears getting in the way of tossing the coin at all.”

  His hands slid from her shoulders, fell to his sides. “I’m sorry. I ought not to have touched you.”

  “Of course you ought. I made with you a devil’s bargain, one I had no right to demand. And I wish to rescind it, except that I’m not at all sure I can. We may never have a child, Your Grace, but the reason cannot be my unwillingness to come to your bed. I am here, now, to tell you that I wish to try, and that I may fail unpleasantly, and that if I do, I am willing to keep trying until I am sure that . . . that it is . . . hopeless.”

  Her voice had all but vanished at the last words. She felt soul-naked before him, offering herself like some sort of unwilling sacrificial lamb with sharp teeth and fast legs.

  And he was no help. His jaw tight, he stared at her from those wolfish eyes, tormented and repelled. It was no good. She should have known his pride would not allow him to bed her on such conditions as these. She had offered herself as a martyr, to establish a dynasty he did not want.

  Why had she thought this a good idea? That her goal encompassed his happiness, when clearly it only brought him to anger and pain? Taking hold of the long dressing gown, she disentangled her feet and fled.

  Michael, frozen in place, felt the emptiness where she had been. It seemed a long time before he could bring himself to move, but when he went into his bedchamber, she had only just reached the far end of the room. Along the way she had discarded his dressing gown, and now she glowed like a specter, her white gown edged with orange light from the dying fire as she swept toward the door that would take her away from him.

  Perhaps forever.

  She had offered herself. And he had nearly refused, because what she offered him was not what he wanted. As if it mattered what he received from her.

  For those few moments, he’d forgot there was nothing he would not give her.

  “Mira.” He started after her. “Don’t go.”

  Her hand, reaching for the doorknob, lowered to her side, She stood for a time, head bowed, and finally turned to face him. He was only a few feet from her by then, unsure if he ought to draw closer, no idea in his head what he should do next.

  “I’ve disappointed you,” she said. “Or angered you. I didn’t mean to.”

  “You took me by surprise, is all. I didn’t handle it well.”

  “I was surprised, too. I had been given to believe that males always wanted—” She made a helpless gesture. “You know what I mean. You told me yourself that if we were enclosed in a room together, and if I removed my clothing, that you would—” Another gesture. “So you see, I thought you would be pleased.”

  A hundred ways to twist the knife, and she was mistress of them all. “Of course,” he said, finding a smile for her. “But not if it means hurting you.”

  “Oh, I don’t mind.” Her eyes, earnest and pleading, turned the blade yet again. “Pain is no great thing. And you probably won’t. After the . . . my accident, I am not, in the traditional sense, precisely a virgin.”

  “But you fear what is to occur. You fear me. It is too soon. Perhaps after more time has passed, it will not be so difficult for you.”

  “Time will only make it worse. Truly. Since deciding I must bring myself to do this, every minute has stretched to an hour, every hour to a week. This morning I finally resolved to approach you, and it has been the longest day in history. Longer than the day in which God created all the animals.”

  More and more encouraging. He began to think he would not leave this room with a shred of male pride.

  And because he was weak and selfish, he stole for himself one moment, made one small gesture of his love for her. Raising his right hand to her cheek, he stroked it gently, with lingering fingertips. “As you wish, Duchess. All will be as you wish.”

  The relief in her eyes, although it did not banish the fear, heartened him. “I wish it to be swift,” she said in a breathless rush of her own. “And because I do not know how I shall deal with it, or how I might react, I should prefer not to be concerned for you as well.”

  “You needn’t be.”

  “What I mean,” she said, her face red as strawberries, “is that this should be as impersonal an event as possible. Nothing . . . intimate. Nothing fancy. Nothing extra.”

  “I take your point,” he said finally, through a screen of pain that all but blinded him. “But unless your body is prepared to accept mine, you will be hurt. And I cannot do that. You must let me guide you, to a degree, in how we proceed.”

  “Yes. Well, I suppose you are the expert. What must I do first, then? Shall I remove my dressing gown? My night rail?”

  Clearly the thought of doing so horrified her. “That depends. What are you wearing underneath them?”

  “N-nothing.”

  “Then leave them on, at least the night thing, if you prefer. And let us spend a little time together, without touching, until you feel more at ease.”

  “In bed?” Her lower lip trembled.

  “Or on it. You go make yourself comfortable there. I’m going to pour myself a drink.”

  He was on his way to reclaim his glass from the balcony when she caught up with him. “I’d like one as well, if you please. Perhaps it will help.”

  She left him off at the bed, and when he’d got his glass and started for the sideboard, he paused to watch her climb the three steps up to the platform like a maiden on her way to the guillotine. Dear God, how was he to manage this? He understood, too well, that for her this was a sexual gauntlet she must run again and again until she’d proven to herself she could endure his touch, his body inside her body.

  What if she could not?

  He lifted the decanter, spilled brandy on the carpet, managed to fill the glass. Took his time, to let her settle, and when her back was to him, untied the drawstring and slipped out of his muslin trousers. He was already barefoot, and the banyon covered what she most feared.

  What if he could not?

  Given that he’d desired her from the moment he first saw her, it seemed impossible th
at he would be unable to claim what had consumed his imagination for so long. But, not to stroke her. Tantalize her. Rouse her desire. Not to kiss her. Simply to enter her and leave her as quickly as he could. A man expiring of thirst in a desert, with only the mirage of a fountain to save him.

  “It is the way of nature,” Hari had told him. “The tigress calls when it is time, and her mate responds because he must.”

  He swallowed half the brandy and topped off the glass again before slogging toward the bed. Even from a distance he could see she had nested there, stacking pillows against the headboard for him, cocooning herself in a cave of sheets and blankets. She was sitting upright, cross-legged, her white face peering out from the veil of covers draped over her head like the embroidered mantle she’d worn the night of their marriage. She looked small and frightened and heartbreakingly brave.

  “It turns out I have three decanters, but only one glass,” he said, slipping his hairy legs between the sheets at a distance from her and resting his back against the pillows. “We’ll have to share.”

  She took the glass from his hand, sniffed at it, wrinkled her nose, and like a child taking medicine, managed a quick swallow. Her eyes widened. Her lips pursed. “Oh, my. That’s awful.”

  “You wouldn’t say that if you knew what it cost. Prime cognac, Duchess. I admit, it’s an acquired taste.”

  “But why would anyone wish to acquire a taste for something that tastes bad, when there are so many things that taste wonderful right from the start? Lemonade. Champagne. Especially champagne.” She gave him back the glass. “What an odd sensation, though. As if it got heated up on the way to my stomach.”

  “One of its better effects.” He could think of nothing to say to her. He didn’t know where to look. Not at her, a shadowy figure in her hideaway save for the wisps of hair and the wide eyes illuminated by the distant moon. It hurt too much to look at her. Perhaps she had the right idea. Perhaps he should lay her down under him and get it over with. He took another drink, felt the glass being lifted from his hand. Heard a little choking sound.