So Ginny still had not forgiven him for taking their children to Lord Marwood’s house in Devon, but he had no intention of explaining himself again. After all that had gone between them, he’d known he could trust Concepciόn to keep his children safe, whether she hated Ginny or not. Or perhaps because she hated Ginny, it would have given her great satisfaction to withhold her children from her.
He cupped his hand under Ginny’s chin to forestall the question he saw simmering in her eyes. In no mood to field jealous demands, he bent to kiss her. Immediately, she melted into him, her body firm and lithe, her lips half-open beneath his mouth, passionate and demanding.
Christ, he had forgotten for a moment how easily she could arouse him with a kiss, the pressure of her small, firm breasts against him a reminder of what lay beneath her elaborate gown and female underpinnings. Heat surged, the old fires as hot as ever, and as high. If he didn’t back off now, he’d end up causing a true scandal. He broke off the kiss, saw from her swift glance of satisfaction that she was well aware of his reaction and shook his head grimly.
“Go and dance with your cousin, little hellcat. I see him looking for you. I’ll be at your side when we go in to supper.”
Mutiny flashed in her eyes, but she gave an acquiescent shrug. “If you insist. Pierre is too infatuated with the lovely Miss Prendergast, whom you escorted to England, to take much notice of me at the moment, but I’m certain I can find a dance partner without too much trouble. Perhaps even an escort into supper if you do not return.”
“I’m certain you can.” His hand clamped down on her arm in a vise, but he only lifted her hand to his lips, his gaze lazy and mocking. “As long as he’s agreeable about being replaced when I return, there will be no trouble.”
He left her just inside the French doors, where the music was loud and the vast ballroom, with its glittering crystal chandeliers, stuffy and crowded, giving her hand to Pierre Dumont with a meaningful lift of his brow.
Pierre was no fool. He would keep an eye on Ginny to be certain there were no more scandals. There was already too much conjecture, too many whispers floating around London about them, and he hoped his volatile wife remembered that.
3
But Steve needn’t have worried about Ginny.
She was the model of decorum, taking great pains to play the part of doting wife and mother, even while she worried that Steve had resorted to his old ways. If he had—If he had, she would be desolate. The past years had taught her how much she wanted peace in her life, a real family, with husband and children around her, not the tempestuous tumult that she had lived in far too long.
And oddly, even though she was nearly thirty years old now, she felt as if she had just grown up. It was a shocking realization, the knowledge that she had been so selfish and self-absorbed these past years, so caught up in the private struggle with Steve, that she had failed to notice how her own actions were to blame for many of her tragedies.
Not all of them, of course, for she hadn’t chosen to be taken hostage by Steve so long ago, and certainly had not chosen to be taken prisoner by that fat Colonel Devereaux right after marrying Steve. Those events had been thrust upon her. And so had Tom Beal. God! She still shuddered in horror at the memories of his cruelty, and was fiercely glad that she had killed the mercenary. He’d deserved it.
But the girl she had been then had become the woman she was now, more mature, aware of what she wanted finally—Steve, of course.
Steve was the only man she had ever really loved, though she had thought she could forget him with others, thought for a time—with Richard Avery—that she could pretend he never existed. But it was all a lie, for she had not been able to forget Steve even when she’d hated him, even when she had thought him executed in the revolution and her life no longer worth living. Nothing seemed to matter after that: not the men, the gaiety of life in Mexico City, nor when she danced for Emperor Maximilian in Chapultepec.
And Steve had survived after all, had been one of the Juaristas who fought against the French invaders in Mexico, finally driving them out of the country. Steve, a fierce Juarista, alive and hating her then for what he had thought was her betrayal. But she hadn’t allowed him to hate her, had followed him to the small hacienda where Concepciόn waited for him, had fought the Mexican gypsy for him and won the right to wait for his return. After that, Steve had looked at her with new respect, and a wariness that was more revealing than any confessions.
There was the same look in his eyes at times now, as if he were reassessing her. As if they were still in Mexico.
Mexico!
She inhaled sharply, so that Pierre, who had been scanning the crowd for the lovely Lorna Prendergast—the American girl whose father was a friend of Steve’s and his partner, Sam Murdock, and who had accompanied Steve to London with her mother—turned to glance at her with surprise.
“What is the matter, Virginie?”
Quickly, she hid her sudden apprehension, for Pierre would only dismiss her misgivings if she voiced them.
“Nothing. Oh, except that I read this morning in the Times that there is trouble in Mexico between Lerdo and Díaz again. I had thought—hoped—that perhaps we could return soon, so the children can grow up with their heritage.”
“Leave England with the children? What does your husband have to say about that? Now that he is ambassador—a farce in my opinion—isn’t his presence required in London?”
“Oh, Pierre, I am certain that he will not stay here long. When has he ever remained in one place for long? Only Mexico has ever held him for any length of time, and then only because of his grandfather.” She tapped her folded fan lightly against her cousin’s arm, a playful smile on her lips masking the sudden narrowing of her eyes. “But you would know what Steve plans to do, would you not?”
“How would I know? Your husband does not confide in me, Virginie.”
“Does he not? I thought perhaps he spoke to you of his plans—of a possible return to Mexico.”
A flush darkened Pierre’s fair face, and he shook his head. “Do not involve me in your marital discussions, for you know how I feel. My God, you have only been back a month and already you are talking of leaving here!”
“But London is not my home. Pierre, I want to go home again, back to Mexico with my children, where they can grow up in the warm sunshine and life is less complicated.”
“Your life will never be uncomplicated,” he replied bluntly. “You will not allow it. I suppose you intend to take the children and leave if your husband does not agree? Or will you leave them behind again, as you have done far too often in the past?”
For a moment she was silent, stung by his accusation and aware of the truth behind it. Then she said quietly, “I have no intention of trying to take them away from their father, nor do I wish to leave them again. Oh, you may look at me skeptically and I don’t blame you, but it’s the truth. I’m tired of it all, tired of the uncertainty, of not knowing if he loves me or if I will ever see him again. I want a home, Pierre, can you understand that? A home of my own, where I can watch my children grow up and know that my husband will be there at my side. I think that it’s all I have ever wanted, but I never knew it until recently.”
“Then you should tell that to your husband, not to me.”
“Yes. You are right, of course. I fully intend to do just that.”
Pierre’s expression softened and he managed a smile that looked faintly rueful. “Virginie, petite cousine, of course you will do what you must. Forgive me.”
“There is nothing to forgive. Pierre—”
Lorna Prendergast, a spoiled, willful girl much too certain of her youthful beauty, and far too enamored of Steve, chose that moment to appear at Pierre’s elbow, her lovely face set into a mask of polite inquiry. Auburn hair gleamed under the glow of crystalline light, and her tawny eyes were frankly curious and malicious as she greeted Ginny with a smile.
“How generous of Mr. Morgan to allow you to stay with the child
ren for a time,” she said sweetly as she tucked her hand into the crook of Pierre’s arm with a proprietary air, “for I am certain you must have missed them a great deal.”
“Yes, I did. But then, Steve doesn’t want any of us to be parted again.” Ginny lifted a brow, her smile coolly polite as she added, “I would have preferred staying at home with them tonight, but he insisted I accompany him. I’m sure you realize how forceful Steve can be when he’s determined to have his own way.”
Her implication had the desired effect; crimson stains marred the ivory purity of Lorna’s face and her lips twisted as if she had just bitten into a sour lemon. Poor Pierre wore the look of a man struck with a pole. He wavered, his eyes beseeching as he looked from Ginny to Miss Prendergast, but she took no pity on her cousin.
“I am certain Pierre can tell you how difficult a time it has been for our family lately, Miss Prendergast, and how relieved we all are to be together again after so much time apart.”
Lorna’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully, but her smile recovered. She had the air of a woman accustomed to having her every whim granted, for whom a refusal would not be tolerated, and being ignored would be unbearable.
“Yes, there must be much the two of you have to settle between you, especially after the scandalous painting of you that was recently hung in the Royal Academy—or does your husband know about that yet?”
“Your curiosity is misplaced, Miss Prendergast. And quite impertinent. If I thought my cousin susceptible to your self-indulgent charms, I would be greatly concerned.”
Lorna glanced up at Pierre, who looked nearly desperate with discomfort. She tapped him lightly with her folded fan. “Why, Monsieur Dumont, I am grieved that you think of me so little.”
“In truth, Miss Prendergast, you have been all I have thought of since meeting you,” Pierre replied gallantly, and he flicked a warning glance at Ginny as if to demand she not create a scene.
He might well save himself distress, Ginny thought with growing boredom, for she had no intention of being drawn any further into a discussion of Steve Morgan, nor did she desire to remain a witness to Lorna Prendergast’s flirtation with Pierre. There were much more important things to think about than this rather spoiled young woman.
“Excuse me,” she murmured, “I see my aunt is looking for me.”
Before Pierre could protest, Ginny had moved away from them and crossed the ballroom, weaving her way through full skirts of satin and silk, the glitter of jewels and the drone of conversation a familiar background. Snatches of gossip fluttered in the air on wings of suppressed excitement.
“…but my dear, you must know that he was seen in an intimate tête-à-tête with an opera singer…”
“Such a handsome man, but dangerously wicked, don’t you agree, my dear Lady Epson?”
A delicate shudder accompanied the dowager’s gossip, and she leaned forward to say in a loud whisper, “An Italian opera singer—Francesca di Paoli, I believe. She was so enraged by his defection to his wife that she threw an absolute tantrum and promptly began seeing that German duke. I heard that she was to attend this ball tonight, and if she does, what a delicious scene that would be!”
Laughter followed their conjecture, and they both turned to watch as Ginny moved past them on her way to the far end of the ballroom where Tante Celine stood with some of her friends.
Damn Steve, he would abandon her to the gossip of old cats, she fumed as she made polite replies to her aunt’s queries and sipped champagne punch more freely than she should. Why did he always do this?
And the gossip about Francesca di Paoli, his former mistress and a thorn in her side…. Surely she would not be here this evening! Oh, that would be just too much to bear if the haughty Italian diva made an appearance!
“Ginette,” Tante Celine leaned forward to say with a slight frown, “are you unwell?”
Ginny flashed a bright smile to hide her turmoil. “No, no, of course not. Just a bit weary. The twins were quite insistent that I join them on their picnic today, and it began to rain and we had to run back to the pony trap. I hope Laura does not take a chill.”
“I’m certain she will be just fine. She is stronger than she appears, and Franco is such a sturdy child.”
Diverted by the thoughts of her children, Ginny nodded in agreement, her smile growing pensive.
This past month getting to know the twins had been the best days of her life, but though Laura readily accepted her, Franco was more guarded. He was so like Steve, and she thought ruefully that she now knew what Don Francisco had meant when he had said his grandson was a hellion as a child. He must have been, for she saw the same reckless streak in Franco.
Just yesterday he had climbed to the top of one of the huge old trees in the back garden, defying his nurse’s pleas to come down until she came to Ginny in hysterics. It had been terrifying to see the small boy so high, clinging to a thick limb and pretending he was not afraid, stubbornly refusing to come down until Ginny had shrugged carelessly and said that he must be very brave to be so high, but his father would be home soon and he must come down so he could tell him how far he had climbed.
Then she had held her breath as Franco made his way down the tree, limb by limb, until he was on the ground again and the footmen were allowed to put away the ladders that Madame Dupree had summoned. Yes, he was very like Steve, she thought with a mixture of resignation and dismay, just as daring, just as reckless.
As if her thoughts had summoned him, she saw Steve enter the ballroom and pause just inside an arched doorway. His lean build and dark features were achingly familiar, and still had the power to quicken her heartbeat. It was all only a thin veneer, the urbanity he donned as casually as a silk jacket to hide his true nature. And it was that trait women seemed to recognize in him, the air of repressed danger that made Steve Morgan an exciting challenge.
Too often, the eager women who tried to tame him found to their sorrow that he could not be domesticated like some feral cat. But perhaps that was what drew them.
Ginny waited, frowning slightly as she heard the buzz of excited voices escalate and her aunt’s sudden, muffled exclamation.
“What is it, Tante?”
Celine seemed flustered, her eyes anxious, her smile too quick. “Do not react hastily, Ginette!”
“But why should I, Tante?”
Then she saw the reason, and her fingers tightened into a vise around the fragile stem of her wineglass. As the crowd shifted, she saw Francesca di Paoli enter to stand at Steve’s side, a hand on his arm as she leaned close to whisper into his ear.
Diamonds glittered in the Italian singer’s hair and on her earlobes and around her neck, reflecting lamplight in sparkling-hued rainbows. She was slim and very beautiful, with the pale skin of a madonna and classically oval features set off by large, flashing dark eyes and thick masses of glossy, dark-brown hair coiled at the back of her small head. She radiated arrogance and confidence in her appeal to men—especially the man on her arm.
Fury clogged Ginny’s throat and burned her eyes, but she forced herself to remain outwardly calm as she lifted her wineglass and sipped the smoky, brisk wine that did nothing to cool her rising temper.
Garbed in a snowy brocade fitted to her voluptuous curves, di Paoli ignored everyone but Steve, her attention trained on his handsome face. Paco Davis, Steve’s old friend and longtime partner, had told Ginny about her, admitting without words the intimacy of the Italian singer’s relationship with Steve, as if she had not already known it. Hadn’t she seen newspapers touting them as a couple? Yes, and though it had been when she was entangled with Prince Ivan Sahrkanov, she had still been furious with Steve for flaunting the Italian diva so openly.
Apparently, he had not severed their relationship.
How difficult it was to break old habits. Would Steve resist the obvious allure of di Paoli? After all, he had once told her that Francesca was more of a friend to him than anyone had ever been. That taunt had rankled for a long time. It still
did.
Foregoing the temptation to react rashly, Ginny ignored her aunt’s worried glances and instead turned to the dowager at her side, chatting casually as if nothing were amiss.
Behind the flutter of a jewelled fan, the dowager’s eyes sparkled with open curiosity, but her conversation was as mundane as afternoon tea.
“I understand that your husband is from Mexico, is he not, Mrs. Morgan?”
“Yes, he is.”
“Odd, he certainly doesn’t look very Mexican, though he is rather dark complected. All that bright sunshine in Mexico, I would think. It is hot there, I understand.”
“Yes, it is very sunny in Mexico, and warm. And my husband is only half-Mexican. His father was American.”
“Ah, I see,” the dowager commented, and her shrewd eyes shifted to the little group dominated by Steve and Francesca that stood by the portico. “Do you attend the opera often, Mrs. Morgan?”
“Only with my husband, Lady Wooddale.” The old cat! She knew very well the rumors that were running amok about Steve and the opera singer! It was time to defuse them. Her smile was mechanical and polite. “Please excuse me.”
Gliding through the crowd that seemed to magically part for her, Ginny approached the little group by the open door of the portico. Steve saw her first, his blue eyes crinkled the smallest bit in amusement as she held his gaze, her chin up in customary defiance.
This was familiar footing, this cat-and-mouse game they had always played with one another, much more comfortable than the awkward courtesy of careful reacquaintance.
“Mrs. Morgan,” Lord Grayson said when she reached their group, “it is an honor to have you join us.”
Though she murmured a polite reply to the baronet, her gaze held Steve’s eyes with relentless tenacity. She would not allow anyone to intimidate or ignore her ever again, she vowed silently, and finally shifted her attention to the woman on Steve’s arm.
Francesca di Paoli watched her with dark eyes that burned like banked coals, not attempting to hide her disdain for the wife of her former lover.
Savage Desire Page 3
