What Wild Moonlight

by Lynne, Victoria

  The mosaic showed three mermaids sitting on a cluster of jagged rocks. Towering waves crashed on the rough shore around them, sending flecks of white foam over the ghostlike hulls of ships that had been driven ashore. A full moon hung in the sky, sending silvery beams dancing over the eerie landscape. The mermaids leaned forward, their eyes wide and imploring as they beckoned to a tall, three-masted ship that sailed in the distance. The captain of the ship stood at the helm, his gaze riveted on the mermaids. The ship’s wheel was clutched tightly in his hands. His expression was one of pure anguish, torn by the conflicting emotions of terror and desire. In response to the changing light in the room, the scene seemed to shimmer and pulsate with emotion, as though the mosaic were a living, breathing work of art.

  Katya moved toward the mural, entirely captivated. After a long moment she drew back, giving an embarrassed laugh as she realized she had allowed herself to become totally absorbed in the artwork. “It’s lovely,” she said.

  “Are you familiar with the legend of the Sirens?” he asked. “They were notorious for singing to passing ships and luring them in to wreck on the rocky shores. Apparently their song was so beautiful that the mere sound of it would drive men mad with lust.”

  She shot him sardonic smile. “That has always struck me as a rather one-sided, male interpretation of the story. Perhaps the Sirens weren’t trying to lure men to their deaths at all, but simply attempting to warn passing ships of the danger of the rocky shore. Perhaps they were entirely unaware of their own powers—or their effect on men.”

  Nicholas arched one brow. “Given that they were women, I find that highly implausible In either case,” he continued dryly, “their beauty was the men’s downfall, was it not?”

  “The men’s own weakness was their downfall,” she countered. “They should have had the strength to resist the Sirens’ call.”

  He took a step closer to her and ran his finger along the length of her collarbone. “Have you never succumbed to the urge to surrender?”

  She nervously licked her lips. “From what I’ve seen, total surrender of one’s soul—whatever the reason—brings nothing but disastrous results. I much prefer the quiet dignity of resisting temptation.”

  “Sometimes there’s far more to be gained in surrender than there is in shallow resistance.”

  She tilted her chin to meet his gaze, her beautiful lavender eyes filled with a look of heady sensual awareness. “What makes you think my resistance is shallow?” Before he could close the gap between them, she took a step backward and moved just out of his reach.

  He studied her for a long moment in silence, then asked, “Do you see the fish along the bottom of the mosaic? At first I didn’t notice them at all, then one day they seemed to jump out at me. The seaman is heading toward certain death, the mermaids are sheer fantasy, but the fish are real, darting in and out of the shadows and skimming below the surface. Like you, Katya. So elusive. Always skirting away just when I think I have you in my grasp.”

  She sent him a nervous, awkward smile. “I’m sure you didn’t call me in here just to tell me that I remind you of a fish.”

  “No, I didn’t,” he agreed. Reluctantly turning his attention away from the mosaic, he moved to his desk and opened a drawer. He retrieved a rectangular case covered in rich black velvet and passed it to Katya. “We’ll be attending a gala at the casino tonight. I thought you might like to wear these.”

  She quietly searched his gaze, then turned her attention to the case. She opened the lid and peered inside. Although her expression didn’t change, Nicholas knew well what she had found. Within the velvet case was a stunningly intricate necklace of glistening, square-cut diamonds encircled by shimmering rubies. A pair of matching diamond and ruby earrings completed the set.

  “Very impressive,” she said. “I take it these are not one of the ‘lesser pieces.’”

  “No, they’re not. As a matter of fact, that little box you’re holding in your hands happens to be worth more than the entire contents of my London estate.”

  “I see.” She closed the case and drummed her fingers pensively against the lid. “Is this really necessary?” she asked after a minute.

  “What do you mean?”

  “The jewelry. Why take the risk that something might happen to it? What if the clasp breaks, or a stone comes loose, or I were to run away tonight and flee the country with your priceless jewels?”

  “I trust you.” He waited a beat, then continued smoothly, “And they’re insured.”

  “Very flattering.”

  He lifted his shoulders in a light shrug. “What would you have me say? Society demands it. The more ostentatious the jewelry, the more readily one is accepted into the inner circles. A man’s wealth is displayed not only by his coaches, horseflesh, and estates, but by the quality of the glittering trinkets worn by his wife and mistress. I suppose it’s a primitive way of marking one’s conquests.”

  “Primitive, indeed.”

  Noting her displeased frown, he asked, “Why do you assume I mean to imply that I have conquered you? The jewelry could also be interpreted as a sign that you have conquered me.”

  “I suppose that’s true,” she murmured. She thought for a moment, then announced in the regal tone of a queen bestowing a favor upon a lesser mortal, “Very well. I shall wear your jewelry.”

  “You do me great honor,” he replied, biting back a smile. Most women he knew would have given their right arms for such an opportunity.

  “So what is the occasion for this grand event we are to attend?” she asked.

  “It’s a private affair hosted by Monsieur LeBlanc. The casino is donating all of tonight’s gambling proceeds to various local charities.”

  “I see.”

  “Are you adept at gambling?”

  She shrugged. “I have a passing knowledge of how games of chance are played.”

  “Indeed?” He leaned one broad shoulder against the mahogany bedpost, regarding her curiously. “Can you tell me how to win?”

  “Not how to win, precisely, but I can tell you how not to lose.”

  “Oh?”

  She arched one delicate brow in an expression of mocking superiority. “Don’t play.”

  He smiled. “Unfortunately, little gypsy, that’s exactly the kind of advice I never take.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Marco DuValenti has wrapped me in his spell. I have forgotten what my life was like before I met him. He has tangled my reason and my dreams, choking away all thoughts but those of him. He is like a wild vine spiraling around the trunk of a tree, twisting tighter and tighter until nothing else survives. I am beginning to understand the danger that others warned me of, but it is too late to change my course now. Something in him lures me closer and closer. I feel alive, more alive than I have ever felt in my life. When he touches me it is as though

  There Sacha Rosskaya’s diary ended abruptly.

  Katya shuffled through the pile of ancient papers in her lap looking for more, but they were too jumbled for her to find any semblance of order. As the documents had been passed down through the generations, the thick stack had become hopelessly mixed and mismatched. Records of births and deaths, crop figures, household inventories, religious passages, political agendas, and medicinal folklore were all bundled together under the heading of Sacha’s diary.

  She let out a sigh. It would take hours more of scouring through the brittle parchment pieces to find another clue from the diary. Another time, she might have been content to spend days poring through the documents. But now she felt pressed by an overwhelming sense of urgency to find the answers she sought in the ancient text.

  Katya couldn’t help but feel that she and Sacha were following a parallel course. Both she and her ancestor had been warned away, yet they were pulled toward the DuValenti men as though a magnetic force were tugging them toward their fate. Even with the knowledge Katya possessed, she seemed determined to repeat the mistakes made by Sacha. Were the DuValentis really
as evil as legend made them out to be? Was there some sort of fatal weakness in the Rosskaya women? Or had something else gone awry between their families, something that had led to the centuries-old feud?

  The questions reverberated through her head as she gathered the ancient parchment pieces and put them away. She crossed the room and paused before a tall looking glass, studying her reflection. The eyes that stared back at her were glowing, her skin was flushed. She had been drawn to a gown she had never worn before, one she had never even particularly liked. But for some reason it seemed to call out to her and so she had followed her instinct and donned it.

  The gown was made of deep crimson satin, and so brazen it was almost theatrical, unlike the demure gowns she normally preferred. It was sleeveless, and designed with a deep, square neckline that served to frame a generous expanse of the soft, creamy skin of her breasts. The fabric was drawn in tightly at her waist, then gathered in tiny pleats that caused the satin to drape around her hips, swaying softly as she moved. A garland of rich, hand-stitched black embroidery framed the neckline and hem of her skirt. She had completed the ensemble with high-heeled black kid slippers and matching black elbow-length gloves. Her hair was piled high on her head in a dramatic pompadour and adorned with one crimson ostrich feather. A few ebony curls spiraled around the nape of her neck, softening the overall effect.

  Katya took this in, then her eyes moved to the jewels Nicholas had lent her. They felt heavy around her neck, outlandishly conspicuous. The diamonds shimmered in the soft evening light, the rubies seemed to glow as though lit from within. What had he said? A primitive way of marking one’s conquests. Strangely enough, she did feel marked as Nicholas Duvall’s. A sense of reckless anticipation flowed through her veins; her skin felt quivery and alive where his jewels touched her throat, as though he were touching her himself.

  A small, embarrassed smile curved her lips at that fanciful thought. So much for the rational, analytical Katya.

  A clock chimed nine. She took a deep breath to steady her nerves, then picked up the small black-and-crimson reticule that matched her gown. She left her room and followed the sound of murmuring voices to the informal parlor. There she found Nicholas deep in conversation with the Comtesse. Although she hadn’t said a word, the soft rustle of her gown gave away her presence, for they both turned immediately toward her.

  Her gaze went directly to Nicholas. He studied her in speechless silence, a look of shocked, almost frozen surprise carved on his features. Katya stood unmoving as embarrassment coursed through her. Judging from his look, her attire was entirely inappropriate. But before she could react, Nicholas rose to his feet and moved toward her.

  “You look beautiful, Katya,” he said, in a tone of such smooth sincerity that she wondered if she had completely misinterpreted his expression.

  He was dressed in black, save for the crisp white linen shirt. The severe lines of his tailored clothing suited him well, she thought. He looked elegant and incredibly handsome. The only ornamentation he wore was a tiny ruby that twinkled from deep within the precise folds of his cravat. His dark hair was slightly damp and the fresh scent of soap clung to his skin, adding to his air of rugged sensuality. As her gaze moved briefly over his form she remembered the lean, hard feel of his body. Unlike most men, Nicholas Duvall needed no padding in his jacket, no lift in his boots. The Lord of Barrington was a mass of solid muscle and pure masculine power. The air seemed to shimmer between them. It was one thing to think about Nicholas Duvall in the abstract, Katya realized, to tell herself that she wasn’t the least bit attracted to him and that she could easily betray his trust. But it was quite another thing to stand so close and deny that attraction.

  Once, she had witnessed a fellow performer hypnotize a member of his audience. At the time, Katya had thought it was merely a trick. But now she wondered. For as she gazed into Nicholas’s coal-black eyes, she felt as though she had fallen completely under his spell.

  He raised his hand and brushed his fingers softly along the base of her throat, lightly touching the glittering diamond-and-ruby necklace she wore. “I was curious to see what heat would do to your skin,” he said, his voice low and husky. “Now I know. Fire becomes you, little gypsy.”

  Before she could reply, the Comtesse lifted her lorgnette and studied her critically. “Very suitable, indeed, Miss Alexander,” she intoned.

  Katya forced her attention away from Nicholas. It occurred to her to wonder if the Comtesse had ever spoken to Nicholas about their conversation, but somehow she doubted it. A subtle air of quiet female conspiracy seemed to hover about the older woman.

  “Do you have a wrap?” Nicholas asked.

  She nodded and passed him a black lace shawl. As he settled it around her shoulders his fingers brushed lightly against her skin, causing a quivering tremor to race down her spine. Determined not to show the effect his touch had on her, she schooled her features into what she hoped would pass for an expression of cool poise. “Thank you,” she murmured.

  “If you’re ready, the coach is waiting.”

  “Certainly.”

  They said their good-byes to the Comtesse, then Nicholas took her elbow and ushered her through the villa to their coach. Once they had assumed their seats the groomsmen urged the team out. They began the descent down the steep road of the Moneghetti, moving toward the soft glow of glittering gaslights that beckoned from the principality beneath them. Katya leaned back against the plush leather seat, listening to the steady clip-clop of the horses’ hooves, the rhythmic crunch of gravel beneath the coach’s wheels, and the occasional creak of the springs.

  In the silence that surrounded them, she turned her attention to Nicholas. As they passed the thick outcropping of jagged, white-capped rocks that she had noted before, she saw his gaze linger there. “Burdened,” the Comtesse had said. Perhaps that was the best way to describe the look of private pain and inner turmoil that marked his rugged features. As they moved past the rocks he refocused his attention on her, as though suddenly realizing he had abdicated his responsibilities as host.

  “The gown is an interesting choice,” he said.

  “You don’t like it.”

  “Actually, it’s quite perfect for this evening.” His gaze moved slowly over her form. “But it seems rather unlike you. What made you select it?”

  “The rubies, I suppose,” she replied with a light shrug, uncertain how to interpret his mood or his comments. She studied his face within the shadowy confines of the moonlight that spilled in through the windows. “Both you and the Comtesse had such an odd reaction to my appearance. Why?”

  He waited a moment, as though resolving an internal debate before answering. Finally he replied, “For an instant when you entered the parlor, your resemblance to Allyson Whitney was striking. I’d never noticed the similarity before. Perhaps it was the way you stood, the way you had done your hair, or simply the gown you’re wearing. The last time I was with Allyson she wore something nearly identical to it.”

  His unexpected reply released insecurities Katya had never known she possessed. The fact that Nicholas might be attracted to her because of her resemblance to his former mistress was profoundly distasteful, yet it carried an undeniable ring of truth.

  “Is that what drew you to me, my resemblance to Allyson?” she asked, amazed at how cool and steady her voice sounded.

  “At the time, if you recall, I was far more impressed by your amazing deftness with Lady Stanton’s handbag than by your peerless beauty. Much to my embarrassment, it was only later that I came to appreciate your more delicate charms.”

  Her dissatisfaction with his answer must have shown on her face. “I hope you don’t think me so shallow or needy that I would try to relive a failed love affair by recasting the players,” he said. “Even if I were to attempt it, you are not the woman I would cast as Allyson Whitney—however superficial the resemblance. You have far too much substance for so negligible a role.”

  “I see.”

 
As though sensing her lingering doubt, Nicholas continued smoothly, “Whatever occurs between you and me, Katya, is solely of our own making. There is nothing else—past or present—that need concern us.”

  Unfortunately that wasn’t true, and therein lay the heart of the problem. They had centuries of history between them, beginning with Sacha Rosskaya and Marco DuValenti. In light of that, her worries seemed hopelessly trivial. Even if he was attracted to her because of her resemblance to his former mistress, was she not guilty of a greater deceit? She had agreed to act the part of his mistress in order to steal the scroll out from under him. If complications ensued because of her lies and deception, were they not entirely of her own making?

  Rather than attempt to sort out her tangled thoughts and emotions, she turned her mind to the one element that had initially brought them together. “I presume we are making an appearance tonight in order to continue our search for the scroll,” she said. “Whom in particular would you like for me to target?”

  If he was at all surprised by her abrupt change of topic, it didn’t show. “True,” he agreed, and commenced to list a number of dukes, viscounts, and earls to whom she might attach herself should the opportunity arise.

  Why was it so hard for her to remember that he viewed her as nothing more than a sleight-of-hand artist he had hired as a means to an end? Unable to meet his eyes, she averted her gaze, her focus intent on adjusting the lace on the hem of her gloves. Fortunately the coach rolled to a smooth and timely stop in front of the casino, sparing her the need for further conversation. Nicholas stepped out of the vehicle and politely offered his hand, helping her disembark. Glancing around, Katya saw that the Grand Casino was rife with visitors. She wasn’t surprised. The exclusivity of the event served to draw far greater numbers than would normally be on hand.