Teresa Medeiros

by Once an Angel

  Cries of alarm rang out as she threw both arms in the air and shot down the polished banister like a ruffled cannonball. At the last possible second Justin stepped out of the way.

  She crashed in a disgruntled heap, her dress sprawled all the way up to the little pink rosettes on her garters. When both his mother and the footman started forward, Justin waved them back.

  Emily glared up at him through the curl flopped over her eyes. “You might have caught me.”

  He bit the inside of his cheek, afraid to do so much as smile. “You might have descended the staircase in a more conventional manner.”

  Groaning, she rubbed her bottom with both hands. Justin swallowed an offer of assistance. It was only too easy to remember the feel of her plush rear cupped in his palms.

  “Perhaps you should reconsider that bustle,” he said coolly, offering her a hand.

  “Perhaps they shouldn’t wax the banister quite so often. I thought I was going to sail clear across the Channel to Paris.”

  He pulled her to her feet. He had forgotten how fragile her small, warm hand felt in his own. He jerked his own hand away as if she had scorched him. “Breakfast is waiting for you in the dining room. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have business to attend to.” He gave her a crisp bow and fled toward the study.

  His mother’s chiding tones rang after him. “I don’t know what’s gotten into that boy. You’d have thought I never taught him any manners at all.”

  Justin was spared Emily’s murmured reply by the hastily erected barrier of the study door. He strode through the dusty gloom to the towering secrétaire and slammed open one of the doors. The glass panes rattled. Curse the girl! He would be damned if she would blunder into his life and create utter chaos yet again. Eyeing his father’s well-aged Scotch with distaste, he pulled out the rum bottle he had stashed behind a leather-bound edition of The Pickwick Papers and uncorked it. Tipping it all the way back, he took a deep swig.

  An image rose unbidden to his mind—Emily sailing off the banister and drifting across the English Channel, her starched petticoats swollen like the skin of a hot-air balloon.

  He choked, spewing rum. Tears stung his eyes and seared his nostrils. He sank into a chair and clutched his aching sides as the laughter he’d been holding back rolled out in silent waves.

  Justin spent the morning barricaded in the study, refusing to even look up from the Winthrop Shipping reports until Penfeld interrupted him for tea and sandwiches.

  He took a sip of tea, then frowned. A frilly object was curled at the bottom of the cup. He crooked his pinkie and fished it out. Tea dripped from dainty pink rosettes.

  “Penfeld,” he said, pulling off his spectacles and glowering at the valet from beneath his brows. “May I ask what this is?”

  Penfeld looked up from cutting the sandwiches into flawless squares. A flush blistered his cheeks. “Good Lord, sir. I believe it’s a woman’s garter.”

  “Would you care to explain how it got into my tea?”

  “I haven’t a clue.” Penfeld lifted the lid off the teapot and peeped into it as if afraid an entire trousseau of women’s underwear might leap out at him.

  A timid knock sounded on the door.

  “Come in,” Justin barked.

  A gardener crept in, holding a rake at arm’s length with such trepidation that Justin expected to see a snake twirled around its prongs. It was not a serpent, but a rumpled crinoline that dangled in his face. “Sorry to trouble ye, master, but I found this stuffed into one of the flower pots in the shed. Shall I burn it?”

  Justin’s face was grim as he plucked the crinoline off the rake. “No, Will. I’ll take care of it.”

  Breathing a sigh of relief to be rid of the offensive thing, the gardener left. Justin smoothed the rich linen over his palms. The pure, sweet fragrance of vanilla wafted to his nostrils.

  He shook his head ruefully. “If Emily keeps shedding garments at this alarming rate, she’ll be naked by nightfall.” Groaning at his own words, he dropped his face into the soft folds of the garment. “Where is she?” he growled.

  They found Emily wandering the gilt cavern of the ballroom, her hands tucked at the small of her back. A sparkling wall of French doors fronted the long room. Justin hovered behind the translucent panel of a lace curtain, his hunger to watch her smothering his flare of guilt for spying on her so blatantly.

  “Looks a bit out of pocket, doesn’t she?” Penfeld said.

  Justin gave a noncommittal grunt. She did look tiny beneath the vaulted ceiling. How did she feel in this strange house, surrounded by strangers? he wondered. He remembered how desolate his own childhood had been. The enormous house had seemed a maze of endless doors, dusty corners, and gloomy attics. Every table and chair had rested on carved talons or claws, and he’d been half afraid to sit for fear they’d lurch into motion and carry him off. His mother and sisters had whispered their own language while his father remained safely cordoned behind the unrelenting oak of his study door. Just as he had done today.

  “She might be bored, sir. Perhaps if you spent some time with her …?”

  Justin dug his fingers into the curtain, unable to hide his horror at that suggestion. He didn’t trust himself enough to eat breakfast with her. How long would it take before he reached over to correct a wayward curl? Smooth a puckered ruffle? Lick the sugary muffin crumbs from her lips?

  As they watched, Emily stood on tiptoe to run her curious fingers over the medallioned wall. Without the crinoline her skirt clung to the curve of her hips. He almost grinned to see her bare toes peeping out from beneath it. Gracie would be fortunate not to find one of her slippers floating in the soup tonight.

  She cast the double doors at the end of the ballroom a furtive glance. What was she going to do now? Justin wondered. Peel off her dress and frolic like a wanton nymph beneath the gasoliers? His throat tightened.

  Emily flung out her arms and spun around. The dimity skirt ballooned around her ankles. She danced in silence, but Justin heard another melody, marked by the stamp of Maori feet, beguiling in its wailing simplicity. He wanted to march in there and take her in his arms. To sweep her around the room until the swells and hollows of their bodies made music like the bow and strings of a finely tuned violin.

  Groaning back his despair, he caught Penfeld by his starched lapels and shoved him against the nearest wall. An Oriental vase rattled in protest. “Take her, Penfeld. Take her out for the afternoon. She’s your charge. Amuse her.”

  “B-b-but, sir,” the valet sputtered. “I fear I’m not very amusing. The rest of the staff find me hopelessly dull. However shall I entertain her?”

  “How the hell should I know? Take her to the zoo. Walk her in the park. Buy her a bloody puppy. Just get her out of my sight.” He freed Penfeld and raked his hair into nervous spikes, forgetting it wasn’t long anymore. “Just make sure she wears a cloak. And a hat. And shoes—two of them.”

  As Justin strode away, still muttering under his breath, Penfeld tugged thoughtfully at his whiskers. “A puppy. I do say, a splendid suggestion.”

  • • •

  Eight hours later Justin was pacing the parlor, trying not to flinch at each incisive tick of the black marble clock on the mantel. His mother and Edith kept vigil with him, their ringleted heads inclined toward their embroidery. Lily and Millicent had retired at a respectable hour with all the dreary husbands, even Edith’s, in tow.

  The long-case clock in the foyer gonged. Once. Twice. Ten times. Justin’s oath shattered its echo. Edith stabbed herself with her needle, but the duchess didn’t even flinch.

  He paced to the window and braced his weight on the sill with both hands. The night’s chill seeped through the frosted panes. Was he going to have to hire a detective to return Emily from a simple shopping expedition? he wondered. He must have been mad to send her out with Penfeld. But these weren’t the teeming streets of Auckland. London was Penfeld’s orderly domain. Justin fought despair, refusing to give in to his fear that Emily
might have taken this opportunity to flee from him yet again.

  He should have taken her out himself. Even if it meant being trapped in the confines of a carriage with her ethereal scent. Even if it meant sitting for hours with her warm thigh pressed to his own. His torment was nothing compared to her safety.

  He turned around and leaned against the windowsill. His mother was watching him beneath hooded lids, her eyes sharpened to a lively glint. Justin knew she hadn’t always been stupid. Olivia Connor had chosen long ago to veil her intelligence behind insipid vaguery, but at times he still caught a glimpse of the Fleet Street shopgirl who had memorized Debrett’s Peerage to land not one of the many impoverished dukes haunting London, but the only peer of the realm with a thriving shipping empire. To hold the affections of her rigid husband, she had learned to betray everything else she held dear—even her son. Especially her son.

  She stabbed the thick linen with the needle. “You care for the girl, don’t you?”

  “Of course I care for her. She’s my ward. Her father was a dear friend.”

  “Yet you’ve never laid eyes on her in all these years?”

  His gaze was caught by the hypnotic flick of her needle. She sewed the way he played the piano, all grace and no hesitation. Justin wondered what she would do if he told her he’d laid far more than his eyes on Emily.

  He was spared from answering by the discordant clang of bells. His mother’s hands froze in their motion. Edith jerked her head up to meet Justin’s puzzled gaze. Hooves clattered on the drive, adding to the ear-shattering cacophony of the bells.

  As Justin sprinted through the foyer, Herbert, Harold, and Harvey came flying down the stairs in their long nightgowns and caps. Lily and Millicent trailed behind, their candles casting wavering shadows on the wallpaper.

  Harold rubbed his eyes. “I do say, can’t a chap get a decent night’s sleep in this mausoleum?”

  “What the devil is it?” Herbert bellowed, tripping over Harvey’s hem. “Is the house afire?”

  They spilled onto the lawn as a closed police wagon rolled to a halt in the drive. Rusty bars blocked the windows. The Winthrop carriage clattered to a halt behind the wagon, the driver hanging his head in sheepish defeat.

  Justin stared as a uniformed bobby climbed off the driver’s seat, tipped his tall hat in a crisp greeting, and moved to swing open the barred door at the back of the wagon.

  A demure, white-gloved hand emerged. At least Emily had worn her gloves, Justin thought crazily. The bobby took her hand with obvious deference and Emily descended, favoring him with a regal smile. Justin started for her, determined to wring an explanation from her charming little neck.

  Before he could reach her, a snarling, fanged monster exploded from the back of the wagon and lunged straight for his throat.

  Chapter 21

  (You should thank God you were blessed with your mama’s eyes; it more than makes up for being cursed with my hair.)

  Justin backed away from the slavering beast, instinctively drawing it away from Emily. The deafening shrill of his sisters’ screams was almost drowned out by its bass-throated rumble. Something had come flying out of the wagon behind the creature. It stumbled along for a few steps before Justin realized it was Penfeld, and he was attached to the monster by Emily’s blue velvet sash. The dog’s massive spiked collar might as well have been around the valet’s neck. The beast dragged him across the slick lawn, eyeing Justin hungrily. The horses whinnied and tossed their heads in terror.

  “What is the meaning of this, Penfeld?” Justin said, his voice soft enough not to spook the animal but lethal enough to be heard by them all.

  Penfeld dug his heels into the ground and strained against the dog’s squat weight. His whiskers stuck out in matted tufts. His immaculate jacket was torn and his white shirt smeared with mud.

  His brown eyes were entreating. “You told me to buy her a puppy, sir.”

  Justin eyed the thing. White foam dripped from its bared fangs. “That’s not a puppy. It’s a bull.”

  As if offended by his words, the dog lunged again, dragging Penfeld flat. The monster’s snapping teeth missed Justin’s crotch by half an inch.

  “A bulldog to be precise,” Emily said, waltzing between Penfeld and the dog. She patted the creature’s massive head and scratched behind his ears. “There, now. That’s a nice Pudding. Down, boy.”

  The dog sank to its stocky haunches at her feet, drooling adoringly on her slippers. Justin was surprised it didn’t purr.

  “Pudding?” he echoed ominously.

  “What did you want me to call him? Fluffy?” Her smile was angelic. Justin’s stomach spasmed a warning.

  The bobby stepped between them, pulling off his hat. Another policeman lurked in his shadow.

  He twirled his bushy mustache. “I’m turribly sorry for the disturbance, sir, but I thought it best if we escorted the young lady home. After we arrested her the first time—”

  “The first time?” Justin bit off, glowering at Emily.

  “It weren’t really her fault, Your Grace. The dog got away from your man and the door to the crystal shop was open.” He brightened visibly. “Once she assured the shopkeeper the Duke of Winthrop would pay for all the damages, he turned out to be quite a reasonable chap.”

  Behind him, one of the husbands moaned. Justin closed his eyes and counted slowly under his breath.

  “And the second time, sir …”

  His eyes flew open.

  The other policeman chimed in helpfully. “That would have been the elephant, wouldn’t it, Clarence?”

  Justin swallowed. “She let an elephant run through the crystal shop?”

  “Oh, no, sir,” the bobby reassured him. “The elephant ran through the zoo. After she slipped the latch on its cage.”

  Justin narrowed his eyes. He would like to see her caged. And chained. Preferably to his bed.

  Her smile faded an inkling beneath his glare. “I was simply trying to feed him a peanut. I couldn’t reach his trunk.”

  The second policeman chuckled. “I didn’t know those old nannies could move so fast. You should have seen the perambulators flying!”

  The bobby rubbed the back of his neck. Justin could have sworn he was blushing. “Of course, the last time we were more concerned with her own health. Hyde Park’s a bit cold to be swimming this time of year, especially without—” He stopped dead and looked over his shoulder, aware for the first time of the women’s avid gazes and the heated puffs of fog emerging from the men’s lips. He leaned over and whispered something in Justin’s ear.

  Justin dropped his gaze to Emily as if seeing her for the first time. Her curls glistened with damp. Her dress—the charming girlish confection he had chosen in order to keep himself at bay—clung to her skin in all the wrong places, the pristine white going almost sheer over the dusky hint of her nipples. Her lips quirked in an apologetic smile.

  He took one step toward her. Then another. Her smile faltered. “What are you going to do?”

  He smiled pleasantly. “Murder you.”

  “Oh dear,” Herbert murmured.

  Moaning, Lily pressed a scented handkerchief to her lips. The bobbies exchanged a nervous glance, wondering if the rumors they’d heard about the savage young duke were true.

  The dog growled. Justin gave it one look and it buried its head beneath its paws, whimpering. Justin stretched out a hand toward Penfeld. “Give me the sash.”

  “Whatever for, sir?”

  “I’m going to strangle her with it.”

  “Very good, sir. Right away.” He began to tug at the knot around the dog’s collar.

  “Penfeld!” Emily wailed. As she backed away from Justin, her feet slid on the dead grass.

  He stalked her, grinning like a vengeful demon. “Why make these poor policemen come all the way out here for nothing? They can use their wagon to cart me off to jail. Think what a nice, peaceful place prison will be after living with you for a day. I can while away the hours with thie
ves, ruffians, and other killers.”

  Her voice trembled. “This isn’t very sporting. You can’t murder me in front of all these witnesses.”

  She came up against the trunk of an oak. His fingers closed ever so gently around her throat, his broad thumbs seeking and caressing her throbbing pulse points. “Why not? They can testify before the House of Lords that I was provoked. They won’t hang me. They might even give me a medal of valor.”

  The pads of his fingertips combed through the delicate fleece at her nape. Her shiver vibrated through his taut body like the stroke of fingers against harp strings. A shiver of what? Justin wondered. Cold? Fear? Reaction to the heat blasting like a furnace from his body? A glint of triumph sharpened in her smoky eyes. The tip of her pink tongue moistened her lips. Taunting him. Tempting him.

  Her husky whisper was meant only for his ears. “What do you really want to do, Justin? Kill me … or kiss me?”

  He wanted to kiss her, all right, long and hard and rough. He wanted to mate her mouth with his teeth and tongue until he’d wiped away her teasing smirk. He wanted to carry her upstairs to his bedroom and lock the door against them all. He wanted to peel off her damp clothes and drown her beneath the unrelenting weight of his body until neither of them could think or walk straight.

  Then he’d kill her.

  She’d done it again, he realized. With barely a flutter of her silky lashes she’d committed the unpardonable sin of shattering his composure and making him feel alive again. More alive than he’d felt since he buried her father.

  His hands dropped from her throat. He unbuttoned his coat and with a sweeping motion laid it over her shoulders.

  “I must apologize for the inconvenience, gentlemen,” he told the bobbies. “I fear my ward is a bit high-spirited.”

  “Nothing a good beating wouldn’t cure,” Harold muttered, still sulky from being rousted from his bed. His bluster wilted beneath Justin’s glacial stare. He slipped behind Edith’s skirts.

  Justin linked his hands over his waistcoat, every inch the affable lord of the manor. “I’m sure you know how trying children can be.”