Teresa Medeiros

by Once an Angel

  Dumbfounded by his impassioned speech, Emily felt her mouth fall open.

  He raked a hand through his hair and circled her. “How could you expect me to face myself in the mirror tomorrow if I compromise my honor for a few fleeting seconds of ecstasy?” He caught her by the shoulders and gave her a hard little shake. “Do you think you’re so charming in that silly little nightdress that I can’t resist tumbling you? Do you think I have no pride when it comes to you?”

  “B-b-but I—”

  “Well, you’re right,” he shouted. “I don’t!”

  With that, his lips came down on hers. Emily tilted her head back, giving the full measure of her mouth to his possession. His tongue plundered her with warm, rough abandon. She answered his desperate plea with a soft swirl of her own.

  He swung her around to the bed and laid her beneath him. His hands tore at her drawers, shoving them away with none of the artful preliminaries he excelled in. It was as if he were afraid any hesitation might give the lonely night cause to take her back. He pressed himself into her, groaning when he found her as ready for him as he was for her.

  Emily wrapped her arms around him, shivering at his rough urgency. She had been cold before, but now a molten fire was spreading through her blood. His tongue invaded her mouth, taking her there just as his hips were taking her lower. There was a savage edge to Justin’s lovemaking she’d never experienced before. Both shock and pleasure rippled through her as he dragged her hips to the edge of the bed and stood between her legs, spreading and molding her until she could feel each of his fierce strokes pounding at the mouth of her womb. She wanted to scream beneath the force of it. She bit her lip, tasting blood. She felt her eyes roll back as her body threatened to succumb to that dark netherworld between pleasure and swooning.

  He cupped her face in his hands. “Look at me, Emily,” he commanded her hoarsely. “Look at me now.”

  She met his devouring gaze, seeing the beautiful face of the man she loved strained in an agony of pleasure. Still holding her gaze in his golden vise, he pinned her shoulders to the bed, forcing her writhing body still for an even deeper possession.

  Without warning, spasms of ecstasy wracked them both, and not even Justin’s mouth on hers could completely muffle her broken wail.

  Emily awoke with her mouth pressed against Justin’s chest. Their bodies lay in a sleepy tangle, her leg thrown over his, his arm cupping her rump. The fire cast fingers of flame against the shadows. Caught in the cradle of Justin’s arms, she found the massive bed warmer and cozier than she ever could have dreamed.

  She rubbed her cheek against his chest, utterly sated. He had made love to her again after the first time, extinguishing the candle and taking her with such reverent gentleness it had made her weep. His hands had stroked and soothed her tender flesh as if to ease away the rough edges of their desperate coupling.

  She sighed. If only the past were so easily vanquished.

  Pulling the blanket over him, she sat up and delicately untangled herself from his embrace. As she crept out of the bed, every muscle ached in protest. She was surprised she could walk at all.

  She had almost reached the door when Justin sat up. His bitter voice cut the shadows like a blade. “Leaving so soon? Did you get what you came for?”

  Emily bit her lip, unable to stifle an odd little giggle. “No. Actually, I came to borrow some coal for my fire.”

  She eased open the door and slipped out, missing Justin’s flabbergasted expression as he spread his arms and flopped back among the pillows.

  When Emily entered the parlor the following day, the tension was thick enough to cut with a knife. The servants hastened in and out with their feather dusters, shooting Justin nervous glances. Word of his relapse, hastened by the bizarre accusation made by the wealthy Italian at the Comtesse Guermond’s fête, had flown through their ranks. Emily had to admire his sisters’ composure. They sat poking at their embroidery as if it were completely normal for their brother to be accused of murder, then to appear at midday garbed in nothing but his dressing gown and stockings. Although Justin was unable to explain the reason for his bizarre dress, he seemed to be maintaining a semblance of sanity while in their company.

  Justin glanced up from his book as Emily claimed the balloon-backed chair opposite him. She was not completely able to hide her wince of pain as she sat. His gaze shifted quickly away.

  The duchess beamed and held out an embroidered pillow. “Pillow, dear? Those unupholstered chairs can be so uncomfortable.”

  “No, thank you,” Emily mumbled.

  Could his mother possibly have heard their uninhibited cries in the night? Justin wondered. He was saved from further speculation by the arrival of Penfeld, who tilted his disapproving nose in the air and announced, “A Mr. Saleri is here to call upon Miss Scarborough.”

  The color drained from Emily’s cheeks. She exchanged a look of dread with Justin. Neither of them had expected Nicky to take the bait so quickly.

  “Tell him I shall receive him in the garden,” she said, rising.

  Edith rose along with her, laying her embroidery ring aside.

  “Down, Edith,” Justin commanded. “Emily’s a big girl. She doesn’t need a watchdog.”

  Bewilderment touched Edith’s eyes. “But I thought … surely a chaperone …”

  The duchess rose and took her daughter by the arm. “I do believe I need a chaperone, dear. Shall we stroll to the conservatory and check the roses?” As she led Edith from the room, she cast both Emily and her son a speculative glance over one shoulder.

  Nicholas was waiting for her by a terra-cotta fountain, resplendent in a gray-striped morning suit. The day was much cooler. As Emily approached him, she pulled the woolen hood of her cloak over her hair to hide her expression.

  He squeezed her hands and favored her with a melting smile. “Miss Scarborough, ever a delight. I believe you are fresher than even the morning dew.”

  “Why, Mr. Saleri, you flatter me.” He certainly did. There had been little time for rest between her nightmares and bouts of Justin’s loving and she knew the bags beneath her eyes must be roomier than portmanteaus.

  He drew her hands to his lips and Emily braced herself to be licked. The first haunting notes of Chopin’s “Waltz in C-Sharp Minor” floated into the garden. Nicky paled and glanced toward the opaque plates of the drawing room windows. It was the first time she had ever seen him shaken.

  “He still plays?”

  She nodded. “At times. It’s one of the few comforts left to him.”

  Recovering his composure, Nicky tucked her hand in the crook of his elbow and led her down a cobbled path. “I could hardly sleep last night for thinking of our conversation. I fear you must think me the most despicable of liars.”

  The timeless strains of music drifted on the wind. Emily imagined Justin’s strong, graceful fingers striking each key, sending her the strength to murmur, “I could never think ill of you, sir.”

  “Ah, but after all, it is my word against your guardian’s. If only I could show you that land grant for the mine … do you think he has it in his possession here?”

  Emily thought of the morass of papers and books moldering away on the North Island. “I doubt it. He was planning only a brief sojourn to England. He left all his papers in New Zealand.”

  Nicky shook his head. “How unfortunate. It’s all I have to prove my story.”

  And all Justin has to prove his innocence, she thought grimly. “Even without proof I find you very convincing, Mr. Saleri.”

  He swung around to face her. Emily forced her expression to remain wide-eyed and ingenuous, hoping she didn’t resemble a besotted rabbit.

  He eased her hood back from her curls. “Please call me Nicholas, dear. Or even Nicky, if you would forgive my boldness.”

  His thumb stroked her cheek. He slowly lowered his head. Emily closed her eyes, praying God would give her the strength not to be ill. Before his lips could touch hers, a cacophonous banging shatt
ered the moment. A raucous male voice broke into song:

  Naughty Maud, the Shrewsbury bawd,

  She’ll steal yer purse an’ tickle yer rod,

  And still leave ya yellin’ fer more, by gawd!

  Nicky snatched his hand back, wincing. Emily hoped her choking noise would be construed as one of humiliation rather than laughter. She jerked up her hood and took a few hasty steps away.

  Nicky dogged her, obviously eager to try a new tactic. “His behavior must be a constant source of embarrassment to you. Has he ever harmed you in any way?”

  “Oh, no. I believe he’s quite fond of me”—she hesitated for the necessary heartbeat—“in his way.”

  As they walked on, Nicky took the bait and began to weave his serpentine twists of logic like a web around Justin’s story. Each irrefutable strand was sticky-sweet with his charm. He dropped constant hints about the missing land grant until she wanted to clap her hands over her ears and run screaming from his presence. Oddly enough, it was Penfeld who rescued her when he appeared in the garden and engaged their elegant guest in a conversation about the competing merits of Indian and Chinese tea. Shooting him a thankful glance, Emily excused herself to summon a maidservant to serve refreshments in the salon.

  As she marched through the drawing room, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, a hand shot out and dragged her into a curtained window alcove. “Are you all right?” Justin asked.

  “Yes. No.” She clutched the lapels of his dressing gown. “I can’t bear it. We have to end this soon.”

  His eyes hardened; their grim determination chilled her. “We’ll end it right now if you like.”

  “No! We mustn’t. He hasn’t revealed anything yet. We have to push him somehow.”

  The click of Nicky’s boots sounded on the parquet floor. They stood paralyzed until Emily reached up and frantically rumpled Justin’s hair.

  “What in the hell are you doing?” he whispered.

  A heartrending sob caught in her voice. “No, please, Your Grace, I’ve begged you not to do this.”

  Justin quickly caught on to her scheme. He ripped a scrap of lace from her collar and shouted, “Come on, little girl, just one kiss for your new daddy.”

  They both heard the approaching footsteps pause. Emily emerged from the alcove, clutching her torn collar. She pretended not to see Nicholas tiptoeing toward the doorway behind them.

  “Oh, please, sir, you promised not to do it again.”

  Justin grabbed her around the waist with a leer a bit too convincing for Emily’s taste. “Don’t fight me, child. You know you enjoy it!”

  Nicholas peeped around the door frame.

  “Hit me,” Emily mouthed.

  Justin jerked her close, genuine desperation in his grasp. “Don’t ask that of me,” he hissed.

  Pretending to struggle, she dug her fingernails into his arms and pressed her mouth to his ear. “Hit me, dammit!”

  His voice rang out. “You little brat, I’ll teach you to disobey me.” His eyes darkened in agonized apology as he drew back his hand and slapped her across the face.

  His elbow bore the brunt of the blow. Emily barely felt a sting, but the shock of it still brought genuine tears to her eyes. At the flood of answering remorse in Justin’s eyes, she would have done anything to summon them back. Justin hadn’t the flare for playacting that she had. If Nicky took one glance at his face, the game would be up. The true enormity of what she must do struck her harder than his blow. Pressing her knuckles to her mouth, she whirled around to flee, only to find Nicholas standing rapt in the doorway.

  It took him a second too long to veil the cruel, excited twist of his lips with righteous anger. “I say, man, what’s the meaning of this?”

  Justin shoved past him without a word. Emily flung herself across the room and crumpled into Nicky’s arms. Clucking his sympathy, he led her to a settee beneath the window, where she made a valiant show of getting a grip on her emotions, all the while snuffling into his pristine shirtfront. He pried her off him and fished out a handkerchief, poorly hiding his moue of distaste.

  “Please forgive me,” she said, blowing her nose daintily into his handkerchief. “I never meant you to witness such a disgraceful spectacle.”

  “It only confirmed my worst suspicions,” he said, his face set in noble lines. “I had hoped this wouldn’t be necessary, but I fear your guardian’s behavior has made it so.”

  He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a tiny derringer. Emily’s hands began to tremble in earnest. He opened her icy fingers and laid the weapon on her palm.

  “I want you to take this, cara mia. To use it if need be to protect yourself from that madman. There’s not a court in this land that would convict you for killing him.”

  Emily stared down at the charming little pistol, knowing it was no less lethal for its size. It was plated in polished mother-of-pearl and fit her palm as if it had been made for it.

  He folded her fingers around the gun. “Go on. Take it. Your father would have wanted you to have it.”

  She gazed up at him, hypnotized by the glow of sincerity in his eyes. A blustering shout sounded from the nether reaches of the house.

  Nicky hastily stood. “I think it best if I go now. I shall call again tomorrow. Don’t forget what I said.”

  “I won’t,” she said, rising like a zombie. “Oh, Nicholas,” she called as he turned to go.

  He pivoted expectantly.

  She waved the crumpled rag. “You forgot your handkerchief.”

  Smiling wanly, he took it between two fingers. She watched him juggle it all the way to the door before he finally stuffed it into a potted palm on the cloak rack.

  When he had gone, Emily stood staring at the small gun. Seven years ago a weapon such as this had ended her father’s life. A footstep sounded behind her, and she hastily dropped it into the pocket of her skirt.

  She turned to find Justin watching her.

  “What did he say to you?”

  “Nothing.” She averted her gaze. “Nothing of any import.”

  She started to walk past him. He caught her shoulders; his gaze searched her face. “You’re lying to me. Why?”

  Unable to bear the pain crystallizing in his eyes, she pulled away. “Please. I’d like to be alone now. I’m tired.”

  She brushed past him, knowing the most dangerous role in her charade had just begun. As she fled up the stairs, the derringer lay like a cold weight against her thigh.

  Emily was slipping away from him. Moment by moment. Day by day. The knowledge tore at Justin’s soul like jagged claws. Nicky’s daily visits continued, but she no longer confided in him. He would enter a room to find them sitting with heads together, laughing and whispering. They would fall into silence at the sight of him, and Emily’s beautiful eyes would turn dark and cold with suspicion. Was she so eager to believe ill of him that she’d allow even Nicky to spread his poison through her mind? He continued to play the invalid lunatic, at times querulous, at others fiercely jovial, each day feeling more like the madman he was pretending to be.

  Both family and servants gave him wide berth. Not even the wounded bafflement in his mother’s eyes was enough to make him lay down his pride and break his silence. It hurt too damned much to believe Emily would turn on him so easily. She made no more visits to his room, and he spent his nights pacing the spacious suite like a caged tiger. As his panic grew, he began to make his own inquiries into Nicholas’s business ventures.

  He returned from one of those sojourns late one evening, shaken to learn Nicky had booked two passages on a tramp steamer sailing for New Zealand within the week. Discovering Emily had gone out to attend the opera with her dear friend Mr. Saleri only fueled his panic.

  “You did what?” he roared at the bewildered Edith. “You allowed her to go out unchaperoned?”

  “You never wanted her chaperoned before in his company,” she protested, her lower lip trembling. “You said he was an old friend of her father’s. How
was I to know?”

  “If you’d use that porcelain head of yours for something besides hanging your ringlets on, you would have known,” he shouted.

  Edith dropped her embroidery and burst into noisy sobs. Lily and Millicent closed ranks around her, patting her heaving shoulders and giving Justin looks that would have shamed the devil himself.

  He paced away from them, running a hand over his weary eyes.

  His mother shoved her bulk out of her chair. “You were always a good boy, Justin. Your father never even had to take the cane to you. I’m beginning to think that was a terrible mistake.”

  Justin spun around. “What did Father need a cane for? He had his sarcastic wit and his demeaning remarks for weapons. I wish he’d had the common decency to give me a beating with his fists.”

  Emily’s dulcet tones cut through the chaos. “Here now. What’s all this fuss about?”

  They all froze, staring at her. She stood in the doorway of the parlor, dripping sophistication. A cream-blue dress of ruched satin hugged her hips, falling to scalloped ruffles draped to reveal an ivory underskirt. She wore marthing gloves studded with pearl buttons, and her hair had been swept back at the temples by mother-of-pearl combs. Combs he had bought for her, Justin realized, fighting blind rage.

  Her skirts rustled as she swept in and knelt beside Edith, handing her a handkerchief from her satin reticule. “There now. You mustn’t cry so. You’re getting your lovely embroidery all soggy.” She straightened and looked at him, her gaze free of reproach, or any feeling at all. “Didn’t they tell you? I just went to the opera. La Traviata. It was marvelous. I do so love all things Italian.”

  Justin bit back the obvious retort. What was she trying to do? he wondered. Provoke him to murder right there in the parlor. “I need to talk to you.”

  She smothered a yawn into her gloved little hand. “In the morning perhaps. I’m off to bed now.”

  She strolled out, her bustled rump swaying beneath its satin sheath. There was dead silence for three long, lazy sweeps of the mantel clock’s pendulum. Edith didn’t dare even to sniffle. Then somewhere in the house a door closed. And locked.