by Olivia Drake
Numbly she held up the container, and he dumped the condoms inside. Then he strode away to shove the box into his sack.
He returned with a bouquet of pale pink roses. “Perhaps you’ll find this gift more to your liking.”
Flabbergasted, Norah looked from his handsome face to the blooms. Her fingers curled around the ribbon-wrapped stems. Why had he brought her roses?
The question faded before the irresistible aroma, and she buried her face in the velvety flowers. The exquisite perfume drenched her senses and transported her back to the convent where she had grown up. Once again she could feel the warmth of the sun on her back, and the cool stone bench where she sat swinging her bare feet. Bees hummed in the arbor. The statue of the Virgin Mary smiled from its mossy niche, and an archway of roses flowed downward to neatly tended beds. She reveled in the guilty delight of stealing out of chapel, heard the distant murmur of the nuns reciting the litany...
“Tell me what you’re thinking.”
Kit’s deep voice ended with wistful memory. She found him seated beside her, his hands clasped, his elbows resting on his knees. His solemn expression somehow crept into her heart. “The roses reminded me of the convent where I once lived in Belgium.”
“So that’s why you teach the orphans, because you grew up without parents, too.”
Feeling the sting of old bitterness, she nodded. “My mother gave birth to me there, then left me to be raised by the nuns.”
“Who was she?”
“I don’t know. I’ll never know. The Mother Superior would only say I was conceived in sin, and that my mother was a lady who had made a wicked mistake.”
“Hypocritical Christians.” He gave a snort of disgust. “You could hardly be held responsible for the circumstances of your own conception. A precious little girl is a blessing from God.”
His defense peeled away her reserve. “When I was young, I used to imagine her coming to fetch me. She would embrace me, tell me how dearly she regretted giving me up. Together we would find my father and live as a real family...” Norah blinked to clear the film of moisture from her eyes. Confused that she would reveal her most cherished dream, she bent her head and rubbed her fingertip over the baby-soft petals of one pink bloom. “How silly of me. I don’t know why I’m telling you this.”
“You need to let your feelings out.” Kit touched her chin and brought her face toward him. “We’re kindred spirits, you know.”
“Pardon?”
“You and I have both felt the barbs of prejudice. We’ve both suffered from our parentage. You because of your illegitimacy, and me because of my dark skin—the legacy of my Indian mother.”
She ached to ask him about his past, but the warm pressure of his fingers suddenly felt intolerably familiar. His closeness threatened her equilibrium. She could see the faint shading of black stubble that delineated his jaw, and the hint of softness to his lower lip that brought to mind hedonistic pleasures. His masculine scent, his alluring eyes, snared her in the chains of panic.
On shaky legs, she got up and moved away. “It’s not the same at all. You were born to the aristocracy. I’ve had to earn my place in society.”
Kit gripped his fists as if to face an unseen opponent. “I’ve had to fight, too. Bullies like Lord Carlyle when I was a schoolboy and then bigots like Winnifred.”
Norah didn’t want to feel the affinity of a common bond. She didn’t want to accept the unveiled confession that made him human and vulnerable. She busied herself with putting the bouquet into a vase on the bookcase. “Don’t blame it all on the color of your skin. You’ve helped alienate yourself by flaunting your mistresses.”
“Agreed. I’ve wasted much of my life going from woman to woman, trying to prove that I don’t need anyone.” His voice lowered to a silken murmur. “But lately I’ve come to the conclusion that I was wrong.”
His statement startled her into turning toward him. He, too, had arisen from the sofa. “What do you mean?” she asked.
“I’d like to find a special woman and marry her, to settle down and start a family of my own.”
“Oh.” The notion of him wedding a society debutante set off a disagreeable churning inside Norah. Now she knew for whom he’d ordered the parure. He had probably already chosen his future bride, an English rose who would tame the rogue, a fertile woman who would bear him a nursery full of children. Denying an intolerable ache, she cast about for a neutral topic. “Where did you find roses in the middle of winter?”
“At my parents’ house in Kent. They have a conservatory.”
“So that’s where you’ve been. I wondered.” The words slipped out before she could stop them. How preposterous to want to know anything more about him and his relations.
“Did you miss me?” he murmured.
He was toying with her, as he did with all women. She knew by the cocky tilt of his eyebrow, the wicked slant of his smile. “It isn’t a question of missing,” she said stiffly. “I only wondered why you didn’t come to the orphanage this week.”
“I told Reverend Sweeny I’d be out of town.”
So he had. And she had spent the week imagining him engaged in unspeakable acts with his most current paramour. “I also wondered when you’d stop by and approve the sketches of the parure.”
He glanced around. “Are they here?”
“No, I left them at my office.”
“I’ll be there tomorrow morning.”
“Tomorrow is Sunday.” She recalled her appointment with the bank director on Monday afternoon. “Come by on Tuesday.”
“All right. Promptly after class.” He strolled around the parlor, then hunkered down to pet Marmalade again. Norah watched, mesmerized, as the stroking motion of his big hand made the cat stretch and purr. Did he stroke his women with the same gentleness? “By the way,” he added, “have you read the book?”
“Book?”
Crouched, Kit looked up and grinned. “The Madman of Mayfair.”
He so flustered her, she’d almost forgotten the novel. She smoothed the antimacassar over a chair. “Yes, I have.”
“And?”
“It’s an entertaining story,” she said honestly. “A trifle heavy on the melodrama, but I can appreciate that boys would enjoy the tale of a madman stalking the houses of the rich.”
He stood up, his hands on his hips and his jaw held high, like the majestic statue of a hero. “And do you also appreciate the fact that I’ve redeemed myself? Certainly if I can teach a classroom of orphans, you can’t denounce me as a worthless profligate.”
“Your work is to be commended.”
“Thank you.”
His charming smile could have melted the frost from the windows. But his magic was an illusion, she reminded herself, a trick with no real substance. “On the other hand...”
He sauntered toward her. “Yes?”
Uneasy with his proximity, she went to the tea table and made a show of gathering up the dishes. “I’m sorry. I should have rung for more tea.”
“Bother the tea.” He gently pried a cup from her fingers, but kept hold of her hand. “Norah, tell me what you’re thinking.”
Awareness of his male body, the powerful muscles beneath the garb of a gentleman, set her heart to hammering. Wresting free, she retreated. “I’m thinking you’ve done a fine job with Lark and the other boys. But you can’t let them down by vanishing for days at a time. Respect is more than a game to be won.”
Displeasure darkening his face, he stalked her. “Then you don’t believe I’ve truly changed?”
“Exactly. You might intend to marry, but you won’t remain faithful to one woman. Your disappearance this week proves you’re incapable of loyalty.”
Her spine met the hard surface of the wall. His hands shot out to bracket her. Too late, she knew the quivering panic of a cornered rabbit. Though he didn’t touch her, his sensual allure radiated like hot rays of sunshine.
“I intend to prove you wrong,” he said in a velvet undertone.
She felt breathless, scorched by desperation. Stirred by the devil of defiance inside her, she held up her head and met his gaze squarely. “You won’t. A tiger can’t change its stripes. You’re even depraved enough to kiss a bereaved widow the morning after her husband died.”
He frowned. “Kiss? What are you talking about?”
She regretted bringing up so volatile a memory. “Never mind.”
Norah tried to duck past him, but he lowered his arms, keeping her in a gentle but firm cage. “No, you don’t,” he said. “If you make an accusation, you must at least do me the honor of explaining yourself.”
She drew a lungful of air and indignation. “You had the gall to trap me on your bed—”
“You flung yourself on the bed.”
“But you lay down right on top of me—”
“I was trying to help you, to calm you.”
“But you didn’t have to press your lips to my forehead.”
His dark gaze pierced hers. Then he tilted his head back and chuckled. “You call that a kiss?”
Her cheeks burned. “I certainly don’t call it a handshake.”
Amusement gleamed in his eyes, along with a heavy-lidded fire. Before she could move, he lightly traced his fingertip over her lips. The contact set off sparks of sensation over her skin. “My dearest Norah. Whenever you’re ready to learn my definition of a kiss, I’ll be happy to oblige you.”
As abruptly as he’d snared her, he stepped away. Without another word, he picked up his sack and left the parlor.
Norah stood caught in the prison of her own thoughts. Her mouth still tingled from his caress. Her body retained the heat of his closeness. She told herself she was wrong, that she had misunderstood him. But suddenly everything made sense—his gift of the roses, his dedication to solving the mystery, his subtle persistence in touching her. Certainty burned hot and cold through her veins, pooling like icy ardor in her belly.
Kit Coleridge meant for her to be his next conquest.
Chapter 7
Someone was following him.
Kit swung on his heel toward the barren expanse of Berkeley Square. Yellow light pooled beneath the gas lamps on the residential side of the street, but the park lay in shadow. He tightened his scarf and plunged his hands into the pockets of his coat. It was a bitter evening in early February, the stars glittering in the black sky. A hansom clattered down the street, then a brougham drawn by a fine pair of grays. The few passersby hurried along the walkway, their heads bent against the cold and their breath forming tiny clouds of smoke.
No one took notice of him. He must have imagined the sensation of being followed.
Kit resumed his walk around the perimeter of Berkeley Square. His encounter with Norah on Saturday had left him in a state of heated turmoil. He had wanted so desperately to kiss her that his loins still ached. He would see her tomorrow, when he went to her shop to approve the parure. And he would hold his carnal desires in check so that he didn’t scare her off.
For a widow, she possessed a naïve quality that both intrigued and frustrated him. Maurice Rutherford must have been an inept lover, the typical stodgy Englishman who believed only a male could enjoy the sexual act.
Damn, what qualities had Norah loved in a man so small-minded? A man twice her age? Her strict convent upbringing must have blinded her to his faults.
And to her own sensuality.
Kit blew out a frosty breath. If ever a woman needed erotic awakening, she was Norah Rutherford. Fiery anger had caused her to hurl the condoms at him. Unbridled joy had lit her face as she inhaled the scent of his roses. Dormant desire had quickened her breath when he’d trapped her against the wall.
She wanted him. But she wasn’t ready to admit the truth. Not even to herself.
It’s utterly ridiculous to imagine that you and I could ever become involved.
He hunched his shoulders against the memory of her wintry words, so like Emma Woodfern’s cruel denunciation all those years ago. From the mists of memory came the disgusted look on Emma’s face, her shock and revulsion at learning that Kit was the secret admirer who had left her posies and poems.
He shook his head with concentrated effort. Norah was unique, a sensitive woman still reeling from the blow of her husband’s murder. Kit couldn’t let himself fear that she disdained him for his mixed blood. His reputation appalled her, not his heritage. She herself had said that more than the color of his skin made him an outcast; he had alienated himself by flaunting his mistresses.
Her insightful comment was a bitter pill for Kit to swallow. He truly had used women, out of the urgent need to insulate himself from hurt. But in the process he had cut himself off from love and honor.
No more. Now he had a purpose, to win Norah’s respect and to earn her affections. By God, he would break down the wall of her mistrust. He’d rip it apart brick by brick if necessary. And he must be patient, for she needed time to overcome the loss of her adored husband.
Kit reached his destination, a town house opposite the square from his own. The three- story edifice loomed above, the windows glowing like malevolent eyes. The damp chill spurred him up the steps. He seized the ram’s head knocker and rapped hard.
Once more, the notion of being watched raised the hairs on the back of his neck. He peered around, but saw nothing out of the ordinary, only a crossing sweeper plying his broom and a maidservant trudging along the curbstone.
A prissy-faced footman opened the door. “Yes?”
“I wish to see Carlyle,” Kit stated.
“I’m sorry, sir. He isn’t receiving callers.”
“He’ll see me.” Kit brushed past the servant. “Tell your master that Lord Blackthorne would like a word with him. Immediately.”
The footman’s outraged expression smoothed into boot-licking respect. “Yes, milord. Forgive me, but I’m new here, didn’t recognize you. Please permit me to take your coat.”
“No. I’ll only be a moment. Now get on with you.”
“Of course, milord.”
As the man minced up the staircase, Kit strolled into the drawing room. Warmth roared from the hearth, though the decor of ornate plasterwork and mirrored walls left him cold. He toasted his hands over the fire, then walked around the room and eyed a marble statue of a nude Apollo, a crystal bottle topped by a ruby-studded stopper, a strut clock in enameled burgundy. A wry smile nudged at his lips. Lately he preferred a homelike decor, with dozens of lace antimacassars draped over the furniture and a marmalade cat snoozing on the hearth.
The only appealing item was a small watercolor half hidden behind a gilt lamp. The painting depicted a quaint country garden overgrown with purple larkspurs and pink roses. The tiny signature in the lower corner identified the artist as Eleanor Abernathy. A pity Bruce possessed so little of his mother’s sensitivity.
Going to the grand piano in the corner, Kit idly depressed a series of ivory keys. Tinkling notes rained into the air.
“What a surprise,” came a voice from behind him. “I wouldn’t have thought you civilized enough to play.”
Bruce Abernathy, Viscount Carlyle, stood in the doorway, a red carnation tucked into the lapel of his charcoal-gray tailored suit. One fair eyebrow tilted upward in an unnatural, diabolical look. The curl of his lip, so familiar and so superior, stirred a nauseating fury in Kit.
Determined to hold on to his temper, he shoved his fists into his coat pockets. “I don’t play,” he said bluntly. “Not the piano, nor cat and mouse games with you.”
“I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean.”
“You bloody well do. No one but you would have leaked the story to the press about Rutherford’s murder.”
“Tut, tut, Blackie,” Bruce said on a laugh. “Don’t come crying to me with your troubles. If you choose to embroil yourself in scandal, you must face the consequences like a man. Now if you’ll excuse me, I was dressing for a dinner party.”
Kit sprang forward and spun the viscount back around. “C
oward! Admit to my face that you went tattling to the press.”
“I didn’t! Better you should look to your own whore as the culprit.”
“Jane Bingham?”
“That’s right.”
Startled but still suspicious, Kit released Bruce. “How do you know what she did?”
“Because she came to me and asked me to corroborate her story. In case the press wouldn’t believe a woman. But I refused to soil myself with your filth.”
“If you’re lying to me, Carlyle, you’ll be mopping up your own blood in a minute.”
Bruce brushed off his pristine coat sleeve. “Keep your hands to yourself, you beast.”
“You’ve had only a taste of my brutishness.” The thought of Norah enduring slander enraged Kit, but he restrained himself by remembering his pledge to make her love him. He couldn’t afford a brawl. “If you dare spread any gossip about the Rutherford murder, I’ll do more than scar you. I’ll scrape off your other eyebrow with a very dull razor.”
He plucked the red carnation from Bruce’s lapel and ground it to shreds beneath his heel. The crushed petals reeked a clove scent.
Bruce shrank back. His gaze faltered. “Get out of my house.”
“Gladly.”
Once outside, Kit paused on the sidewalk to let the cold air cool the heat of his anger. More than worry over Norah caused his roiling emotions; the old feelings of inadequacy and helplessness still lurked like a dark cancerous growth deep within him. Impatient with the weakness, he buried it and started toward home.
Jane, damn her. First the condoms, now the gossip to the newspapers. He’d had enough of her pranks. He resolved to give her a short but strict lecture on appropriate behavior.
Across the road, something moved in the gloom of the park. He spied the pale flash of a face. Someone lurked behind the thick trunk of a plane tree.
He had been right about one thing tonight. He was being followed. Kit strode swiftly down the walkway. By God, he would find out once and for all who dared spy on him. And why.
He stayed on the residential side, where the street lamps cast a hazy golden glow. Few pedestrians braved the chilly night. Even the crossing sweeper had gone home.
