by Olivia Drake
The prince waved her up. “An artist? How unusual to make the acquaintance of a lady as talented as she is charming.” His gaze strayed to her bosom. “Your necklace quite suits your flawless complexion.”
“Thank you,” Norah said. “I understand Princess Alexandra favors amethysts.”
“Quite so.”
“May I suggest,” Kit put in smoothly, “that you pay close attention to the tiara Mrs. Rutherford designed for the Jubilee competition? The center gem will be the fabled lavender diamond, Fire at Midnight.”
If, Norah thought on a jab of misgiving, Upchurch ever answered her telegrams. She was beginning to worry that the agent had absconded with her money.
The prince perked his graying brows. “Indeed? By gad, I saw the very stone when I was in India ten years ago. It was owned by a maharaja…”
“The Maharaja of Rampur,” she said.
“Yes. We shall be anxiously awaiting the chance to view your entry, Mrs. Rutherford. If it’s half as magnificent as you are, we’ll be pleased indeed.”
His gaze absorbed her in another blatantly interested sweep. Edward was a married man. His lax moral standards disturbed her, and made her wonder if Kit would also be unfaithful to the woman he wed.
“Blackthorne, do keep in touch. And a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Rutherford.” Edward walked away, followed by his retainers.
Kit focused his moody dark eyes on her. “Well. He admired you. That should stand you in good stead for the competition.”
Giddy as much from the meeting as from the terseness of Kit’s voice, she couldn’t resist teasing, “How enchanting a man he is. Perhaps I’ll have the good fortune to renew our acquaintance.”
Kit drew her to a deserted corner, between two tall cases. “Norah, be careful where you flirt. Bertie might just take you seriously.”
“Jealous?” Reckless caprice spurred her. “Are you afraid I might desert you, my lord, in favor of a prince?”
His handsome face tautened, as if he struggled to master the black storm cloud of his emotions. As quick as a flash of white lightning, he rolled back his head and chuckled. “By God, I can hardly believe it.”
“Believe what?”
“You’re trying to make me jealous. I’ll construe that as a heartening sign.”
She gave a delicate snort. Plucking a tartlet from the silver tray of a passing footman, she nibbled at the buttery crust. “Your male conceit overwhelms me. Perhaps I do find His Highness most fascinating.”
“Fascinating enough to sleep with him?” Kit said into her ear, his breath stirring her hair. “If a bedmate appeals to you, I’ll be happy to oblige.”
Chills whispered over her skin. Yet somehow the sensation added a sparkle of excitement to the facets of her emotions. Trying to act nonchalant, she took a tiny bite of the tartlet, the damson filling sweet on her tongue. “Can’t a man and a woman simply be friends?”
“Certainly. But it’s also natural for them to want more.” He grasped her hand, his thumb moving in slow circles over her palm. “Let me tell you what every man thinks when he looks at you, Norah. He wants the chance to undress you, to kiss your smooth white skin, to take you naked into his bed and—”
“What a charming tête-à-tête,” spoke a man’s voice from behind. “Blackie and the woman in black.”
Norah jumped guiltily. For a moment the silken bond of Kit’s words held her eyes snared to his. As she watched, the torrid look on his face chilled to arctic hauteur. Curious as to who could elicit the powerful dislike in him, she turned.
A striking, blond-haired couple posed by the mahogany wall case. The man wore a slim black suit that accentuated his noble features. A thumb-sized ruby stickpin held his snowy cravat, and a scar lifted one of his eyebrows at a perpetual slant.
Lord Carlyle. With a shiver, she recalled his arrogance when he’d visited her shop. He had been cruel to his own mother.
His companion gave Norah an even more unpleasant jolt. Clad in peacock-blue satin, the Honorable Jane Bingham wore a necklace of sapphire flowers and golden leaves. The feathered aigrette adorning her hair had been mounted tremblant, so the sapphire and diamond doves appeared to quiver whenever she moved.
“Bruce.” His voice tightly controlled, Kit looked from Lord Carlyle to the woman. “Good evening, Jane. This is a surprise.”
“Indeed, my lord?” She held herself as straight and proud as a queen, though her lips pouted. “I’m hardly one to sit home. I have a busy social schedule, you know.”
“I meant,” he said almost gently, “that I was surprised at your choice of a companion.”
“All those beastly tales you told me about dear Bruce were nonsense. In fact, you can be among the first to admire the pretty necklace he gave me.” She stroked the piece, then aimed a coy glance at Norah. “It came from Garrard’s, the crown jeweler.”
“It’s lovely. I’ve seen a number of flower motifs tonight.” In reality, Norah found it pedestrian. She would have rearranged the stones into an airy waterfall, a cascade of sapphire teardrops...
Lord Carlyle smiled at Jane. “You deserve the best, darling.”
Norah studied them with a jaundiced eye. They seemed the consummate couple, as prettily matched as brother and sister. Yet the way Jane fluttered her lashes and cooed at him seemed almost an act. Because she still harbored feelings for Kit?
Had she left the mourning brooch? Maybe Kit was too biased, too ready to believe her. Because he still wanted her.
Tautness defined his mouth and cheekbones. Some unknown problem plagued him. Norah absently finished the tartlet, the damson now tasteless. If he regretted losing Jane...
Lord Carlyle’s frosty gaze stung Norah. “Where are your manners, Blackthorne? You haven’t introduced me.”
“Pardon me. Lord Carlyle, may I present Mrs. Norah Rutherford.”
His lip curled into a faint sneer beneath the blond mustache. “Ah yes, I remember now. The shopkeeper.”
Norah suspected he had recognized her from the start. The jab of his dismissing tone made her conscious of her common background.
“I see you aren’t mourning your poor murdered husband,” Jane said. “Have the police caught the murderess yet?”
The acidity beneath her sweet tone angered Norah. “No, but Kit has been kind enough to help with the investigation.”
Jane laughed. “I know how Kit helps women.”
“Odd how no one but you saw the woman in the red cloak. I wonder if you might have been”—Norah deliberately paused—“mistaken.”
The superiority vanished from Jane’s pretty features. “Do you dare call me a liar?”
“Ladies, please,” Kit cut in, with a warning glance at Norah.
Restraining her temper, she turned to Lord Carlyle. “I haven’t seen your mother in the shop lately. I trust she’s well?”
For no discernable reason, he scowled. “The viscountess has retired to the country for a time.”
“She has a fine eye for jewels. She would have enjoyed the exhibition tonight.”
“She’s in mourning.” His critical gaze raked her black gown. “She would have kept to the privacy of her home.”
Norah kept her chin high. “Will she return for the Jubilee festivities in June?”
“No.” Even as he uttered the curt reply, he swung to Kit. “I say, have you been to the zoology gallery at the other end of this floor? I seem to recall a display that might interest you—stuffed monkeys from India.”
Jane tittered behind her gloved hand. “Oh, Bruce. Now don’t be naughty.”
Kit’s arm flexed beneath Norah’s fingers. Sympathy wrenched her. For a man of strength and confidence, he was unduly affected by slurs about his skin color.
Just as she herself was sensitive about her bastard birth.
“You never give up, do you, Bruce?” Kit said. “You must be anxious for that matching pair of eyebrows.”
“Tut, tut, Blackie. Don’t parade your vulgar ancestry in front of a roomful of well-b
red people.”
On impulse Norah stepped between the two men. Dear God, she had had enough of bigots, this one in particular. “You are the one behaving in a vulgar manner, Lord Carlyle. What a shame a sweet lady like your mother must suffer an insensitive lout for a son.”
His mouth opened and closed. His eyes narrowed to blue crystal chips.
Norah whirled and slid her hand into the crook of Kit’s arm. “Shall we continue our tour in the next room, my lord? I hear there’s a fine collection of lapis lazuli from Afghanistan.”
As she marched him toward the archway, she heard Jane’s shrill voice chastise Lord Carlyle: “For the love of God, will you allow a commoner to address you so rudely...?”
The crowd noises swallowed the rest of the tirade. Fueled by the remnants of fury, Norah tugged Kit along. People turned and gaped, but she paid them little heed. Her lungs ached from the effort to contain her uncorked emotions. As she started toward the display cases, Kit steered her in the opposite direction.
“What are you doing?” she demanded.
He quailed in mock fear. “God save me,” he growled in her ear. “Are you going to snap at me, too?”
She glared, then a gust of humor blew away the steam of her anger. Half of her was mortified at her waspish outburst; the other half reveled in the memory of Bruce’s speechlessness.
Her lips tweaked into a smile. Kit strolled out of the mineral exhibit and through the high-vaulted lobby, leading her past the display of a gigantic tortoise shell. A few elegant guests milled about, conversing and studying the artifacts along the walls.
He glanced around, then lifted the crimson velvet rope barring entry to a shadowed room.
“What are you doing?” she repeated, half-laughing.
He waggled his eyebrows. “Come along and you’ll see.”
He waved her under the rope. Too giddy to protest, she ducked into the chamber. Gloom lay thick here, gathered in murky puddles around the skeletons of long-dead reptiles. Ahead, the bones of an enormous fossil gleamed white, luring her deeper into the darkness, until she could reach up and brush her fingertips over its long curved tusks.
Kit loomed behind her, a tall silhouette in the half light. Suddenly conscious of how alone they were, she murmured, “Is this a mastodon?”
“Yes.” Glancing at the specimen, he grasped her upper arms. “Norah, I’d like to know why you defended me.”
His satin-soft voice floated through the dimness. She could discern the outline of his face, the breadth of his shoulders. Away from the crush of people, the air held a wintry chill, but she felt uncommonly warm.
To avoid his question, she turned the focus on him. “Kit, have people always snubbed you because of your Hindu heritage?”
He stiffened. “Do they? I hadn’t noticed.”
“Don’t prevaricate, please. I’m interested in hearing about your past.”
He stood silent for a moment, as if struggling with an inner demon. “I suppose you deserve to know, but where shall I begin? With a brusque laugh, he went on, “I know. There once was a girl who shunned me, a girl I thought I loved with all my heart.”
“What did she do?”
Norah listened in sympathy and dawning anger as he told her about the fourteen-year-old boy who had admired a nymph from afar, and about Emma Woodfern, who had delighted in the gifts left by a secret admirer, only to recoil when she learned his identity. In an emotionless voice, Kit described her disgust and scathing rejection, then the brother and his cronies who had thrashed Kit in retaliation.
Norah heard the rage and pain beneath his nonchalance. She felt her own wrath boil over, scalding her throat, and she reached out impulsively to cup his warm cheeks. “Oh, Kit, I’m sorry. I’d like to meet that callous bigot and...and slap her face.”
Unexpectedly he chuckled, the sound rippling like rich music through the darkness. “There you go again, defending me. Tell me why you keep doing so.”
His adept return to their own relationship disconcerted her. “We’re friends,” she said. “You did the same for me when Winnifred repeated gossip.”
“Are we only friends?” His thumbs made gentle strokes over her inner arm. “Tonight you showed me the spark beneath your ice. It makes me think you truly care for me.”
“Think no more. I dislike bullies, that’s all.”
He stood unmoving. She could hear the faint buzz of voices from the rooms beyond, could feel the inviting heat of his body and the shivery caress of his hands. “I warned you the night of the fire,” he murmured, “that if ever you gave me the slightest encouragement, I’d kiss you again.”
She had known from the very instant he ushered her into the darkness that he meant to kiss her. The truth washed over her in a warm wave, drowning any protest she might have uttered, drowning even her resolve to avoid the loathsome prospect of physical closeness.
He caught her against his chest. The night obscured all but the dusky shape of his features and the tiger-bright burn of his gaze. For one breathless moment he held her, his fingers smoothing the fine hairs at the nape of her neck. He was giving her the chance to retreat, she knew. But the siren call of curiosity drew her, along with the urge to explore the secret longings he roused in her. For too many lonely nights, she had tossed and turned with her inability to explain why he fascinated her so.
Surely one kiss would break the spell. One kiss and no more.
As if wrapped in the misty magic of a dream, she slid her hands over the fine fabric of his coat and up to his strong jaw. “Kit?”
His arms tightened and his fingers plunged into her hair, dislodging a few pins. “My God.”
Need wrenched his voice in the instant before his mouth covered hers, slanting downward with sweet, seductive pressure. The warm wooing of his tongue made pleasure flow like molten gold through her veins. She strained upward on tiptoe and reached for the shining world of passion he offered.
The kiss went on and on, an eternity of heaven, yet he felt as solid to her as the earth. Then his mouth left a moist path over her cheek and down to her throat. Threading her fingers through his silky hair, she tilted her head back, the better to feel his fevered kisses. He blew gently against her dampened skin, and prickles danced over every inch of her, even the hidden places under her gown. His large hand reached beneath her necklace and warmed her bosom. Then he worked one long finger into the cleft of her corset until he brushed the sensitive peak of her breast.
Awareness exploded inside her body. A moan rose from a place so deep and dark she hadn’t known it existed. The wanton sound shocked her half back to reason. “Kit, stop. Please stop.”
“Shush.” He caught her protest with his mouth. His finger stroked once more over her nipple before he removed his hand. “Don’t be frightened, Norah. I only want to show you pleasure.”
“Anyone could walk in and see us.”
“Is that all you’re worried about?” He rubbed his cheek against hers, so she felt the faint brush of stubble. “God, I want you. I don’t care who knows it.”
Moving his hands beneath her bustle, he cradled her hips against his own. Despite the layers of clothing, she felt the pressure of his maleness, as firm and thick as an oak branch. Her legs quivered with untimely weakness and impossible longing. Even more shamefully confusing was her desire to reach between them and curl her fingers around his hard length.
His lips tenderly tasted the side of her neck. “Let me make love to you, Norah. Let me give you the ultimate joy.”
She felt herself sliding into the hot liquid spell of his voice, like a nugget of gold melting into a mold, guided by an expert craftsman. She caught herself on the final plunge.
The ultimate joy? There was no joy in that. He wanted to beguile her. He wanted her to forget the burning pain until it was too late to stop his invasion.
The wingbeats of panic fluttered against her rib cage. A sob strangled her throat. “No!”
His hands flexed. “What—?”
She thrust ha
rd at his chest, yanked herself free, and ran.
“Norah!”
She ignored his low-pitched call. Cool air rushed against her hot cheeks. Moisture burned her eyes. She fled past the shadowy shapes of animal skeletons. The swift tap of her feet echoed the hammering of blood in her ears. She must escape the dangerous lassitude that threatened to smother her. She mustn’t allow Kit Coleridge to reshape her brilliant future.
Chamber after chamber sped past in a dizzying fog. An occasional skylight spilled a silver stream of moonglow, making the fossils come alive, their eye sockets staring at her, their bony limbs stretching out.
At last a sharp pain in her side forced her to halt. She leaned against a glass case, squeezed her eyes shut, and tipped her head back, until the fire in her lungs subsided.
When she lifted her lashes, a shadow seemed to soar overhead.
Norah gasped, then laughed at her own foolishness. An ancient creature hung from the ceiling, its great skeletal wings spread wide in perpetual flight.
Inside the rows of glass cases, stuffed birds nested in the gloom. She could no longer hear the hum of conversation in the distance. She must have run far from the gallery of minerals.
In a corner of her heart, bitter disappointment lurked. Kit hadn’t bothered to follow her. He must have been unaffected by the kiss that had caused a quake in the bedrock of her beliefs.
She had thought herself free at last. But the chains of her newfound desire for him choked with frightful, baffling intensity. How could she yearn for his embrace when she knew—she knew—the disgusting finale to their caresses?
In return for her surrender, he would not even offer her the dubious reward of marriage.
Petticoats rustling, she slowly retraced her path. She had been to the museum before, but only to view the Elgin marbles and other antiquities on the ground floor. She had never ventured into the zoology exhibits. Needing time to collect her scattered senses, she wandered past the fossils and attempted to fasten up her disheveled hair. But she had lost too many pins, and her curls flowed in an unruly mass over her shoulders.
An arched doorway led her into a murky chamber with towering white pillars and plastered walls. Here lay specimens of insects, cocoons spun by silk moths, an exotic spider’s huge web, clay nests built by African ants.
