by Olivia Drake
“So you did.” His midnight gaze traveled from her bare toes back up to her face. “Do you know, this is the first time I’ve seen you wear anything but black? You look ravishing.”
Then ravish me. Norah clamped down on the stupefying thought. Yet she couldn’t stop the memory of his kiss from blooming in her mind, the firm pressure of his lips, the sweep of his tongue inside her mouth, the brush of his fingertip over the bare skin of her breast. Despite wisdom and reason, she wanted his hands to explore her body. Her flesh tingled with the temptation to touch him, to be touched by him.
I want you, he’d said last night. I don’t care who knows it.
Somehow he aroused the same passion in her, Norah reflected in confusion. He stirred cravings no true lady ever felt. Yet his kiss also made her feel clean and good, not filthy and sinful. Somehow he made her want the obscene intimacy of the marriage bed she had just escaped.
“Well!” Winnifred’s outraged voice exploded like a pistol shot.
Peering over Kit’s shoulder, Norah saw her cousin-in-law sail into the bedroom, followed by Ivy. The women looked like twin crows in their crape-trimmed mourning gowns.
Norah yanked the lapels of her dressing gown together. She could see the picture of scandal through their eyes: she in her scanty garb and Kit kneeling beside her. Even worse, she had been contemplating the very act that society would condemn them for committing.
But she had done nothing wrong except dream of happiness. She raised her chin. “Good afternoon, Winnifred. And Ivy.”
“Oh, my dear.” Ivy trotted forward, her face pale beneath the frothy lace cap. She twisted a handkerchief, the lace embroidered with tiny black crosses. “Last night, when we received Lord Blackthorne’s message at the museum, Winnie and I came straight here. But he sent us on home. I could scarcely sleep for worrying about you.”
Fondness flooded Norah’s heart. “I’m much better now.”
Winnifred arched an accusing eyebrow. “You don’t appear to be suffering from any grave injury. His lordship gave us to believe you couldn’t be moved.”
Rising with easy grace, Kit went to the tea tray on the bed. “My physician said Norah’s ankle is badly sprained.”
“Lord Blackthorne told us you tumbled down the stairs at the museum.” Ivy bent to Norah and grasped her hand. “Oh dear, you have a nasty bruise on your face. I feel horribly responsible.”
Kit spun around, the bone china cup pale against his dark fingers. “Responsible, Miss Ivy? What do you mean?
His sharp tone speared Norah. Dear God, he considered her sister-in-law a suspect. Ivy’s spidery fingers clung to Norah. Despite the parchment quality of her skin, her hand felt wiry and strong, capable of giving a person a violent shove. Norah tried to put Ivy’s age-creased face onto the shadowy figure of her nightmares. But the vision eluded her.
Ivy blinked her aquamarine eyes at Kit. “Why, I should have noticed her hem was too long. I would have been happy to shorten it.”
Winnifred snorted. “Might we change the topic to one more pertinent than sewing? We’ve come to escort Norah home, where she belongs.”
His jaw set, Kit delivered the cup of tea to Norah, then took a stance by her. “She’s staying here. Now, would either of you ladies like a cup of tea?”
His calm voice surprised Norah. She started to protest, then looked at Winnifred’s sturdy hands strangling the cord of her reticule. Was she the killer? Could she have lurked in the darkened museum, waiting for the chance to leap out and strike?
The possibility quaked through Norah. Warming her icy palms on her cup, she sipped slowly at the tea and studied Winnifred’s face, now mottled with red.
“Do you think I could drink tea when you propose such a scandalous arrangement?” Winnifred sputtered. “Lest you forget, my lord, Norah is a lady in mourning. Even you should see the folly in letting her reputation be blackened.”
“The folly would be releasing her from my protection. You see, someone pushed her down that staircase.”
His words dropped like dark stones into the sunny silence.
Ivy gasped. “Why, that’s a sin. She could have been killed. I can’t imagine who would be so wicked.”
“I told you something dreadful had happened, Ivy.” Winnifred swung to Norah. “Who did you see? Tell me, and I’ll give the name to Inspector Wadding.”
“It was too dark. I only remember a black silhouette darting from the shadows.”
“I must have frightened the person off,” Kit added.
Winnifred lifted one thick brown eyebrow. “Didn’t you bump your head, Norah? Poor dear, you may be confused. When we get home, I’ll brew you a hot tisane, rosemary and peppermint.”
“I know what I saw,” Norah stated quietly. “No headache remedy will alter that.”
Kit folded his arms over his broad chest. “So you see the necessity of keeping her here, under my guard.”
Winnifred stood as stiff as a bird of prey poised to strike. “Do you dare suggest Ivy or I committed the evil act? I’m staggered by your accusation.”
“I’m not accusing you. I merely won’t take any chances. Don’t forget, someone murdered Maurice.”
“Yes, in this very house.” Winnifred stabbed a finger at him. “So much for Norah’s safety.”
“Is this the room where my brother passed on?” Her voice quavering, Ivy glanced furtively around.
“No,” Kit said in a softer tone. “That happened in the master bedroom.”
“Humph,” Winnifred snorted. “As if a different bedroom will keep Norah safe. Pardon me for saying so, your lordship, but how can I trust you?”
“You’ll have to. I give you no choice.”
“Then I shall move in here. Someone must chaperone Norah.”
“You needn’t worry yourself,” Kit stated. “I’ve taken care of the matter.”
Norah tilted a startled glance up at him. The chaperone was news to her.
“How so?” Winnifred demanded. “I should like to know this woman, to make certain her character is above reproach.”
He placed his hand on the back of the chaise lounge and moved closer to Norah. “Enough questions. As I said, you’ll have to trust me.” His voice rang with steely command.
The starch left Winnifred’s spine. Her shoulders drooped into a curious facsimile of Thaddeus’s posture. Gripping the reticule, she looked at Norah. “Have you nothing to say?” she murmured. “Lord or not, he cannot force you to remain here. If you leave now, we may yet salvage your reputation.”
Ivy dabbed the corner of her eye with her handkerchief. “Oh, do come with us, Norah. Marmalade and I miss you so dreadfully.”
Norah cradled her cup to keep her hands from shaking. She couldn’t stop reliving the horror of that shove, the panic of the long, long fall into oblivion. And now she knew the depths of hell—the despair of losing faith in the people closest to her. She was aware of Kit’s nearness, the strength of his doeskin-clad legs, the toughness of his body. His indomitable aura of security held an enormous appeal.
“I’m staying.”
Winnifred’s lips pinched. “Will you blacken Maurice’s memory and bring ridicule to your family? You think only of yourself.”
Norah sadly shook her head. “Maurice managed to shame himself. I won’t accept responsibility for his actions.”
“Well! Do not expect the rest of us to fall into the den of iniquity with you. Come along, Ivy.”
“Oh, dear,” said Ivy. “At least you seem happier here, Norah.” Sniffling into her handkerchief, Ivy padded to the door like an obedient dog.
Winnifred stopped short, then strode back to Norah. “I nearly forgot. This arrived by the early post.”
As if it disgusted her to touch Norah, she dropped a letter on the chaise lounge. Turning on her heel in military precision, she marched out, Ivy bringing up the rear.
Tears flooded Norah’s eyes. There went her only relations. Exasperating as they might be, she had grown to love both women, to sm
Kit bore away her cup, then sank to his heels beside the chaise and gave her a napkin to wipe her eyes. “I’m sorry you’ve been forced into this predicament, Norah. But you made the best choice, your only choice.”
“Did I?” Bitter regret plagued her. “What if we never find the person who pushed me? This estrangement could last forever.”
“Try not to worry.” He took her hand and gently rubbed her wrist. “In the meantime, I’ll find out the truth somehow. I promise you that.”
His steady gaze seemed too wise, too cognizant of her private thoughts. She felt uneasy and strange sitting here in the bedroom with him, as if they were husband and wife discussing how to discipline a laggardly parlor maid.
Pulling her hands free, she picked up the letter. Surprise joined the upheaval in her emotions. “It’s posted from India. It must be from my agent, Mr. Upchurch.”
She tore open the envelope. A single sheet of paper fell into her trembling fingers. Quickly she scanned the thick black script. The bottom dropped out of her stomach. “Oh, no.”
“What does Upchurch say?” Kit asked.
“It isn’t from Upchurch—it’s from a man named Thomas Leach, the district head for the principality of Rampur. The local telegraph office told him about my wires because no one there has heard of Upchurch. And Leach says the maharaja is gone.”
Kit frowned. “Gone where?”
“Here. He’s sailing to England on his yacht. To attend the Queen’s Jubilee celebration.”
“Then that’s good news.”
“No, it isn’t. Not if he left Fire at Midnight back in India.” The enormity of the dilemma set her head to pounding again. She rubbed her brow. “Oh Blessed Virgin. Whatever happened to Upchurch?”
“Maybe he’s on his way back to England. He might even be traveling with the maharaja.”
“And if he’s not? Kit, the competition is only two months away. And last night we bragged to the Prince of Wales about using the stone.”
“We’ll purchase another gem.”
“There isn’t another stone like Fire at Midnight.” She lifted her despairing gaze. “It’s matchless, the only known lavender diamond.”
He rose and took the letter. “Norah, don’t fret over this, too. Your health and safety are foremost. I’ll look into the matter of the diamond.”
His casual attitude lit the fuse of her anger. Didn’t he understand what the commission meant to her? It was the pinnacle of her career, the chance to accomplish something in her own right. “I’m not fretting. Winning the competition is vital to my future.”
“It’s only one sale. If you lose it, there’ll be others. I’ll see to that.”
The gap between them loomed like an abyss. For all her years of training to be a lady, she would never attain his nonchalance about wealth and position, the attitude inherited from centuries of nobility. She had worked hard to carve her own niche in the competitive world of jewelers. And she had survived the painful task of laying her dreams of love and family to rest. She wouldn’t—she couldn’t—let her hope for success die, too.
She levered up from the chaise and snatched the letter back. “For once, you’re not taking care of matters for me,” she snapped. “This is my problem, and I’ll solve it.”
His face darkened. “It’s our problem. We’re partners, remember?”
“Then if you wish to be of assistance, kindly fetch my gown. I must try to find out when the maharaja is arriving.” Ignoring the pain in her ankle, she swung her legs to the floor.
He pressed her shoulders back against the cushions. “The side seam of your gown was ripped, and the housekeeper is repairing it. Even so, you’re in no condition to go anywhere.”
He was right, but she would never admit it. His handsome face loomed close, his gold-flecked dark eyes shining. She blazed with the desire to kiss his beautiful mouth. Her appalling lust ignited the explosive mix of her emotions.
She crushed the letter into a ball. “So you finally have me trapped. The instant you saw me helpless, you carried me off to your house.”
He jerked back. “What else was I to do? Leave you to be murdered?”
She ignored his sarcasm. “You saw an advantage and you took it. Just as you did when you kissed me last night.”
“You wanted that kiss as much as I did.” She lowered her gaze, but he caught her chin and held it, so she couldn’t help but see the angry hurt reflected in his eyes. “Admit the truth, Norah. I won’t let you shovel all the blame onto me.”
“I indulged a passing fancy. That doesn’t mean I want to have an affair with you, Kit Coleridge.”
“Fine. I haven’t asked you.”
Releasing her, he stood up and stalked to the window. His grim posture somehow dismayed her. She groped for the shield of resentment. “Oh? You said last night that you wanted to make love to me.”
“Contrary to what you believe, I only make love when the woman is willing.”
Something in the chilly set of his mouth suggested pain, yet she couldn’t stem the acrid flow of words, not even when she knew she was being unfair to him. “You made me believe otherwise. You brought me here and stripped off my clothes—”
“Betsy did the honors. I wasn’t even in the room.”
“—and you gave me no choice but to wear a nightgown left by one of your hussies.”
Unexpectedly he laughed, a bittersweet sound, his teeth gleaming white in the sunlight. “That’s my stepmother’s gown. She forgot it the last time she and my father came to visit.”
Looking down at the flimsy concoction of lace and silk, Norah blurted, “She would wear something so...so...?”
“So sensual?” His lashes lowered slightly as he walked to the bed and leaned against the post. “Despite what many dried-up matrons would have you believe, Norah, there are married couples who take great pleasure in the sexual act. It’s a way to express love.”
Her cheeks burned. Unable to look at him, she smoothed the crumpled letter against her thigh. Other ladies blissfully welcomed that repulsive joining? For the first time she wondered if Kit could be right. Then she wondered what was wrong with her, that she hadn’t found joy in her own marriage bed.
Her throat thick with pain, she murmured, “Love has nothing to do with what you want—or wanted—from me, Kit.”
Chest aching, she waited for him to answer. The truth crept forth and stripped away the protection of anger. Dear God, she wanted him to deny her statement. She wanted him to clasp her close and declare his eternal love.
Because the same fierce emotion dwelt in her own heart.
The faint ticking of the mantel clock underscored the silence. She watched the letter slip from her numb fingers and flutter to the carpet. How had this warm, soft affection for him grown, this hot wild yearning for a man who was destined to marry a debutante? A man with a wicked reputation for using women?
“Norah.”
Her name sounded like a caress. Slowly she lifted her head to find him gazing at her. The floral bed-hangings formed a backdrop for the hard contours of his face, for the whipcord strength of his body. The shadow of displeasure had fled his expression. In its place, a tender fire illuminated his exotic eyes.
“Norah, if I thought you truly wanted—” A sharp rap on the door ended his utterance. “Dammit.”
Kit shot her a look of frustration, then strode to the door. Wanted what? Dear God, what had he been about to say?
A man brushed past him and hurried toward Norah. He wore a tailored camel topcoat with gold buttons that glinted in the sunlight. His neat silver hair and gentlemanly features brought a rush of happy surprise to her.
“Jerome! You’re back from Switzerland.”
“Norah, my dear.” Dropping to the edge of the chaise, he caught her in a hug. The familiar smells of peppermint and cigars enveloped her in nostalgia, and his mustache tickled her cheek. “Are you all right? My God, what happened to your face?”
“It’s only a bruise.” Frowning, she drew back. “Winnifred and Ivy just left. How did you know I was here?”
“Culpepper told me what happened—that you fell down the stairs at the museum and had to spend the night here.” Jerome kept a gentle grip on her shoulders. His smile thinned into a strict line as he glanced at Kit, then back at her. “Norah, tell me the truth. Has the cad dishonored you?”
His meaning washed her in warmth. “No, of course not.” Ashamed of her earlier outburst and determined to make amends, she softly added, “Lord Blackthorne has been nothing short of wonderful.”
Kit’s eyes held hers for an eternal moment. He stood with his arms crossed, his feet planted like the roots of a solid oak. In contrast, his lips were slightly parted, giving an impression of vulnerability that clasped her heart. She was at a loss to explain the sense of oneness she felt with him; she only knew he would defend her against any foe, real or imagined.
A muscle leaped in Jerome’s jaw. He surged to his feet. “By God, you can’t remain with this scoundrel. I’m taking you away from here.”
Kit stepped forward. “What do you propose, that she stay with you?”
“Yes. At least she can trust me not to compromise her.”
“Can she? I wonder.” Abruptly Kit asked, “How long have you been back in town?”
“I arrived yesterday evening. And I resent your vulgar implication.”
“Someone pushed Norah down those stairs. Did you by chance visit the museum last night?”
The two men faced each other. Kit radiated a cold suspicion that froze Norah. “Surely you don’t believe Jerome is the culprit,” she said. “Besides, we’re looking for a woman.”
As if he hadn’t heard her, Jerome clenched his fists. “Why, you haughty wastrel. I should call you out for that.”
“Someone tried to kill her. Someone close to Maurice and to her. Somebody like you, St. Claire.”
Horrified, Norah wanted to jump up between them, but her ankle frustrated her. “Stop it,” she said. “Both of you. Jerome would never harm me.”
“Maybe you’re right.” Kit slanted a glance first at her, then at the older man. “After all, you still owe him six thousand pounds.”
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