Fire at Midnight

by Olivia Drake

  “The Maharaja of Rampur.” The duke tapped his fingers on his wineglass, the light catching the webwork of scars he bore from a tragic fire in his youth. “I wonder if he’s the same man I photographed before the Great Mutiny. I suppose the present maharaja might be his son.”

  “Were the photographs destroyed when your caravan burned?” Sarah asked.

  A faraway haze glossing his eyes, Damien nodded. “I lost a lot that night—but gained so much, too.”

  “We both gained something precious.” Sarah smiled down the table at her husband, a sweetly tender curve of her lips that filled Norah with wistful envy. Her stay here had healed more than her ankle; it had mended her long-shattered dreams. Marriage needn’t be the cold, formal relationship she had shared with Maurice, for the affection between Sarah and Damien Coleridge had endured for thirty years. The Lamborough clan was the tender, tight-knit family that had formed the fabric of Norah’s yearning during her solitary childhood. Seeing their closeness had shaken her mistrust of Kit. If he had grown up in the glow of his parents’ love, perhaps he was capable of fidelity. Perhaps...

  To Norah, Sarah said, “You must be wondering what we’re talking about. You see, Kit’s father and I were caught up in the Sepoy Mutiny in India, back in ’57. Kit was a newborn infant at the time. His mother, Shivina, was slain by a fanatic—”

  “For God’s sake, Mother, don’t resurrect that ancient story again,” Kit said. “It’s not a part of my life.”

  A flush tinted his brown cheeks. He avoided Norah’s eyes and scowled into his teacup. Her chest tightened. Though she wanted to spare him embarrassment, she also felt the prod of curiosity, the need to unveil every facet of his past. “But this is fascinating,” she murmured. “I’d like to hear the story.”

  “And so you shall.” Flashing Kit a glance that was half remonstrative and half concerned, Sarah related how Damien had rescued Shivina from the fiery death of suttee, then married her before the birth of their son. She spoke with quiet sympathy of the prejudice Shivina had suffered from the English, only to die at the hands of a priest of her own race. Disguised as Indians, Damien and Sarah had fled the mutiny with Kit and found sanctuary in the Himalayan foothills.

  The bittersweet tale of strife and triumph brought tears to Norah’s eyes.

  “Shivina was my friend,” Sarah finished, “and I vowed I would always keep her memory alive for Kit.”

  “She’s nothing to me,” he said flatly. “Nothing at all.”

  “She suffered giving birth to you,” Damien said sharply. “On her dying breath she asked Sarah to protect you. If it hadn’t been for Shivina, you wouldn’t be here.”

  Kit met his father’s glare. “As far as I’m concerned, my mother is sitting at this table. I see no need to go on about a dead woman.”

  Damien pushed back his chair. “That is quite enough, son. I will tolerate no more disrespectful comments.”

  Kit arched an eyebrow. “As you wish, Your Grace.”

  He turned his fork over and over, his hand swarthy against the white tablecloth. A lock of black hair slipped onto his brow as his brooding gaze focused on the utensil in his fingers. Norah’s heart went out to him. Dear God, she had never realized his scars were carved so deeply. He could not abide references to his dark skin, not even from his own family.

  Across the table, Annabelle looked demurely angelic with her hands folded in her lap, though her azure eyes gleamed with interest at the quarrel. Lord Adrian stared as if entranced at a dish of caramelized oranges.

  In an effort to allay the tension, Norah said to the duchess, “In the library I saw the book you and His Grace published about your travels in India. And the other books, too—about China and Japan and South Africa. How exciting to have lived abroad in so many exotic places.”

  Sarah smiled. “Once Annabelle was born, we were ready to return to England and put down roots. It grew difficult to live on the road with six active children.” Her face sobered. “And by then Damien’s brother had died, so Damien succeeded to the title. He had lands and other holdings to oversee. Still, we miss the excitement of new places.”

  Annabelle batted her eyelashes at Adrian. “Speaking of travel, Lord Adrian, do tell me more about your trip to Belgium.’’

  The news jarred Norah like an off-key note. “Belgium? You’ve been there recently?”

  “Er, yes...”

  Kit stood. “Would you ladies care to retire to the drawing room? We wouldn’t wish to offend you with our cigar smoke.”

  He and his friend exchanged a cryptic glance. Adrian rose with fluid grace. “Capital idea, old chap. I could do with one of those Indian bidis His Grace keeps on hand.”

  The sharp teeth of suspicion bit Norah. “Where in Belgium did you go, Lord Adrian?”

  Adrian ran his finger inside his starched collar. He looked beseechingly at Kit. “Here and there—”

  “It was nothing important,” Kit cut in.

  “Did you by chance pass through Nivelles, near Brussels? I grew up in a convent there.”

  “Oh?” Adrian said, his reddened cheeks heightening her suspicions. “How fascinating.’’

  Annabelle linked her arm with his. “I’m fascinated by having a guest to brighten our dreary country life. Why must the men and women separate because of some silly custom? We can all retire to the drawing room.” She leaned closer to him, her young breasts pressing against her demure neckline. “Better yet, my lord, I could show you the garden—”

  “It’s pitch-dark outside.” Kit pulled her from his friend and marched her away. Norah followed brother and sister to the doorway in time to hear him add in a harsh undertone, “If you flirt with fire, Belle, you’ll get burned. Adrian Marlow is no callow lad to worship at your dainty feet.”

  She set her chin. “I’m to be launched into society very soon. That means I’m old enough to make my own judgments about men. Besides, how many big brothers have warned their little sisters about you?”

  He flushed. “I trust you’ll see the value in staying away from him. Or you’ll force me to have a talk with Father.”

  The instant Kit turned back to the dining room, Annabelle stuck out her tongue.

  Over his shoulder, he said, “And bear in mind, only children make rude gestures.”

  “Bully.” Cheeks afire, she minced down the corridor toward the drawing room, her kid slippers scuffing on the marble floor.

  “Kit, wait,” Norah called softly.

  He returned to her side, but gazed after his sister. “Now there’s a girl who’s heading for trouble someday,” he murmured.

  “Perhaps she emulates her elder brother.” Glancing past his broad shoulder, Norah saw the duke and duchess speaking to Adrian. “Now, I should like to know why Lord Adrian went to Belgium.”

  “I’ll tell you later.”

  “Kit, don’t put me off—”

  “I’m not. But we can’t speak privately here.” His black lashes lowered slightly, giving him a decidedly indecent appeal. “I’ll come to your room later.”

  He moved away before she could protest. She couldn’t have protested, anyway, for a pulse of excitement throbbed in her throat. She missed him. She missed the thrill of his touch. She missed the high heat of his kisses. Most of all, she missed his closeness, the easy camaraderie that had flourished during their weeks of partnership.

  Her gaze remained glued to the dove-gray coat that encompassed his broad back as he went to the sideboard and poured himself a brandy. Regrets drifted like withered petals into the hollow of her heart. Dear God, she had rejected his marriage proposal. With a pang she knew she’d had to turn him down. He wanted a large family, and that was the one thing she couldn’t give him.

  The duchess came over to Norah. Her eyes dancing with warmth, she murmured, “Men! They do enjoy turning the air blue with their smelly cigars and unseemly curses.”

  “Perhaps we women also need time away from the men.”

  “Perhaps.” Sarah joined arms with Norah and d
rew her down the passage, their footsteps echoing on the marble tiles. “I’m so happy we’ve had this chance to visit. May I speak frankly, without offending you?”

  “Of course.

  The duchess stopped near an alcove displaying a statue of the naked Mercury, a fig leaf concealing his manliness. “I’ve been wanting to tell you how glad I am that Kit has finally found you.”

  Norah’s heart rolled over. “Found me? We’re only business partners.”

  “And I’m the queen of Siam,” Sarah said dryly.

  Her wise expression seemed to reach inside Norah, demanding honesty in return. “Well,” she murmured, “I admit that I’m very fond of Kit. But that doesn’t mean I’m the right woman for him.”

  “On the contrary, he’s needed you to fill his emptiness.” Sarah sighed. “Kit was ever the rebellious child, never satisfied with himself. Yet he was sensitive, too, taking any slight to heart. More than once he came home with a bloodied nose or a blackened eye.”

  Remembering his hot reaction to Jerome calling him a heathen, Norah said, “I’ve seen the bitter side of him, too.”

  “The love his father and I gave him never seemed enough to assure Kit of his own worth.” Sarah took Norah’s hand. “I pray all he needs is a good woman in his life, a woman who can be his equal mate.”

  Denying a rise of yearning, Norah lowered her gaze. “He and I aren’t always in accord.”

  “Because you affect each other deeply. I’m reminded of the quarrels Damien and I had when we first met.”

  Astonished, Norah tilted her head at the duchess’s tranquil features. “You couldn’t possibly have quarreled. You’re both so perfectly suited.”

  Sarah laughed merrily. “We’re both strong-minded people. And back then, I was a prissy spinster who never lost a chance to criticize Damien’s less commendable traits.” Her smile gentled and she patted Norah’s hand before releasing it. “Trust doesn’t magically appear, like the cobra that a snake charmer lures from a basket. You must nurture it. I know my son has a deplorable reputation, Norah, but he’s a fine man. A man worthy of your trust.”

  Norah didn’t correct the mistaken notion that his character was the source of the problem. She ached with the need for a confidante. Since Ivy and Winnifred were both spinsters, Norah had never had anyone to answer her questions. Answers she burned to know now, before Kit came to her bedroom.

  Tracing her finger over the tiny wing attached to Mercury’s foot, she blurted, “Is it true that women can’t...find pleasure in a man’s embrace?”

  Sarah eyed her with thoughtful concern. “No. Certainly not. Though I think those men who fear we would stray from our marriage vows would have us believe so. The Church also teaches submission rather than passion. I would never presume to question your own marital experience, my dear, but I can say that true love is the vital ingredient to my own happiness with Damien.”

  True love. The one element Norah had never known until Kit. Could that be the reason Maurice’s touch had repelled her?

  On impulse, she kissed Sarah on the cheek. “Thank you. For making me feel welcome and for giving me much to think about.”

  Needing to be alone, Norah excused herself. As she took the stairway up to her bedroom, she pictured Sarah Coleridge in the diaphanous nightgown, her husband lifting the silk to caress her most private place, and she positioning herself to welcome his lusty invasion.

  A tempest of heat descended upon Norah. The nuns had warned her to accept suffering as a woman’s lot. The repellent reality of the matrimonial bed had confirmed their teachings. But now she wondered if an entire dimension of marriage had been lost to her.

  Would intimacy with Kit hold no disgust and pain, only bliss?

  The daring question both lured and frightened her.

  Inside her bedroom she roamed aimlessly from a Chinese teapot filled with dried heather, to an urn made of Siberian jasper. She trailed her fingertips over the smooth satin coverlet on the bed. Layers of silk in citrine and sapphire draped the posts and canopy. Despite the richness of the colors, the wide mattress with its bank of feather pillows seemed cold and lonely tonight.

  Kit would come to her soon. For the first time in two weeks, they would be alone. The prospect of yet another strained conversation must be why she felt so restless.

  To pass the time, she sat in the comfortable wing chair by the fire and began to sketch. The design began as a brooch, but moments later she gazed at a drawing of Kit, his well-shaped head with the stark definition of wickedly curved lips and teasing smile. Every nuance of his kiss expanded in her memory like the taste of champagne; even her nipples felt taut and tingly.

  Rest assured I shan’t badger you again.

  Perhaps he no longer wanted her. Perhaps she would never know the joy of his embrace again. She would never know if this time, intimacy might be different...

  A tree branch scraped against the windowpane, the sound heightening her sense of desolation. She flung down the sketch pad and began to pace. Methodically she ran down the list of arguments against Kit, all the reasons she could never marry again. Then she puzzled over why he would send Lord Adrian to Belgium, what he hoped to learn from the nuns, and wondered in annoyance why he hadn’t told her.

  As she passed the balcony doors for the umpteenth time, Norah caught her reflection in the murky glass. Her face shone pale against the black of her gown. The woman in widow’s weeds. The woman who had let happiness pass her by. The woman who would never know for certain if lovemaking held a bright bliss beyond the darkness and degradation.

  Her throat squeezed tight. Banishing judgment and logic, she flew into the dressing room and undid the buttons down her back. She stepped out of her dress and the myriad petticoats, then kicked off her shoes and peeled away the silk stockings. Corset, chemise, and underdrawers landed on the pile of garments. Cool air struck her fevered skin. Her breath emerged in short puffs. Conscious of her naked state, she crossed to the great mahogany wardrobe, found a fresh nightgown, and slid it over her head.

  Then she went back into the bedroom and stopped before the cheval dressing-glass. High color graced her cheekbones. A few corkscrew curls had escaped her chignon to dangle around her shoulders. The bruises from her fall down the stairs had faded, thank goodness. Billows of creamy cotton flannel enveloped her from neck to toe. It was hardly an alluring creation, not sheer in the least, yet she felt freer, hedonistic, aching and ready...

  The muted glow from a single lamp on the night table augmented the firelight. Mysterious shadows lay within the canopied bed. The scene was made for seduction. A place for a woman to meet her lover.

  She pressed her hand to her lips. What was she doing?

  Even as a sea of misgivings inundated her, a rap broke the stillness. Kit. The surety of his closeness petrified her. She stood before the mirror, her hand clutching the collar of her nightgown, her knuckles white.

  The knock came again. Indecision pulled her to and fro. She could send him away. Or invite him inside.

  Then she made her choice.

  Hardly daring to reconsider, Norah hastened across the soft carpet. Her fingers curled around the cool crystal knob. A single shining thought sustained her.

  Tonight she would know.

  Chapter 14

  “I didn’t expect you so soon, Kit.”

  Her breathy greeting struck Kit speechless. His thoughts centered on the lovely picture Norah made, her cheeks blooming pink and her hair mussed, as if she had just risen from bed. He wondered if she were naked beneath the voluminous folds of her nightgown.

  Jesus God. Why had she undressed when she knew he was coming to see her? He rejected the obvious answer. He’d caught her unawares, that was all.

  To disguise the drumbeat of desire in his blood, he assumed a formal tone. “Excuse me. If you’d rather we spoke in the morning...”

  “No. Come in. Please.”

  She opened the door wider. Feeling as awkward as a pubescent boy approaching his first sweetheart
, he stepped into the bedroom and shut the door. The muted lighting and quiet intimacy struck him. Her sketchpad lay on the floor beside the wing chair. A collection of her favorite pencils scattered the oak side table. Just inside the dressing room doorway, he could see the untidy heap of her clothing, the glimpse of white undergarments—

  “Why do you have one of our cases?” Norah stood watching him, her fingers gripping the high neck of her gown, the firelight glinting off her gold wedding band.

  He glanced down at the mother-of-pearl presentation box balanced on his dampened palm. The box he’d nearly forgotten.

  He passed it to her. “This is for you.”

  His breath stalled in his chest as Norah lifted the hinged lid. She blinked. For a few heartbeats, she didn’t move; then slowly she reached into the white velvet-lined interior and withdrew the glittering contents. Firelight flashed on the moonstones and diamond chips scattered over the woven silver necklace.

  “This is the parure you commissioned,” she said. “Did you bring it here to show it to me?”

  “I brought it to give to you. I asked you to design something you would like, didn’t I?”

  “But I thought it was for...”

  “Who?”

  “I don’t know. One of your other women.”

  Kit shook his head. “It was for you, Norah. It was always for you.”

  Her wide-eyed gaze fell to the jewelry spilling like a shiny waterfall over her fingers. He took the necklace and moved behind her to fasten the diamond clasp. His fingers brushed the warmth of her skin, the silken softness of her hair. The feathery down at the nape of her neck brought him to a poignant awareness of her femininity.

  She remained motionless, as if mesmerized by the brooch and earrings and bracelet still nestled inside the box. Kit stepped in front of her. Any other woman would have kissed him by now, would have prettily expressed gratitude for the generous present.

  Aren’t you pleased?” he asked.