In the space of a heartbeat, he had thrust me back into the passage and pulled the panel closed behind us. In his haste, the candle blew out, plunging us into complete darkness. The passage was small and narrow, and we dared not move with only the thin oak panel between us and whoever had come into the music room. My back was pressed against the stone and my front was pressed against Stoker, a surface every bit as unyielding but much warmer. His heart beat slowly under mine and his exhalations ruffled the hair at my brow.
His mouth moved against my ear, intimate, caressing. “Veronica,” he murmured, his voice almost soundless in that small, confined space.
I turned my head to touch my lips to his cheek, whispering the words against his skin. “Yes.” It was not a question. It was a declaration, an invitation. He moved against me, and I stifled a moan, biting my lip so hard I tasted the sharp salty copper of my own blood on my tongue.
His mouth moved again. “You are standing on my foot.”
I reared back, hitting my head on the stone wall behind me. I smothered a lavish curse and realized that there was a faint glimmer of light in the passageway—a crack in the linenfold paneling. I put my eye to it just in time to see the glow of a single candle illuminating the music room, held aloft by Mrs. Trengrouse. She was wearing a sober dressing gown and nightcap. She walked forward slowly and took only two or three steps, as if steeling herself against what she might find.
She held the candle high, moving it from side to side in a slow arc. “Miss Rosamund? Is that you? Are you here?” Her voice trembled, and I held my breath, knowing that Stoker and I dare not reveal ourselves, as much for fear that she would faint dead away as for the lack of any possible excuse for our presence. Far better to wait for her to withdraw, then beat a hasty retreat to our own rooms. I slid a little aside, guiding his head to the crack so that he, too, could see. We were awkwardly arranged, with Stoker half-stooped and one strong thigh braced under my bottom so that we could both watch. I slipped a little and he caught me, planting one palm flat against the paneling, creating a sort of armchair for me out of his own body. The warmth of his flesh was almost unbearable and I wondered for a brief and irrational moment if he were deliberately provoking a physical reaction in order to annoy me. To show him I would not be goaded, I perched upon his thigh, making a point of wriggling just a little before turning my attention back to Mrs. Trengrouse.
She stood still for a long moment, listening, I suspect, and I fancied I could almost hear her heartbeat as well as my own in those seconds as they ticked by. “Go away,” she said with sudden ferocity. “You will not harm this family!” I froze, certain she had spotted the gleam of our eyes in the crack of the paneling, but she made no move to command us to come out, and I realized she was not speaking to us at all. “Go away, Miss Rosamund,” she called, a trifle more gently. “It is time for you to rest.”
With that, she left, closing the door behind her. We listened to her footsteps as they faded away. After several minutes, Stoker eased his posture, setting me onto my feet and releasing his arm. I nearly pitched over, for my legs had gone quite numb in the chill of the passageway. He took my hand as we crept out of our hiding place. We dared not light the candle again, but we knew the way well enough. There was no sign of Mrs. Trengrouse in the corridor, and we hurried hand in hand past the various closed doors. Stoker started up the turret stair, and just as I started up after him, I heard a noise behind me. I made a shooing gesture and Stoker continued on as I turned. After a moment I heard the almost imperceptible click of his door closing.
The noise I had detected was a sort of strangled gasp, stillborn in the throat, the sound choked by emotion. I turned to see Helen Romilly at the opposite end of the great hall. The nightlight by the turret stair had blown out, and there was only her candle to light the distance between us. Against the inky shadows of the staircase behind me, my white dressing gown must have appeared ghostlike, the hem trailing along the ground like the draperies of a phantom. My face, half-shielded by my black hair, would look as if it floated above my body, making a wraith of me.
“Rosamund!” she cried, starting forward a half step. “Did I summon you? Go away,” she urged.
I did not move, but just then a gust of wind blew from an opened window in the turret, billowing my dressing gown about me and tossing my hair.
She gave another gasp and her candle fell from her trembling hand, the fitful flame guttering out as it landed upon the stone with a dull thud. She called again in the darkness as she fumbled for it.
“Rosamund! You must go,” she moaned. “You must leave us in peace.”
I did not wait to hear more. I could hardly reveal myself to her. She would be utterly humiliated if she discovered I was no ghost, and I had little inclination to subject myself to further histrionics. It seemed a quick retreat was the easiest for both of us.
Without another thought, I slipped up the stairs, making my way on silent feet into the shadows above. As I ascended, a pool of warm light spread beneath me, rising through the darkness. She had relit her candle and was making her way to the turret. I hurried, very nearly tripping over the hem of my dressing gown as I charged up the stairs, determined to elude her.
I came to Tiberius’ door and flung myself through it, easing it closed just as the golden light illuminated the step below. I had closed it soundlessly; Helen would not find a ghost this night. But while I had successfully eluded both the housekeeper and Helen, I had created a new problem for myself.
Lounging upon his bed in his dressing gown of black silk, Tiberius surveyed me through heavy-lidded eyes, his mouth curving into a thoroughly salacious smile.
“Well, my dear Miss Speedwell. What a delightful surprise,” he said, tossing aside the book he had been reading.
I put a finger to my lips to urge him to silence. I did not know where Helen was, and she might well be just outside the door.
“Oh, don’t worry,” Tiberius assured me in a whisper as he levered himself off the bed and made his way to my side, his lips grazing my ear as he took my hand. “I will be as quiet or as loud as you like. I am yours to command,” he told me. And then his mouth settled on mine.
CHAPTER
11
I will admit to a certain susceptibility where Tiberius’ amorous efforts were concerned. Between my own healthy libido and the length of my self-imposed and unaccustomed chastity, I was ripe as a plum for the plucking. And we might indeed have plucked had I not come to my senses. As much as I enjoyed Tiberius’ exertions—he had graceful, deft fingers and the nimblest tongue of any man I had ever met—experiencing them only made me deeply aware of Stoker and the thwarted embraces we had shared.
Stoker. The thought of him propelled me to instinctive action. With no little measure of regret, I removed my hands from the viscount’s person and placed them flat upon his chest, giving him a small shove.
At least it was supposed to be a small shove. He ended up flat on his back on the hearthrug, contemplating the ceiling. When he had recovered his breath, he folded his hands over his lean stomach and regarded the coffered ceiling thoughtfully. “You need only have asked me to stop, Veronica. I have never yet taken a lover against his or her will, and I certainly wouldn’t begin with you.”
I reached a hand to help him up. “I am sorry. I suppose I was rather more forceful than I intended.”
He smoothed his dressing gown back into place, tying the knot of the belt where I had yanked it loose in a moment of reckless abandon. “Still, that was rather nearer the mark than I expected. Two minutes more and I wager you wouldn’t have been able to stop yourself.”
He poured out a measure of whisky and handed it to me, taking another for himself.
“Two seconds more and I wouldn’t have,” I admitted. I sipped deeply at the whisky to calm my jangled nerves and persuade my insistent lust to quiet itself.
He eyed the bed, then turned, reg
retfully I think, to the chairs in front of the fireplace. He settled himself, crossing one long leg over the other. “I suspect I have my brother to blame for this,” he ventured.
I took the other chair, propping my feet upon the still-warm hearth. “There are no significant developments in that quarter,” I told him.
“But there never will be if you and I become better friends, is that it?”
“Something like that.”
He smiled, a curiously kind curving of the lips that was devoid of his usual mockery. “You walk with hope, Veronica. God, how I envy you that. Life is a brutal business when one has nothing left to hope for.”
He rolled his glass between his palms, staring into the amber depths of the whisky.
“Do not try to engage my pity,” I warned him. “You are handsome, wealthy, privileged beyond belief, and you have hobbies to amuse and engage you.”
He arched one brow in my direction. “Music and art are poor substitutes for love, my dear.”
“I was not referring to those, my lord. I meant instead your penchant for puppeteering. Goodness, how you do like to tug the strings.”
His gaze was quizzical. “I haven’t the faintest idea what you mean—” he began.
He did not affect innocence well. There was something a trifle too mocking about the mouth, a little too knowing in the eyes. I gave him a thin, mirthless smile.
“We are all so many marionettes to you, are we not? How you enjoy this! I know you brought me here for some purpose beyond butterflies,” I said flatly.
He lifted his glass in a toast to my décolletage. “My dearest Veronica, with assets such as those, you can hardly blame a man.”
“And,” I went on as if he had not spoken, “for a purpose other than dalliance. You could as easily have attempted a seduction in London. But you had a reason for coming here—a reason to do with Rosamund.”
He hesitated a fraction too long before replying and it was that pause which told me everything. “I cannot imagine what fevered fancy has caused you to think such a thing.”
“I saw the harpsichord.”
“Of course you did,” he returned politely. “We all did. It was sitting in the music room.”
“I mean that I saw it. Specifically, I saw the panel above the keyboard, and I recognized a familiar face.”
“My, my, Miss Speedwell,” he said after a long moment, “what sharp eyes you have.”
“The better for hunting butterflies,” I replied. “Noticing details and, more importantly, understanding their significance, makes the difference between a dilettante and a prolific in my profession. And it is an excellent likeness.”
“Do you think so?” He rubbed one hand over his chin. Unlike Stoker, his lordship did not battle constantly against an unruly beard. His jawline was but lightly shadowed, lending him a slightly roguish air. “I only sat once for the artist, but I think he did a rather good job of capturing my profile. He made Jupiter’s shoulders too heavy,” he added thoughtfully. “Mine are more elegant.” Having just had the features in question under my questing hands, I could confirm his lordship’s assessment, but I said nothing. He heaved a sigh and drained the last of his whisky.
“How long were you in love with Rosamund?” I asked gently.
“From two minutes after I first met her until . . . what is today?” he asked.
“You were married to another woman,” I pointed out in a reproachful tone.
“I was doing my duty,” he countered.
“But you still loved Rosamund?”
“One could not help it. She was simply the most enchanting woman I ever met, if present company will take no exception.”
“None taken,” I assured him. “Will you tell me about her?”
He shrugged. “What is there to tell? She was not as classically beautiful as you are, but she had your quickness, your liveliness, a joie de vivre that was utterly irresistible. I wanted her from the first.”
“Where did you meet her?”
“Here. Malcolm was hosting one of his bloody house parties and Rosamund was a guest. Mertensia and Rosamund had been inmates together at some school for acidulated females. Malcolm was rather at loose ends when his parents died and didn’t quite know what to do with his younger siblings, and so they were both packed off to school. Lucian made a success of it, but Mertensia wept the entire term. She managed to make friends with Rosamund and together they formulated a plot to get Mertensia away from the school and back home to St. Maddern’s.”
“Rather daring for schoolgirls,” I mused.
“Indeed. I think Mertensia rather felt she owed her something for it. Rosamund was in disgrace at the school for her part in the scheme, and only Malcolm’s intervention persuaded the powers that be to let her stay on after Mertensia left. I suspect he made a handsome donation to the school as well,” he said.
“Why should he?”
He shrugged. “The Romillys are dreadfully old-fashioned. Devoted to outmoded notions like loyalty and fidelity. Mertensia couldn’t bear the idea that Rosamund should suffer on her account, and as she was a scholarship pupil, Malcolm’s flinging a little money their way would be quite welcome.”
“So Mertensia came home to St. Maddern’s and Rosamund stayed on at the school?”
“She was training for a teacher.” A tiny smile played about his lips. “You cannot imagine anyone less suited for the profession.”
“Was Rosamund not clever?”
“Clever! The girl was clever as a monkey and twice as mischievous. She was too high-spirited for such a drab life. But it was the only one open to her. Her parents were dead and there was nothing on the horizon for her but genteel poverty unless she earned her crust.”
“I know the feeling,” I said.
The smile deepened. “Since making your acquaintance, I have been more than once forcefully reminded of Rosamund. It has been both a joy and a torment.”
He said nothing more for a long moment, then cleared his throat abruptly. “So, Rosamund began her profession as a teacher but found it did not suit her. She left in order to undertake private employment.”
“Was she more successful in this enterprise?”
“She was not. As I said, she was clever. Too clever to waste her youth and beauty teaching dull-witted children to lisp their ABCs. But she had a living to make. She took a series of assignments, each more unsatisfying than the last. Finally, some three years ago, she made up her mind to leave England and accepted a post in India. It was not due to start until the autumn. There was a period of some months during which she was at loose ends, with neither home nor occupation. She wrote to Mertensia, who immediately invited her to spend the summer here. It had been many years since their last meeting.”
“That was the summer you met her?”
His lips twisted. “‘Met.’ So tame a word for it. It was not a meeting, Veronica. I was introduced to her and it was like finding part of myself that had been somehow walking the earth without me. She was my other half when I had not realized I was incomplete.”
I said nothing; my throat was too tight for words.
He went on in a faraway voice, staring into the fire. “Malcolm had settled into comfortable bachelorhood, and I was much the same, content to indulge myself with what we shall call impermanent companionship. I believe you understand what I mean.”
I thought of my own eminently sensible indulgences of the flesh—there is no better remedy for low spirits and a poor complexion than a healthy and revivifying bout of copulation, I believe—and nodded.
“And yet I was occasionally conscious of a flicker of dissatisfaction. I enjoyed my dissipations thoroughly. I made a practice of them that would have put the most jaded and accomplished reprobate to the blush. But there were times when I was aware of a certain envy beginning to gnaw at me.”
“Envy?”
/> “Not a word you might immediately associate with the likes of me, I know. I do not inspire pity, as you have so astutely pointed out,” he said, making a sweeping gesture with his arm. “I am wealthy and titled and I am not uncomely. I have been dreadfully indulged and have got my way in almost every situation.”
“You are thoroughly spoilt, you mean.”
“Ah, that touch of asperity! You are the only one of my acquaintance who is unafraid to spice her conversation with that particular pepper. It is one of the things I adore most about you.”
“You are proving my point,” I warned him.
He smiled lazily. “Did you know that if you rub a cat’s fur the wrong way with a piece of silk, you can make sparks? Little flickers of electricity conjured from your bare fingertips. It is the nearest thing to being a god. That is how I feel when I spar with you.”
“I am glad it amuses you.”
“Amuses! My delectable Veronica, ‘amusement’ does not begin to plumb the depths of my regard.”
“You were telling me about how you fell in love with another woman,” I reminded him.
“Yes, I was. I have always thought it a ridiculous expression, to say that one falls in love, and yet that is precisely how it was. One moment I was myself, as I had ever been. The next, I was over the precipice and into the abyss.”
“And she felt the same?”
“She did,” he said, a sudden fierceness in his tone. His knuckles whitened on the glass. “I know she did. She resisted and she pretended. She prevaricated and she lied. But she loved me.”
“Why resist at all?” I asked. “As you say, you are everything a woman could want in a husband. You are titled and rich and handsome and charming.”
“I never claimed to be charming.”
“No, that is my personal assessment.”
A fingertip reached out to touch my cheek, light as a feather. “Why, Veronica. Perhaps you do care after all.”
A Dangerous Collaboration Page 17
