“You hoped I’d be easy prey. You hoped—you thought you could offer your protection and I’d be so grateful I’d tumble into your arms the minute you gave the signal.”
“You’re right.”
“I told you this afternoon—you’re wasting your time.”
Jeremy Bond grinned, hands in pockets, shoulders hunched, wave flopping on his forehead as he strolled beside me in that bouncy stride. He wasn’t at all perturbed by the cool, aloof manner I assumed. I was extremely irritated, extremely disturbed, and I felt wonderfully, gloriously alive, as though I had downed a dozen glasses of champagne instead of one. Something seemed to sing inside of me, making joyous music that was felt, not heard. I told myself it was the lovely night, the perfumed air, the smooth caress of red silk against my skin.
Bond made no attempt to resume our conversation. He seemed to be preoccupied, lost in thought, the grin still curling on that wide, generous mouth. We walked down the street toward the apartment, passing the gray walls dripping with bougainvillaea. The balconies beyond were brushed with shadow, moonlight gilding the wrought iron. Lamps glowed behind curtained windows, making hazy yellow-gold squares in the night. New Orleans was at its most bewitching in the evening, sultry and romantic and imbued with an indolent charm that cast a spell over the senses. I was going to miss this city. I had known much sadness here, but I had known happiness, too, a kind of happiness I had never experienced before.
I was in a pensive mood by the time we reached the gates. The anger and irritation had vanished, and that joyous music had been replaced by a languor that seemed to steal over my entire body. Bond was silent, studying my face as we stood there in front of the gates. I felt no animosity toward him. I felt strangely passive, as though I no longer had a will of my own, as though I had been drugged by the fragrant perfume of roses, lulled by the soft night noises that rustled in the gardens. It had been a long walk, an eventful day, and I was weary, so weary I didn’t protest when he touched my cheek, stroking it gently with his fingertips.
“You’re lovely,” he said. “You’re the loveliest woman I’ve ever seen. I mean that, Marietta.”
His voice was very low, and there was a husky catch in it, as though the words came from deep inside. I tilted my chin, looking up at him. His face was clearly visible in the moonlight, the eyes half-shrouded, dark blue now, full of meaning, sending a message it was impossible not to read. I noticed anew the generous, beautifully shaped mouth, the slightly crooked nose, the broad, flat cheekbones with skin stretched taut. He was a stranger, a man I barely knew, yet somehow I felt I knew him better than I had ever known any man. I felt he knew me, too, knew me as no man had.
“Thank you, Jeremy,” I said quietly.
“There, you’ve said it. I didn’t have to twist your arm after all.”
“It’s a beautiful name.”
“On your lips it is. On your lips it’s like music.”
“I—I must go in.”
He nodded slowly, opening the gates, leading me into the courtyard. The mossy white marble fountain spilled and splattered, filling the garden with a quiet, soothing sound. My skirts rustled as we moved across the patio, pausing near the fountain. A few fireflies drifted through the honeysuckle growing on trellises near the wall, their flickering, pale gold lights accentuating the darkness there. The center of the courtyard, where we were standing, was bathed in hazy moonlight that touched everything with silver. Although the night was warm, I shivered inside. I seemed to have lost control of myself, seemed to be in the middle of a beautiful dream that was disturbing as well, extremely disturbing.
“I love you,” he said.
“No. You mustn’t say that.”
“I love you, Marietta.”
“You couldn’t. You want to sleep with me. I can understand that. I can understand—physical attraction, but love—love has nothing to do with it.”
“Love has everything to do with it.”
“You mustn’t talk like this,” I whispered.
“Are you afraid?”
“I love Derek. He loves me.”
“He cast you aside once. He sold you to another man. Yes, I heard about that, too. A man who could do that couldn’t love you, not the way you deserve to be loved.”
“Please don’t say anything more.”
Jeremy Bond looked at me, his head tilted slightly to one side, his wavy brown hair very dark in the moonlight, his lips parted. I shivered again as he moved nearer and unfastened my cloak. It fell to the ground with a silken rustle. He took hold of my naked shoulders and pulled me against him. I closed my eyes as his lips lightly brushed the curve of my throat, my cheeks, my eyelids, finally settling over my own, covering them, pressing so gently, so sweetly. He curled one arm around my shoulders, drawing me nearer, and I seemed to melt against him as his other arm moved around my waist, fastening me to him as those warm, firm lips continued to plunder my own, insistent now, impatient for response I tried desperately to withhold. He made a low, moaning noise in his throat, kissing me until I seemed to spin into an oblivion of softly exploding sensation.
He withdrew his mouth, drawing back, still holding me, looking down into my eyes. I shook my head, pleading with him to release me, pleading silently, unable to speak. He unwound his arm from my waist and took hold of my arms, holding me away from him, studying me as he might study a precious, priceless work of art.
“Deny it now,” he ordered gently. “Deny you want me as much as I want you.”
“Don’t,” I begged.
“I don’t know how it happened. I knew it would one day. I knew I would fall in love. I want you.”
“No.”
“I want you now. I want you tomorrow. I want you forever.”
“You—those words—you don’t mean—”
“I mean every one of them. I’ve never said them before, not to any woman. You think I’m trying to seduce you—I am, yes, I admit it—because I need you, Marietta, because I love you.”
That low, melodious voice seemed to come from far away, for I was still in the middle of a dream. This man, this moment, this magic inside me were all a part of the dream, and I knew none of it could be real. He couldn’t be saying those words. I couldn’t be feeling this glow that grew inside, a sweet, tingling ache that spread throughout me, demanding fulfillment, demanding release. I felt weak, so weak, and I would have crumpled to the ground had those strong hands not been holding me so firmly, the fingers gripping tightly, digging into my flesh. I still seemed to be spinning, and I wondered if I was going to swoon. I looked up into those eyes dark with desire yet filled with tenderness and awe.
“It’s happened,” he said. “We can’t deny it.”
“No.”
“Love me.”
“I—I can’t.”
He drew me to him and kissed me again, his lips caressing mine for a long, lovely moment that seemed to last forever yet ended too soon, leaving me with a painful ache, a need for completion. He turned me around, standing close behind me, curling one arm around my waist, wrapping the other around my throat, leaning forward to rest his chin on my shoulder. His cheek touched mine. I tried to pull away, but he held me fast, his forearm against the hollow of my throat. He rubbed his cheek against mine, murmuring a litany of love. I could hardly breathe. The sensations inside threatened to annihilate me completely. I prayed for the dream to end, prayed for sanity to return as he held me, gentled me, murmuring that litany that had no words, only feeling.
“No,” I whispered. “No, Jeremy.”
“Love me, Marietta.”
“I love Derek.”
“Love me.”
I closed my eyes and steeled myself, and somehow I managed to drive back the sensations that swelled within me. I denied them, closed them away, standing rigidly in his arms now, cold, immobile, all warmth seeping out of me, replaced by resolution won against almost impossible odds. He sensed the change immediately. He straightened up, unwinding his arm from my throat, releasing my wais
t. I turned around, facing him with a level gaze it took incredible willpower to maintain. I wanted to touch that twisted nose and stroke that deep cleft in his chin. I wanted those arms around me again, wanted that warmth and strength and loving protection.
“You must go,” I said.
“You want me, Marietta.”
“I want only Derek.”
“You felt—”
“I’m human,” I said coldly. “I felt something, yes. Physical response. Nothing more. My love for Derek doesn’t—hasn’t made me immune to lips and arms and warmth. I responded to the touch, not to the man.”
“I don’t believe you,” he said.
“Believe what you will, Mr. Bond.”
He stood there a few feet away, his arms folded loosely across his chest, his legs wide apart, the cloak spilling from his broad shoulders and spreading out in rich, dark folds. The cocky, irreverent scamp might never have existed. The man who faced me was grave, very grave, his handsome face wearing an expression so serious it was alarming. The eyes that were usually full of laughter were grim. The lips designed for grinning were set in a hard line, turned down at the corners. He might never have smiled. He might never have made a teasing remark. He was another Jeremy Bond, a stranger indeed.
“I meant what I said, Marietta. I’ve fallen in love with you.”
“I belong to another man.”
“He doesn’t deserve you. He shan’t have you, not if I can help it.”
“Please go, Mr. Bond.”
“I have to leave New Orleans in the morning on business. I don’t know how long I’ll be gone—only a few days, I hope. When I return I fully intend to see you. I intend to take you away from him. You’re not going to marry Derek Hawke. You’re going to marry me.”
His voice was cool, matter-of-fact. He meant what he said, I could tell that. He looked at me, wanting to say more, deciding against it. After a moment he frowned darkly and moved over to pick up my red velvet cloak where it had fallen. He placed it carefully, impersonally around my shoulders and then strode purposefully toward the gates. He opened them, stepped outside, closed them behind him. I could hear his footsteps loud and angry on the pavement as he walked on down the street, and I felt something that must have been relief. It had to be relief. It couldn’t be disappointment. I wasn’t certain what I felt, and I didn’t dare examine it too closely. He was gone. That was the important thing. He was gone, and the dream was over at last. I knew it was going to haunt me for a long time to come.
Seven
Stephen Howard was surprised when he discovered that I was the one who had sent the message to his hotel, not Derek, and when he discovered that I was alone, he was clearly embarrassed and not a little uneasy. I couldn’t help smiling to myself as I led him into the parlor. Big, genial, pleasantly attractive with his dark blond hair, mellow features, and friendly blue eyes, he was quite obviously ill at ease with women, particularly attractive women. Did he think I had lured him here in order to seduce him?
He followed me into the parlor as though it were a silken trap. He wore a beautifully tailored light brown frock coat with breeches to match, a dark brown neckcloth, and a rather dashing waistcoat patterned with gold, brown, and bronze leaves. The elegant attire merely emphasized that warm, comfortable feeling he seemed to exude. I liked him very much already, but I could see that it was going to be quite a task to put him at ease.
“Won’t you sit down, Mr. Howard?” I invited.
“Well—uh—I don’t know, Mrs.—uh—I don’t know what to call you,” he said miserably.
“You may call me Marietta.”
“I’d rather not,” he admitted.
“Miss Danver, then,” I suggested. Until I became Lady Hawke I was still legally Mrs. Schnieder, but that was a name I would never use.
“Miss Danver, I—uh—I don’t quite understand. The boy brought a note to my hotel. It asked me to come round immediately. It was signed by Hawke.”
“I forged his signature,” I said.
“You did?”
Stephen Howard was horrified. He glanced uneasily about the room as though checking for means of escape. I found his sunny disposition and lack of worldliness extremely refreshing. A woman who would forge a man’s signature was capable of anything, his look seemed to say, and I smiled again, amused. He undoubtedly considered me a glamorous, wicked creature with ulterior motives, although today I wore a simple, demurely low-cut frock of topaz-colored silk.
“Derek spoke so highly of you when he came home the other evening,” I said smoothly. “I—well, I must admit that I did have an ulterior motive in getting you here this way, Mr. Howard.”
“Yes?” His apprehension grew.
“I may as well be frank with you, Mr. Howard. As you know, Derek and I are going to be married as soon as we get to England. I love him very much, and I—I do so want to be a good wife to him.”
Howard found that quite admirable. He began to relax.
“I’ve met so few of his friends, Mr. Howard, and I sensed immediately that you’d be sympathetic. Derek said you were one of the kindest men he knew, one of the most honorable as well.”
I was lying outrageously. Derek had said no such thing. When I had asked him about Howard and their talk in the private room at Damon’s, he had cut me short, telling me it was none of my concern. He had been grim and uncommunicative ever since. I knew the talk had disturbed him far more than he cared to admit, and, as I could get no information from Derek, I had decided to try my luck with Howard. Knowing Derek would be out all afternoon, I had paid a boy to deliver the note to Howard’s hotel, and I faced him now with a modest smile that begged him to be understanding.
“You want me to help you in some way?” he inquired.
I nodded. “Derek would be furious with me if he knew about this,” I said, quite truthfully this time, “but I thought you and I could have a cozy little chat. Do sit down, Mr. Howard. I thought you might be able to tell me something about—oh, about his other friends, for instance, perhaps something about his family. I know so little about his life in England.”
“I see,” he said, visibly relieved.
“I feel terrible about deceiving you this way, even worse about forging Derek’s signature, but I felt you’d understand. You have a very understanding face. I noticed that the other night at Damon’s.”
“That’s—uh—quite an interesting establishment,” he said. “I don’t ordinarily frequent such places, but a chap I know said I must dine there at least once.”
“Derek and I go there often. It has a rather unsavory reputation, true, but their menu is the finest in the city. You will help me, won’t you, Mr. Howard?”
“Of course, my dear.”
Stephen Howard might have little experience with women, but he was gallant by nature and found this opportunity to be of assistance quite pleasant. He smiled a very warm smile and sat down in the chair I indicated. I poured a brandy for him, and he accepted it gratefully, completely at ease now, actually daring to look at me with open admiration. I settled on the sofa and spread my shimmering topaz skirt out, devoting the next few minutes to polite, flattering questions about his work.
“But you lead such an interesting life,” I said.
“Not at all,” he protested. “When I’m not involved in some diplomatic mission, like I am now, I spend most of my time puttering around Howard Hall. It’s terribly large and draughty, but we have a very fine library, a fine cellar, too. I live there with my sister, admirable woman, Bella, but she’s always knitting the most depressing garments for me. It’s always a relief when I’m called upon to be of service to the Crown.”
“Howard Hall sounds charming,” I said. “Is it anywhere near Hawkehouse?”
“Not too far, actually. In the same district.”
“I suppose you knew Derek when he was a boy.”
“I knew him only slightly back then. I was ten years older, you understand. When I visited Hawkehouse as a young man he was still in
his early teens, a rather stiff, formal youth who was extremely polite but not particularly interesting to a youth training for the diplomatic service. Actually, we didn’t become friends until he returned to England. We ran into each other in London right before the trial began. I followed it with a great deal of interest.”
“It was a terrible ordeal for him,” I said, pretending to know much more than I did.
“Dreadful business,” Howard agreed, “but justice was done, I’m pleased to say. His uncle was a bounder, no question about it, and his two sons aren’t much better. There’s still hope for young Robert. He’s just turned thirty and I understand he’s with the East India Company now, amassing a fortune in Bombay. Roger, of course, is a different story.”
Stephen Howard ran a hand through his thick blond hair and frowned a deep frown that made furrows in his brow, his blue eyes severely disapproving as he thought about Roger Hawke. I held my breath, on edge, my pulse leaping. I had been leading the conversation up to this point all along, carefully manipulating him without his being aware of it, and I had to be even more careful now. Howard was indeed an honorable man, and if he even suspected that Derek hadn’t discussed the matter with me, he would change the subject immediately.
“More brandy, Mr. Howard?” I asked.
“Don’t mind if I do,” he replied. “Fine brandy, fine as any we have in the cellar.”
I smiled and took his glass, very, very casual. My hand shook slightly as I filled it. The decanter clattered against the rim of the glass and a few drops of liquor splattered. Fortunately, Howard didn’t notice. I handed him the brimming glass and then strolled over to the window to peer out at the courtyard. It was drenched with sunlight.
“Derek was—quite disturbed when he came in the other night,” I said, my back to him.
“And well he should be. His cousin Roger vowed he was going to have revenge, vowed he was going to return to Hawkehouse and wear the ancestral ring if it was the last thing he did, and he made no secret of his intentions. I heard him talking about it myself one night at Almack’s, not three days after his father’s death. I don’t think I’ve ever seen such cold fury in my life. The man’s dangerous.”
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