by Karen Ranney
A small fire was laid against the early spring chill. A man sat in one of the burgundy wing chairs facing the hearth. At her entrance, he stood and turned. Not the Earl of Babidge after all, but the man who had occupied too many of her thoughts for the past weeks.
Montraine.
Her heart seemed to stop and then lunge forward as if making up for its laxity. Even her breath was uneven, coming in short, choppy breaths. She had gotten her wish, then. To see him once again. She’d not thought that the sight of him would be so startling, however.
She had thought him captivating in moonlight. It was nothing to how he appeared now in the light of day.
Beautiful.
What a silly word to use in conjunction with a man like him. Yet handsome seemed too feeble a description to contain his dark good looks. Perhaps she was destined never to think of a word suitable enough.
“Hello again,” he softly said. “I have been waiting for you.”
She halted where she was, gripped the book in her arms tightly.
Had Lucifer been a golden angel, crafted of sunlight and radiance before being cast from heaven? He should, instead, have possessed black hair and sapphire eyes, been blessed with a smile that hinted at wickedness. And graced with a voice that promised sin and absolution in its dark whisper.
“Were you?” she said shakily. “How did you know I would be here?”
“Babby is my friend,” he said, “and eager to assist me in finding you.”
“You looked for me?” How odd that her mouth was dry, and her breath seemed caught in her chest.
“Oh yes,” he said, walking slowly toward her. “I have. You are a woman of great mystery, Mrs. Esterly. Tell me, does your husband know you’re here?”
Run, Margaret. Take the Journal and leave this place. This man is a danger. Or a delight.
“I’m a widow,” she said, her voice more tremulous than she wished.
“Are you?”
She nodded, feeling the caution vanish in that instant she looked at him. It faded beneath a greater fascination.
He met her gaze with his own intent stare. His look was one of speculation and curiosity. She did not fault him for that. She had enough of her own about him.
“A widow,” he said, repeating it. “Your name?” he asked, with a smile that did not quite reach his eyes.
“Margaret,” she said quietly, responding as if she were in a daze. “Who are you, then?”
“Michael Hawthorne,” he said, bowing slightly.
“A duke?” She tilted her head.
“Alas, only an earl,” he said, smiling sardonically.
“I would have thought you a prince,” she said, startling herself with the admission. He only smiled at her comment.
“It seems we know little enough about each other.”
Silence was the best recourse to that statement. She stared at the carpet between them.
“A few moments upon the terrace should not be so easily recalled. I wondered if you were shadow or substance. Or perhaps a ghost of my imagination.”
“I am very real,” she said, his words coaxing forth her smile.
“But more circumspect than before.”
“You were only a shadow yourself,” she whispered. “Now you are only too real.”
He strode forward until he stood in front of her. He reached out his hand, pulled the book and her reticule gently from her grasp, set them down on the sideboard. She said nothing in response or protest.
Something was happening to her. Her mind was clouded in alarmed wonder. Her heart, already beating fast at his appearance, began to escalate, her breath tightening in her chest. This moment replicated that night of violins and breezes. A moment of sorcery so strong that she trembled in its spell.
“Come,” he said, taking her hand and leading her to the fire. His hand held hers in a gentle restraint, much as he had that night on the terrace. But here there were few shadows, only the orange glow of a fire, and through the windows the gleam of sunlight breaking through the clouds.
“Have you traveled far?” A commonplace question, but his touch on her hand didn’t seem at all ordinary. She could feel the warmth of his hand even through her glove.
“Not far,” she murmured, wishing that he wouldn’t stand so close. She could feel his breath against her cheek.
Suddenly, his hand reached up and brushed a tendril of hair back from her cheek. A lover’s touch. Too intimate. Gentle, almost tender. His knuckles stroked down the edge of her jaw.
No one had ever touched her this way.
She reached up and stayed his hand, held it with hers. He studied her face as if he had never seen a woman before, the intensity of his gaze almost burning.
Run, Margaret. As fast and as far as you can.
She heard the admonition of her conscience, but another voice intruded. This whisper belonged to her and yet was someone just now discovered. This woman of secret dreams and hidden wishes slipped atop the person Margaret knew herself to be. This shadow spoke and moved and thought with her own will. Stay. Touch him. Reach out with your fingers and trace the line of his jaw, that unsmiling mouth.
She took a deep shuddering breath, dropped his hand, and stepped back from him. He, too, seemed to feel the need to separate himself. He walked to the sideboard, turned, and faced her. The width of a room was between them, yet she felt his presence as if he touched her still.
“You interest me too greatly,” he said, “and I cannot afford distractions at this time in my life.”
A statement so arrogant that it had the welcome effect of dissipating the strange spell entwining around them.
“How am I a distraction?” she asked, suddenly amused.
“First, by having a curiosity that equals my own,” he said.
Her cheeks warmed. Did he know she’d read the Journals? How could he?
“I don’t understand,” she said carefully.
“You stood on the terrace, spying on a ball.”
“Yes,” she confessed, relieved.
“And today. Why didn’t you leave the moment you saw it was me and not Babby?”
“I have business to conduct with the earl,” she said in her defense. Not quite the truth.
“You stayed because of curiosity, Margaret.”
She looked away, wishing that he would not speak her name in quite that fashion. It was almost a caress.
Perhaps he was correct. She should have left when she’d first seen him. Or when he’d touched her cheek. Drawn up her dignity, her pride, and departed the room. Perhaps scourged him with a look first, so that he knew she was not the sort to be enchanted with words and masculine perfection.
But it seemed she was not wise after all. Perhaps curiosity was a good enough pretense.
“Secondly,” he said, smiling softly. “You are a distraction because you possess a mouth made for kissing.”
She stared at him.
Her blood felt hot, as if it flowed through her body carrying fire. Her breath was captured and held in ransom for her good sense. Leave this room, Margaret. Leave him. It seemed as if the ghost of her Gran reprimanded her for her hesitation.
“It is better, perhaps,” she said a moment later, still rooted to the spot, “to be congratulated for ordinary virtues. Neatness, some accomplishment.”
“Kindness,” he contributed with a smile.
She nodded.
“Are you kind, Margaret?”
“I believe I am.” She studied the carpet beneath her feet again. “Are you?”
“Some would say I am not. Otherwise, you would not still be here. I should have allowed you to conduct your business and left you alone.”
“Why didn’t you?” She glanced up and discovered him watching her so intently that it felt as if he touched her with his gaze.
He walked back to where she stood beside the fire.
She looked away. The room was suddenly too warm; she felt almost faint.
“Because I want my kiss,” he said flat
ly.
Margaret jerked her head up to meet his look. Her eyes widened and she licked suddenly dry lips. The words settled in a hollow spot inside her.
She turned and walked to the window, concentrated upon the view. Desperate in a way she had never been before to find herself in the flurry of her thoughts.
She marked the journey of a carriage, then focused upon a bird flying to the roof of a house. The morning sky had been gray, a dismal London day. She had often seen such. Yet now the sun was shining brightly. A transformation. Not unlike the one she felt within herself.
She turned and glanced back at him.
He had not moved, a statue of restraint, a muscle flexing in his cheek. He neither smiled nor eased the words with charm.
It would be unwise to allow the boundaries between them to be lowered, even for a moment. She knew that without understanding why. Yet she wanted to touch him. What sort of woman did that make her?
“One kiss,” he said, as if he knew she wavered.
She should have left the moment she saw him in the room. Instead, they flirted with danger, and with each other.
“I don’t know you,” she said almost desperately.
“What do you need to know in payment for a kiss?” he asked, impatiently, frowning.
“Why me?” A question to hide the unsettling truth. Both the pragmatic, demure, quiet, and proper Margaret and this woman she had become upon meeting him wanted to kiss him. So deeply and completely that she could taste the flavor of it when it was done.
“I don’t know.” His scowl deepened. “It’s a question I’ve asked myself for too many weeks.”
“Have you come to no satisfactory answer?”
“Yes. One kiss.”
“That’s all?”
“Yes. When it’s over, the bond will be severed, the fascination will ease. I will, blessedly, be able to concentrate upon my work and my marriage.”
She glanced at him, shocked.
“I’m not married yet,” he said, one eyebrow arching. “Nor affianced. You are a distraction to that also.”
She turned back to the window. “So this might be an act of charity on my part, to enable you to continue your life unfettered by diversions,” she said, unexpectedly amused.
“Margaret.” His voice was so close to her that she jumped, startled. He stood behind her, his finger trailing at the collar of her spencer, barely touched the nape of her neck. Her indrawn breath was captured, held, then released on a sigh as he trailed a delicate pattern inside the material, against her skin. She shivered in response.
A taboo, that touch.
“Margaret, say yes,” he whispered.
When she remained silent, he continued. “I want to know why I can’t forget you.”
She turned slowly and looked up at him.
“It’s only a kiss, Margaret,” he urged. “And once it’s done, this fascination will be over.”
“One kiss,” she said, attempting to appear as worldly as he. In truth, her heart was beating a strange tattoo, one of skipped beats and sheer excitement.
Slowly, she tilted her chin up, closed her eyes. Waited in an agony of expectancy. A thousand starlings flew in her chest, and her cheeks were heated as if by a brazier. Her lips were full, expectant and waiting, and her breathing sounded too harsh, as if she had run a great distance.
But instead of the warm brush of his lips upon her mouth, she felt the slow stroke of his thumb across her lips. She opened her eyes to discover him smiling down into her face.
“Not here. I want to kiss you somewhere where we will not be interrupted.”
She blinked at him, suddenly uncertain.
Montraine smiled softly, almost dispassionately, turned, and walked to the sideboard.
Surreptitiously, she pressed a hand to her chest. Her breasts felt hard, achy.
He picked up her belongings, returned to her side. He handed her the reticule and the Journal, then helped her arrange the shawl around her shoulders.
At the door he turned and held out his hand. She stared wide-eyed at him. A look passed between them, one of questions asked and answered. Did she want to go with him? Almost desperately. Was it wise? No. Was he a man to trust? She had felt safe with him from the beginning, but trust was not what she felt at this particular moment.
One kiss. A lure, an invitation. An impossible attraction to resist. Desire was a word found only in the Journals of Augustin X, never in her life. One kiss, that was all.
Perhaps, after all, what she wanted was to build up a store of memories for when she was old. I kissed an earl, she might say to her students, and the young girls would giggle.
She smiled, stretched out her hand, and went with him.
Chapter 8
A strong heartbeat, felt at a lover’s elbow,
reveals his stamina and ability.
The Journals of Augustin X
Together they left the Earl of Babidge’s house, encountering only the majordomo at the door. Montraine nodded briskly at the man, and he stepped back, deferential in a way he had never been to Margaret.
If she had been the butler she would have been quelled by that look. As it was, she found herself fascinated.
Montraine walked to the hack, dismissed him with a few words, then returned to her side. Silently emanating from him was an authority more effective than another man’s boast.
Without a word, he led her to a gleaming ebony carriage drawn by four matched bays. A footman jumped from the back and opened the door for her. Montraine said nothing as she hesitated, simply stood aside for her to precede him.
She mounted the steps and entered the carriage. Montraine settled into the seat in front of her, his back to the horses. The curtains were open, but she didn’t pretend an interest in the scenery. Instead, she met his gaze.
“A difficult journey to make with one footstep,” she said. “From modest and proper to heedless.” Abandoned.
“Are you feeling heedless, Margaret?” he asked, a smile curving his lips.
“Yes,” she admitted. Danger. Why didn’t she feel it? Instead, anticipation curled in the pit of her stomach.
“Are there any little Esterlys claiming your attention?” he asked suddenly.
“I have no children,” she softly said. It was a sadness with which she’d learned to live.
“No maiden aunts, no uncles, no parents in reserve?”
“No,” she said. Except for Penelope, there was no one. But the bond between them was one of friendship, not relation.
“No siblings?”
He was implacable in his curiosity.
“Why do you ask?”
“I only wished to know if there was anyone who waits for you.”
“Only my students,” she said. “And they do not expect me until tomorrow.”
He looked surprised.
“I teach the village girls,” she explained.
“Yet there is London in your voice.”
“I was born and raised here,” she admitted.
He sat angled against the seat, the better to make use of the space with his long legs. He commanded the interior of the carriage as he had the terrace.
“What do you teach them?”
She smiled. “To read and write correctly. A rudimentary ability in ciphering, some French, and some unremarkable talent in drawing.”
“Why did you leave London?”
“I wished a change,” she said, surprised at the ease she felt in telling him. “I suspect it is something contrary to my nature, that I should wish to live in the country while those in London have nothing but contempt for it.”
“Is that why you’re here now? Because of something contrary in your nature?”
Perhaps, she silently answered. Or because she very much wanted a kiss from him.
“Why did you let Babby think you were married?” he asked, as if he knew she would not admit to fascination. Or loneliness.
“Because men do not often wish to transact business with women. An
d it is safer to have a customer believe that a husband will protect against any unwelcome advances.”
“Did Babby give you any difficulty?” His face tightened, his smile vanishing.
She smiled at him. “No. I had the distinct impression that it embarrassed him to deal with me. I confess to thinking the earl resembles a cute hedgehog. He would look excessively silly leering.”
“Babby will not appreciate such a comment,” Michael said, his good humor restored. “He fancies himself a man a with a great attractiveness to the ladies.”
His hand clenched atop the walking stick, his eyes were a direct and piercing blue.
I want to know why I couldn’t forget you.
A sentiment she had felt often enough during these past weeks. He felt the same as she. Her conscience whispered to her. She should be cautious. Discreet.
Instead, she smiled.
She was lovely. Her hair was auburn, a perfect shade against the ivory of her complexion. Her eyes were hazel, their hue a warm green at the moment. But it was her mouth that fascinated him. The upper lip was as full as the lower. A perfect pout, as if nature had crafted this one mouth for kissing.
One kiss. That was all he wanted. Then, he would be himself once more, focused upon his future. He would execute the Cyrillic cipher and pick out a bride. His thoughts would not be filled with an unknown woman who enchanted him. He would kiss her and she would be only a woman again. Not a Circe.
She seemed almost innocent sitting there. She had blushed when he’d spoken of her mouth. Yet she’d come to London to sell a lewd book to Babby. A contradiction, a duality of her nature, that she would be both daring and seemingly virtuous.
He’d been impatient for her arrival, irritated by the delay of it. When she’d entered Babby’s library he’d watched her. There was something about the way she walked. When she’d turned from the window, straightened her shoulders, tilting her head up for his kiss, he’d heard a clarion call of warning.
This woman would be better forgotten. Except, of course, that he had been unable to do so.
“Are you wondering why I have not kissed you yet?” he asked. He smiled slightly at the look on her face. A curious combination of eagerness, anticipation, and surprise. He felt himself tighten, his caution being beaten down by a baser, more fervent need.
