“They enjoy practicing the art of intimidation,” he continued. “You can’t imagine the ribbing I took when Aunt Isabella first introduced me there.”
Jane turned to Wesley. Actually, given what teasing she’d been through this week, she could believe it. His gentle gaze met hers.
“They aren’t as comfortable in their choices as they pretend to be.”
“Why do you say that?” she asked.
Wesley shrugged. “Clarice has once or twice taken me into her confidence.”
Though Jane wanted to ask to what extent, she kept the question to herself. “I imagine that, like any other relationship, they are bound to have their ups and downs.”
He took her hand. “I hope you know that you can always come to me, Jane. In good times and bad—I want us to be friends.”
Jane turned her hand, giving his a brief squeeze. “And we are friends, Wesley. Good friends.”
His eyes searched hers, and then he gave a brief nod. “Good friends, it is.” He settled back and tucked her arms through his. “As such, I intend to have a marvelous evening and I hope that you will join me.” His manner was charming, but not enough to quell the flutter inside when she thought of Inspector Mansfield’s confident demeanor. And his smile—was it possible to be aroused by a man’s smile? She sat those thoughts aside as she walked into the theater a few moments later. “It’s beautiful,” she commented, holding tight to Wesley’s arm as she took in the view.
“It’s just recently under new management. The third or fourth, I can’t recall.” He handed her a glass of lemonade. “It seats over fifteen hundred and boasts tiered balcony box seating as well as a new Stroud’s sunlamp.”
Its magnificence rivaled anything Jane had seen before. Opulent chandeliers made from cut glass prisms sparkled from the cathedral ceilings. Their seats were located in the first box seats nearest the stage. One other couple, an older gentleman and presumably his wife, occupied the only other seats in that particular box. It was an unobstructed view, but as Jane scanned the dress circle seats below, she noticed it was not a sell-out crowd.
“We’ll see if he’s as good as his critics say.” Wesley settled into his chair, stretched his long legs in front of him, and folded his arms over his chest, defying Vladimir to amaze him.
No novice, Vladimir drew in the audience with his humor and a string of common tricks used by many magicians—the disappearing bird, his beautiful assistant’s escape from the water tank—each one increasing in difficulty. Jane observed how little sound there was in the audience. They seemed mesmerized by the man on stage. Even Wesley hadn’t spoken a cynical word in several minutes. His gaze was transfixed on the stage—whether on Vladimir or his scantily clad assistant, she couldn’t tell.
A warm sensation brushed over her chest and, thinking she’d come in contact with Wesley’s elbow, she shifted, returning her focus to the performance. The flickering gas lamps lulled her senses. Her thoughts began to drift. The players on stage began to blur deliciously. Her eyelids grew heavy.
“He’s a nutcase, there is no question about that,” Wesley whispered in her ear. “Jane.” He nudged her gently, breaking her out of the sensual fog that she found herself floating toward. “It’s bloody rude to doze, Jane, though God knows I don’t blame you. Would you like to leave?”
She shook her head, blinked a few times and stifled a yawn. “That would be rude,” she responded, lowering her voice. “After all, he sent the tickets to your aunt.” She snapped her fan open; glad she’d thought to bring it along. “It’s probably just a bit warm in here.” Her eyes flew open when Vladimir spoke about his next illusion.
She sat back in her seat, the fan offering some relief. Wesley straightened, creating a greater distance between them. Her eyelids drooped—if she could close them for a moment….
A caress—this one more pronounced—cradled her breast. Aroused, she let her chin drop to her chest. Dark tendrils of smoky desire curled through her veins. A delicious need held her captive. Her fan slipped from her fingers and as she retrieved it she felt her breasts being weighed—teased by the sensation of large, calloused hands. She heard a soft groan, felt a throbbing between her thighs. She wanted to be touched, wanted those hands all over her.
“Surely there will be an intermission soon, Jane.”
Jane heard Wesley’s voice from far away. She struggled to speak, turned to look at him, but closed her eyes as the phantom intimacy continued to assault her senses.
“Try to stay alert and I’ll get us both a nice glass of lemonade.”
Wesley’s voice faded as another thick, brandy-laced voice crept into her thoughts.
You came, just as I hoped. Do you remember our conversation, my dear?
Jane nodded, feeling her body drained of reason, replaced only with desire.
Relax and let me show you the passion inside you—the passion that you keep hidden. Do not be afraid, Jane. Embrace what you need.
She leaned back in her chair, her lips parting slightly as the ghostly seduction continued. Her fingers curled around the wooden arms of the chairs. She bit her lip to stifle a moan.
Free your imagination, Jane. Picture my mouth closing over you, teasing, taunting you with the tip of my tongue until the pain of such pleasure makes you want more.
She barely registered reality. Her thoughts swirling, she imagined herself on stage, part of his act as he peeled away her clothing, seduced her body. The brightness of the row of stage lamps heated her skin. Her head dropped to the back of the chair, surrendering to him—surrendering to her pleasure.
At once, the audience uttered a collective gasp, loud enough that it broke Jane’s reverie and the strange fantasy was broken. She darted a glance to either side of her and saw nothing had changed. Wesley’s hands were planted firmly on his thighs. To her right, an older man and his wife were enjoying the show. He nodded and gave Jane a polite smile.
It was neither of them, my dear Jane. It was me.
The whispered voice breezed past her cheek, tickling her flesh. A breath fanned against the sensitive skin at the back of her neck. She tilted her head to the side, welcoming the soft mouth. In front of her, on stage, Vladimir performed a feat of levitation. His jaw was firm, his expression dark. Had anyone else heard the mysterious voice, felt the intimate sensations? The questions were dim in her mind, the answers even more elusive. Apparently, no one else heard the disembodied voice.
Only you heard me, Jane. Because I am channeling only to you.
She mustered her thoughts well enough to lean toward Wesley and speak while keeping her eye on Vladimir. “Do you hear anything?”
“Nothing except the bloke three rows back snoring.” He lifted her chin and turned her face to his. “Are you sure you are well enough to stay?”
“I’m sorry for causing such a fuss. Please, I’ll be fine until intermission.”
The older man who’d smiled earlier leaned forward, eyeing her and Wesley. “No intermission. I saw this last night with my mistress.”
“Oh, thank you.” Jane glanced away, averting her expression of distaste at his careless admission.
“You sure you can make it?” Wesley asked her softly.
She looked at him, aware in her ethereal haze how beautiful his eyes were. What an admirable his face he had. Jane blinked, her brain feeling the sated result of too much whisky. She smiled. “It’s not much longer. I hate to be such a bother.” She straightened her shoulders, pressing her back ramrod straight against her chair. When she looked at the stage, her gaze slammed into Vladimir’s. He held his hands high, all the while turning them from back to front, proving that he was not concealing anything—no wires or strings held the woman suspended in air. He passed a large hoop back and forth over her body and the audience erupted in appreciative applause. A moment later, he lowered his beautiful assistant back to the table and awakened her with a snap of his fingers.
“And now,” Vladimir’s voice echoed in the hushed silence of the theater. “
For this next illusion, I will need full participation from you. Keep your eye on the orb.” He held up a milky white glass ball in his palm, turning it this way and that. “Do not look away. Do not fear its power.” His voice lowered. “If you concentrate and look upon its powers, you will gain insight; you will feel the power rise within you.” He lifted the ball at eye level, holding it out for the audience to see.
Jane couldn’t tear her gaze from the orb. A slow pulsating began to glow inside it, even as a similar throbbing ache began inside her. She pushed to her toes, her boots tugging hard against her flesh as she tried to appease her insistent arousal. It was as though she were falling into a black precipice, unable to stop—not wanting to, needing release.
Mesmerized, she bit down on her lip as she watched the orb, seemingly with a life of its own roll over his shoulders, down one arm and up the other, each movement coordinating with a caress to her inner thighs. He captivated the audience with his skill, capturing her with his haunting smile.
Jane brushed at her skirt as though shooing away an offending annoyance. It subsided for a moment, only to return with greater insistence. Her mouth opened in a silent gasp as she sensed the cool, smooth surface of the glass rolling between her thighs. She eased her legs apart, the sensation transitioning to fingers, rough and large, sliding over the juncture of her thighs.
Come for me, Jane.
Chapter Seven
Jane fought the sensation logically, but her traitorous body responded with a mind of its own. Her toes, curled in the narrow toes of her boots, ached. She gripped the arms of her seat and felt her fingertips bruising. Her control slipped another notch. She disguised a groan with a cough and sucked in a breath. She had to leave before she fell apart.
“I’m sorry, Wesley. I need a bit of f-f-resh air.” She stood on weak legs and stumbled quickly past the other members seated in the box. Pausing to get her bearings, she held onto the velvet curtain closing off the box seats from the hallway. Dazed by her wayward emotions, she stepped into the hall, uncertain of what she should do. Remembering the next box over was empty, she slipped past the curtain and slumped against the wall. Wrapped in the inky darkness, she swallowed against a need so great she wanted to scream. Frantic, she clutched her chest, fervently caressing, but with no relief. She closed her eyes and picked up her skirts, bunching them under her arms, gaining access to her thin, cotton drawers. Tears pricked the corner of her eyes. “You bloody bastard! Do not leave me this way.” There was fierceness in her voice that even she did not recognize.
That’s it, Jane. Do not fight your beautiful passion.
“Now,” she hissed. “I ache.” Unable to wait, she shoved her hand inside her drawers, skimming her palm between her legs, pressing her fingers into the wet warmth.
“Ah yes, my dear, your touch is my touch. Release your mind to the sensations, Jane. I can feel your body writhing, clinging to control. I want you to lose control, my dear. Surrender, to me, Jane.
She clutched at her clothes, legs parted, her gaze lifted to the darkness above her. Her body spiraled upward, caught in a dizzying vortex of erotic pleasure.
“Jane?”
Blindly, she reached for the familiar voice, desperate to inhale his all-male scent, to take what she so desperately needed. Dragging him close, she pressed her hand over the front of his trousers, suppressing a cry of joy at his arousal. “Yes, yes,” she whispered, drawing his face close.
“Oh God,” he whispered, and in the next breath his mouth crushed down on hers. There was no time for foreplay. She needed him inside her, needed what he could give her. She struggled with the buttons of his fly.
“I knew you felt more than you were letting on.” His hand snaked beneath her skirt, the heat from his palm warm against her bare skin.
The whoosh of the heavy curtain followed by a startled gasp snapped Jane out her lust-filled fantasy. The sound of a man clearing his throat came just before his warning. “See here! This is a private box. Be off with you.” He stepped aside, scowling as he held open the curtain.
Jane blinked as her brain scrambled to make sense of what had happened. Someone grabbed her hand and pulled her into the lighted hallway. The shock of reality muddled her brain. She squinted through the confusion swirling in her head and realized Wesley was at her side. “Why are you here? Why am I here?”
Wesley placed an arm around her shoulder, drawing her down the hall, away from the man’s curious stare. “Come along, dear.”
Rattled by events not yet clear in her mind, she pulled away from him. She placed her hand over her stomach, feeling nauseated. “I-I need to sit down.”
“Of course.” Wesley ushered her to a small settee in the hallway and sat beside her. He took her hand, rubbing his thumb over her knuckles. His voice was filled with gentle concern. “Are you feeling better, my love?”
Why was he using terms of endearment with her? Why couldn’t she remember leaving her seat? She met his gaze and saw more than concern. She saw need—male need—raw and hungry. God help her. What had she done?
“H-how did I get here?” She watched his gentle expression dissolve into confusion.
He eyed her warily. “You mean to say, you don’t remember?”
Jane shook her head, wishing like hell she could remember. There was something amiss, she felt that most certainly, but what it was, she didn’t understand. “I-I seem to remember watching the show…and then, suddenly you’re dragging me out of that alcove.” Her gaze darted from the hallway to Wesley’s dark expression. His eyes narrowed on hers. “Do you mean to tell me you don’t remember anything?” He didn’t believe her. How could she blame him?
“I swear to you, Wesley. I do not remember how I…or when you came in…it’s all a blur.” She glanced at him. “I fell as though I’ve awakened from a dream. And I feel strange, but I don’t know why.” She prayed he’d understand. After their misunderstanding earlier, what would he think of her?
“No recollection at all? Not of you telling me you needed me…kissing me like I was the last man on earth?” Frustration edged in his voice. “And you bloody well kissed me back, Jane.” He looked around and lowered his voice. “How could you not remember that?”
She covered her mouth, taken aback by his words. “B-but, that’s not like me. I’m…I’m sorry, Wesley. I didn’t mean to—” Humiliated, she shook her head, unable to explain what she herself could not understand.
He cut her off with his hand, searching her face as though debating whether to believe her or not.
“Well.” He slapped his knees and stood. “That is twice now you’ve made a fool of me, Jane. Clearly, I’m not wise to the games American women play.” He started to walk away. She grabbed his hand.
Jane swallowed again, mustering her courage. “We kissed?”
He looked at her, desire flickering through his gaze. “Yes, what about it?”
“Was that all?” She hesitated, unable to finish her thought, her cheeks burning with guilt.
Wesley’s expression turned cold. His mouth lifted in a wry smile. “No need for concern. I must render my apologies, as well. It is clear that you seem to be suffering from some type of amnesia about the incident. Or perhaps you are disappointed that it was me?”
Jane started from her seat, wanting to implore with him that she well might be losing her mind. She hated that she’d hurt him, but she could not pretend to know how this could have happened. He’d been such a good friend, attentive and sweet, and yet she’d managed to hurt his pride again. This surely would be an impossible hurt to amend.
***
“Miss Goodwin?” Randolph spotted her through the crowd swarming in to the street after the performance. She stood near the front entrance, her expression bewildered. “Miss Goodwin?” He touched her arm and she flinched, recovering all too quickly with a forced smile.
“Inspector, you startled me. I was just looking for Wesley. He is fetching a hansom.”
She was distraught. The pallor of her face
gave that away. He scanned the crowd, wondering what the young Hampton had done to her to elicit this response. Around them, people huddled at the entrance, waiting for their carriages. “I don’t see him yet. Perhaps we should wait over here, away from the crowd.” He ushered her to the edge of the cloistered group. “Forgive me, Miss Goodwin, but you look as though you’ve seen a ghost. Are you well?”
Her eyes darted to his. “I’m sorry. I believe that I may have been overcome by the heat inside,” she replied, rather unconvincingly at that.
Randolph observed the way she avoided looking directly into his eyes when she spoke. “Is there something I can do for you?” He fought the urge to press her further, not wanting to add to her discomfiture.
“No, thank you, inspector. I’m quite certain I’ll be fine as soon as Wesley arrives with the carriage. But I do appreciate your concern.” She searched over his shoulder at the row of carriages lined up in front of the theater.
“I’ll just wait here with you until he comes, then.” He clasped his hands behind his back, suppressing the urge to pull her into his embrace to quell whatever had frightened her. She could say what she wanted, but he’d seen enough fear on faces to last a lifetime.
“That really isn’t necessary.”
“I insist.” He gave her a pointed look.
Her perfect blue eyes—eyes that just a few days ago had been filled with spit and fire—looked at him now with uncertainty. An awkward silence followed.
“Are there any leads on the case yet?”
“Did you enjoy the show?”
They spoke at the same time.
Randolph smiled. “In answer to your question, no, none yet.” He watched the theater patrons climbing into their various carriages, hoping she’d not ask more questions.
“Not particularly,” she responded suddenly. Her gaze turned to his. “The performance, I meant. I found it lacking.”
“Ah,” he replied. Her lack of appreciation for the illusionist gave him a degree of satisfaction, though he didn’t know exactly why. Perhaps it seemed they at last had something in common. He’d watched the man at the tea, curious of his mysterious manner—admittedly more so given he’d taken a particular interest in Jane. Despite telling himself that he felt nothing but admiration for Miss Goodwin and that keeping an eye out for her was simply part of his job, one fact was true—something about Vladimir disturbed him. A hunch only, perhaps—but a gut feeling that he’d not been able to shake. Not that he already didn’t have enough to keep him busy. There’d been few clues yet over the body parts found and the uprisings and demonstrations in the streets were becoming more prevalent. This damn heat was stirring everyone up.
The Dark Seduction of Miss Jane Page 7
