by Claudia Dain
He tilted his head into her hand, delighting in the sensation it gave him. "How are you able to do that? Why could I never know this before?"
His admiration filled her with a sense of power. She was well-read and clever, just like her father, and that had always been her private badge of honor. But for the first time, her accomplishment was not cerebral but visceral. For the first time, she felt not just like a real scholar, but like a real woman. And a beautiful one at that.
"What about this?" she said, sitting upon his lap. Her bold advances surprised even her. She'd never dreamed of doing such a thing. Perhaps it was his weakened state, coupled with her empowered confidence, which made it irresistible to finally be brazen.
He moaned, his chest vibrating beneath her hands. She felt him raise his knees, as if to dig his long thighs more deeply into her soft flesh. She fell against him as he wrapped his muscular arms around her waist.
She brought her mouth to within a breath of his. "Or this?" Slowly, she pressed her lips against his. His lips were soft and receptive, and the connection she made with them was utterly delightful. But the sweet agony it caused him was nothing short of heart-wrenching.
"More," he breathed, and she kissed his prickly jaw. Her warm kisses climbed to his temple, and she felt it jump with the tightening of his jaw. The power she had over his pleasure felt glorious.
Then she felt his hands tighten upon her hips. It was an intimate and unfamiliar sensation, and it instantly sparked an awareness of her sex. Instinctively, she straightened and her mouth fell open.
But his hands didn't stop there. They traveled down her silk-clad thigh, and she felt every penetrating caress just as intensely as if he were stroking her naked skin.
"No more kisses?" he asked, the knowing smile returning. "Here, allow me."
His large hand cupped the back of her neck and he returned her innocent kiss with passionate force. Those receptive lips from a moment ago now became hungry and possessive, completely plundering her mouth. Now it was her turn to be overtaken by the sensations that he wrought upon her. Trapped by his hands, she surrendered to the pleasure of his touch.
Oh, the things she had been missing! None of the books ever gave her as much pleasure as this. Now she knew why all women wanted to find husbands, sacrificing themselves to corsets, crinolines and cosmetics—even poisonous ones. Indulging in this behavior was nothing short of heavenly.
She didn't back away from his kisses, standing her ground. His hand softened behind her neck and slowly made a trail down her back. His other hand began another assault, this time up her waist and around her breast.
She inhaled deeply, astonished by the sensation. It awoke a longing she had tried to water down for years, but now it flamed with unstoppable power. If he quit now, she would feel no compunction about pleading for more.
He gazed into her face. "You use pleasure against me as a weapon, and yet you call me cruel?"
The haze of exhilaration began to dispel. She looked into the beguiling slits of his eyes.
"I was confused by this strange power you have over me," he continued, "but clearly it is a blade that cuts on both edges."
It was true. She had tried to take advantage of him, and he turned her own weapon against her. It was a defeat of the first order.
"Leave my sister alone."
He chuckled. "I think you ought to be worried that I won't leave you alone."
Something jarred her inside, but she wasn't sure if it was apprehension or relief.
Then, amid the strains of Mendelssohn coming from the ballroom, she heard her mother's voice calling out to her. In a panic, she bolted from the man's lap and smoothed out her dress, just as the balcony doors swung open.
"Isha," Lady Elmwood exclaimed. "I've been looking for you for hours."
Isha tried to disguise the flush that was creeping up her face. "Come now, Mama. Don't exaggerate. I've only been gone a few minutes."
"What on earth are you doing out here?"
The man came to his feet. "Yes, Isha. Tell her what you were doing out here with me."
Isha shrugged. "Nothing. Just getting some fresh ai-ai-air!" The word was strangled out of her by the feel of his hand on her bottom.
Her mother pursed her lips. "Shouldn't you be inside chaperoning your sister?"
His hot breath fell on her ear. "Perhaps she should have been out here chaperoning you."
She waved his face away, striking him clumsily on the head.
"Are you all right?" asked her mother.
"Of course, Mama. It's just an irritating pest that keeps buzzing around me."
"Well, why don't you come inside?" she responded.
"Hmm," he said, squeezing her round the waist, "what a brilliant suggestion."
Provocation and humiliation wrung a surprised gasp from her.
"What on earth is the matter with you?" asked her mother.
"I'm a little overwrought, that's all. It's quite hot in there."
"It's getting a little hot out here," he said, nibbling on her left ear.
"Stop that!" Isha muttered.
"Stop what?" asked her mother, a befuddled look clouding her features.
"It's that damned nuisance."
"Isha! Language!" Lady Elmwood cast a worried glance behind her. "What if a man heard you?"
He chuckled into her temple. "He'd teach you how to put your wicked tongue to better use."
She swallowed hard. "I'll be along presently, Mama." As soon as she could figure out how to keep close to her sister while keeping Mr. Bad Luck far away from her. From both of them.
"I'd like you to collect our things. We're leaving just as soon as we've said our farewells to my cousin and her husband."
"Finally!" he exclaimed. "Seems my work here is done."
"Very well, Mama." Isha waited until her mother had closed the balcony doors. Then she turned and slapped the man across the face. Hard.
His astonishment filled her with devious satisfaction.
"Ow!" he said, rubbing his cheek. "That hurt!"
"Is it part of your evil plan to make people around me think I've gone daft?"
"This may come as a shock to you, but your sanity—or lack thereof—is the very least of my concerns." He rocked his jaw. "I always used to laugh when I made women slap other men. You took the humor right out of that."
"If you ever do that again, your life is going to become a lot more humorless."
"For the both of us, I expect. Because quite frankly, one kiss won't go very far."
"Neither does a man with a broken leg."
A devilish grin returned to his face. "Temper, temper. You know what your mother said. What if a man heard you?"
"You impudent blackguard! If my mother knew how you'd provoked me…"
"She won't hear it from me. A gentleman never kisses and tells." His dimples deepened. "And neither do I."
He didn't give her a chance to tell him what she really thought. Before she knew it, he jumped over the balustrade and disappeared into the night.
That night, Isha couldn't sleep. As the moon climbed in the sky, she reflected upon the events of the evening. How could it possibly have been true that she'd been visited by a man who wasn't there? A man who had influence in the world, but no one knew about it? A man who was more devastatingly handsome than any she'd ever met…but whom no one could behold?
Except her.
Real or not, he certainly revealed some things about her, things she wasn't sure she was proud of. It wasn't like her to lose her head like that. The way she threw herself at him! Even if it was in a desperate gambit to lure him away from her sister, it certainly didn't excuse the fact that she had responded so brazenly to his touch.
Then again, it wasn't every day that a man awakened in her a desire to be caressed so intimately. Dark fantasies whirled around her pillow. What would happen if she received such a man in her bed? Would it be forbidden to make love to a man who wasn't really there? Who would make a stand to accuse her? S
he turned onto her side, gazing into the fire. What would it be like to have her own secret lover, whom no one but her would ever know existed? Someone who would materialize right in her room, undetected by anyone in her home. To finally lose her maidenhead—especially to someone as blindingly attractive as the man in the red cravat—and become as other women. To feel his caresses on her bare skin, to explore the steely strength of him under her own fingertips—the thoughts dizzied her with their potential pleasure. Would he appear to her again tonight? Each time a twig broke outside her window or a log in the fireplace crackled, a gasp snapped out of her. But did her heart race out of fear…or out of anticipation?
Isha finally fell asleep as pink tinged the sky. And just as the clock downstairs softly chimed nine, her sister bounded joyfully into her room.
"Isha, wake up! It's time to get dressed."
Isha clambered through the syrup of her restless sleep. "Pirate," she muttered.
Maryan chuckled. "Pirate? Whatever are you dreaming about?"
Isha opened her bleary eyes. The sunlight went right through her. Whatever dream she was enjoying evaporated like a Scottish mist on a summer day.
"Nothing. What time is it?"
"Just after nine. Hurry, you must get up and get dressed. Andrew Harkness will be coming to collect us at eleven for the picnic. Don't you remember?"
Isha had a vague recollection of such a conversation on the carriage ride home. She groaned. "I don't really feel like going on a picnic. Can't we just send word round to Mr. Harkness to leave it for another day?"
"No! I won't postpone Mr. Harkness! It's Mr. Harkness! Please, Isha, get up. Mama won't let me go unless you serve as chaperone."
Chaperone. It was a function served by matron aunts and dowager grandmothers. How she hated to be lumped in among the dried up, forgotten women who were so beyond the clamor of passion they were called upon to smother it in others. If her mother knew how Isha had behaved last night, she would never be asked to chaperone again.
Then again, if she wasn't trusted to chaperone her sister, who would protect Maryan from the man in the red cravat? If no one else could see him, then who else could protect Maryan from Mr. Bad Luck?
Mr. Bad Luck. What utter nonsense. In the bright light of day, all the silly fears and anxious notions that tortured her last night appeared ludicrous. She might as well have believed she'd been talking with a purple dragon. Funny enough, she didn't recall drinking to excess last night. But perhaps she'd eaten something that made her imagine things. Yes, that was it. She'd only imagined that whole affair with the man in the red cravat. He was nothing more than a vivid daydream brought on by a tainted canapé. She drew in an invigorating, cleansing breath, and chuckled at her own foolishness.
Later, Isha and Maryan sat in the morning room, dressed and waiting for Mr. Harkness. The clock had struck noon fifteen minutes ago. In the picnic basket, the warm meat pies had grown cold and the cool lemonade had warmed.
"Where could he be?" Maryan rose and paced the room for the tenth time.
Isha closed her book and sighed. "Are you certain he said eleven o'clock?"
"Of course I am."
"Are you certain he even meant today?"
"Isha, I'm certain. Besides, Mama heard him. She gave her consent."
Isha placed her copy of Blackwell's Handbook of Zoology on the table. "Well, perhaps he forgot. I say we eat. I'm famished."
"How can you think of food at a time like this?"
"Let me remind you that I missed my own breakfast to mend the hem on your dress."
Maryan wrung her hands, ignoring Isha's sacrifice. "What if he decided to walk out with Edith Garnet instead? He danced four times with her last night, you know."
"Yes, but she didn't make him smile like you did."
Maryan grinned giddily. "He did like me, didn't he?"
"Oh, yes."
Just then, they heard a knock on the front door. Maryan straightened. "He's here! He came!"
Isha checked herself in the glass, removing her spectacles and slipping them in her skirt pocket. They had dismissed their footmen long ago, keeping only a charwoman to tend to the rooms and a kitchen maid to see to the meals. Opening the front door now fell to Isha.
Andrew Harkness pulled his hat off. He was the picture of handsomeness, dressed in buff breeches and a forest green coat. "Good afternoon, Miss Elmwood. I'm terribly sorry to be so late."
"It's quite all right, Mr. Harkness. We were rather worried about you. Do come in."
He trudged guiltily into the morning room behind Isha. When he saw Maryan, he executed a curt bow.
"Miss Maryan, I can't begin to apologize for my tardiness. Do forgive me."
Maryan beamed at him. "We thought you had forgotten about us."
"Hardly. I was looking forward to our meeting all morning. I must say, Miss Maryan, you look even more fetching today than you did last night."
Maryan bit her lower lip, her fingertips stroking the pink satin ribbon at her waist. "Thank you, Mr. Harkness. Won't you sit down?"
Isha found it utterly charming to see her sister so completely besotted with a young man. "Tea, Mr. Harkness? It's a fresh pot, still hot."
"Thank you, yes. I can't tell you what a relief it is to finally arrive. My journey here was not without incident. In fact, I had the most extraordinary run of bad luck."
The cup and saucer rattled in Isha's weakened hand. "Bad luck? What do you mean?" The events of last night, which she had chalked up to bad shrimp, came flooding back.
"I really couldn't explain it. Do you know, I've been to Blackheath a dozen times, but for some reason, this morning I got lost and found myself in Beckenham. When I discovered my mistake, I turned round and headed back the way I came, only to find that a large tree had fallen across the path. I had to ride two miles out of my way just to meet the main road again."
Isha's breath came sharp and ragged. "A coincidence, surely," she claimed, trying to convince herself.
"And then my horse's shoe came loose. Do you know how difficult it is to remove a loose shoe from a surly horse in the middle of the forest without any tools?"
"Oh, dear," Maryan exclaimed.
"That's not all," he continued. "Then I was beset by a highwayman."
Maryan gasped. "My goodness!"
"He pulled out a club and told me to hand over my coins. If I'd had my pistol, things would have ended differently. As it was, he lifted all that I was carrying. Funny…I always remembered this village as being a rather sleepy place, rather than a nest of thieves."
"What did he look like?" asked Isha.
Maryan interrupted. "Isha, perhaps we should first be asking if Mr. Harkness was hurt."
Isha pursed her lips. "Very well. Were you hurt, and what did he look like?"
He shrugged. "Just some old ruffian, I suppose. Withered, with grizzled hair and a beard. Looked as if he hadn't washed in years. Kept smirking though, as if he was having a grand time scaring people half to death. Tatters all over his clothes, but a brand new red kerchief tied around his neck."
The chatter between Maryan and Mr. Harkness dimmed as Isha's private thoughts dizzied her. So Mr. Bad Luck was not a figment of her imagination after all. He had warned her quite plainly that he would do all he could to keep Mr. Harkness away from Maryan, and by Jove, that's exactly what he was trying to do. Against Isha's express wish, he was meddling in her sister's life. She had to put a stop to this once and for all.
But first, she had to find him.
"Excuse me." Isha left the morning room, barely giving Mr. Harkness a chance to rise politely before she trotted out into the hall.
She flung open the front door and cast her gaze left and right, sweeping her eyes across the front garden. No one was there.
"Where are you?" she shouted in a whisper. "I know you're here somewhere. Come out at once!" There was no answer.
She grumbled in frustration. She didn't even know what to shout out to call him—he never gave her his name. How
does one call Bad Luck?
Perhaps one does not call out to bad luck. Perhaps one has to invite it.
She racked her brain for old wives' tales she had heard and promptly discarded as silly superstition. Bad luck was brought on if one walked under a ladder.
Isha trudged over to the stable. Damp hay sponged under her boots as she walked through the stable door. Henry the Fifth was munching quietly in his stall, barely taking note of Isha as she reached up and pulled the ladder from its hooks high up on the wall.
She dragged the heavy eight-foot wooden ladder outside and leaned it up against the stable wall. This felt deuced silly. Isha was a woman who could calculate the area of the scalene triangle that the ladder formed. She could even use the Pythagorean Theorem to calculate the height at which she'd placed the ladder or its distance from the wall. Therefore, it was utterly preposterous that she was about to walk under this thing to invoke a childish superstition. She gave a cursory look around, praying that no one could see what she was about to do. As quickly as she could, she walked under the ladder and came out on the other side.
Isha looked around, hoping to catch sight of Mr. Bad Luck. Nothing.
"Where are you?" she cried, a little louder than she hoped. From inside the stable, Henry the Eighth craned his giant head above the stall door. His pointed ears rotated in her direction, and he gave her an incredulous look.
She flicked a sour gaze at the horse. Of course she looked a fool. She didn't need a mirror to tell her that…
A mirror! Breaking a mirror is seven years' bad luck. Wasn't that what they always said? She shuddered at the thought of being around that insufferable man for seven years, but if that was the only way to get him to appear to her, then her dressing table mirror was about to be sacrificed.
Isha came back into the house. As she passed the morning room door, she noticed that Maryan and Mr. Harkness were now joined by her mother.
"I wondered where you'd gone." There was a disapproving clip in Lady Elmwood's voice. "I hope you didn't deliberately leave our guest to fend for himself."
"Not at all, Mama," Isha responded. "I was just, er, asking Gertrude to place warm scones in the picnic basket."
