A Kiss at Midnight

by Eloisa James

  He returned to her mouth, kissing her punishingly, making her arch against him, lost in a firestorm of sensation and desire.

  When she broke away, she knew perfectly well that her will was sapped, the whole practical side of her dismissed, as if it didn’t exist. “Please let me move,” she begged huskily, her eyes wandering over his chest . . . the chest she hadn’t been able to touch because her arms were still trapped by her gown.

  He moved back without a word, but she saw the way he was struggling to draw in air.

  With a swift movement Kate swung her legs over the edge of the bed and stood up. She shrugged her arms from the sleeves of her dress, but held it to her waist, letting his hot eyes appreciate her.

  “What’s fit for the goose is fit for the gander,” she told him, a smile stealing over her lips.

  His eyes widened and she slowly, slowly let the gown drop to the floor. Gabriel had ripped her chemise to the waist, so she pulled it off her shoulders, but didn’t let it fall, holding it to her breasts, pulling it slowly past her nipples, shuddering at the feeling of silk rubbing parts made tender by his mouth.

  Gabriel made a movement, as if he were about to fling himself off the bed, but she stopped him with one glance.

  “You undressed yourself,” she said, letting one hand slide from her collarbone, down over the curve of her right breast, down to the frail silk of her chemise as it clung to her hips.

  “Please,” he said hoarsely.

  Kicking her gown away from her feet, she turned her back on him and saucily walked over to the table. “You look a little hot, Your Highness. Perhaps the fan will help.”

  Picking up the fan he had handed her a few hours ago, she sauntered back toward the bed. “I always use it when I’m overheated,” she crooned, flipping it open and fanning her face. Then a bit lower, her breasts. A bit lower . . . Her chemise rippled in the breeze.

  “I don’t know why it is,” she said, “but I seem to be uncommonly overheated at the moment.”

  “Kate,” Gabriel said, his voice a groan. “You’re no virgin. Tell me you’re not a virgin.”

  Her smile slipped, and the fan fell to the floor.

  Gabriel lunged off the bed as if he were possessed, jerking her into his arms. “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.”

  Kate tried to say something but the feeling of his body against hers had stolen her logic again, sent her into a storm of sensation and desire. His body was hard and demanding against her, delivering an unmistakable male demand that made her knees buckle.

  “You’re a virgin; I know you’re a virgin and I respect that,” Gabriel was saying into her hair. “I would never imply otherwise, darling. It was just the cry of a man who was wishing that fate was different.”

  She curled against his chest, feeling his heart thumping wildly. “You’re wishing that I was the hussy I feel like,” she whispered. Excitement curled tighter in her stomach. She raised her head to meet his eyes. “Tonight you’re just a man, remember?”

  “I don’t know if I’ll survive this night,” he said raggedly.

  A smile curved her lips and she broke free of his arms. “I hadn’t finished undressing. Are you planning to expire before that happens?”

  “No,” he choked.

  Somehow her poor chemise had clung to her hips. With a little wiggle, Kate sent it sliding down her legs, over the butter-colored hair that covered her most private area.

  Then she raised her arms and pulled the last pins from her hair. It fell below her shoulders, ringlets and curls, thick and silky. She ran her fingers through it, shaking her locks free, enjoying the way her breasts rose in the air.

  “You are so beautiful,” Gabriel growled, his voice little more than a thread of sound.

  “I believe it’s time for a bath,” she said, turning her back on him. Then she paused and looked over her shoulder. “You did say that there was a bath prepared for me?”

  He didn’t seem to be able to speak, but he leaped ahead of her and pulled away the velvet curtain that concealed his bathing area.

  “How lovely!” Kate cried, seeing the huge iron tub full of gently steaming water, candles throwing golden specks of light over the velvet of the curtains, over the water, over her body.

  She stepped forward and put in a toe, then, with a sigh of pure pleasure, relaxed into the curve of the tub, sweeping her hair behind her so that it hung over the edge.

  The only sound in the room was the gentle plash of water and the harsh sound of Gabriel’s breathing. She couldn’t stop smiling. If she, Katherine Daltry, decided to be a wanton, she would be the best wanton this castle had ever seen.

  “Soap,” she said, holding out her hand.

  Gabriel put the ball in her hand without a word.

  “Mmmm,” she said, sniffing it. “Apple blossom?”

  “Orange blossom,” he said. His voice was dark and sinful.

  She sat up just enough so that she could soap her left arm. “Shouldn’t you be getting dressed so that you can go back downstairs?” she asked. “I’m afraid everyone will be wondering where you are.”

  His eyes were fixed on her hands as she soaped her right arm.

  “Gabriel?” she inquired innocently, her hands straying to her breasts. “I’m sure you said that you would come and go. That was your plan, wasn’t it?”

  His gaze was so hungry, so hot, that she was surprised the water didn’t evaporate. He cleared his throat. “Why don’t you finish washing, and then I’ll go. Unless you would like some assistance?”

  She raised a leg from the bath and slowly, slowly washed her toes, letting her fingers stray up her leg.

  “I suppose,” she said, stealing a glance at him under her lashes, “someone might help me with this other leg.”

  Somehow it felt entirely different when strong male hands stroked soap over her leg.

  And Gabriel’s interpretation of leg was not exactly in line with her own. Kate was no sooner lying back in the bath, enjoying the tingling sensation of his strong fingers stroking her thigh, than they crept higher . . . and then higher still.

  She sat up. “Gabriel!”

  “Hush, darling,” he said. And with that, his fingers slipped into a caress. This was no kiss . . . She should stop him.

  Instead her legs fell farther apart in a silent plea that he continue. Whatever he was doing was fatal to her self-control. Kate’s common sense, her willpower, all the parts that made her fierce and strong, deserted her. All that was left was a body that rejoiced in his touch, arched toward him.

  His other hand wandered to her breast and she actually threw her head back and cried aloud. His hands were like fire, teasing, tormenting, stroking her . . .

  “I—” she gasped.

  A finger dipped into her most private place for one throbbing instant and she shattered, crying out, her arms flying around his neck, her body shaking as stroke after stoke of fire shot through her body.

  Kate came to herself slowly, finding that her wet arms were locked around Gabriel’s neck, that her eyes were squeezed shut. His fingers eased from her plump folds, giving them a little farewell pat that sent a final shudder through her body.

  “God almighty, Kate,” he said in a kind of groan.

  She didn’t move. She felt sweaty—and she was in a bath. Noises had come from her mouth that she hadn’t imagined any lady could ever make. Pleasure was replaced by a wave of embarrassment so violent that she would have preferred to die rather than open her eyes.

  Plus—though it was a minor consideration—her legs were still throbbing.

  “Kate?” he asked, his voice just as sinful as before. “Are you ever going to open your eyes?”

  She shook her head, keeping her face tight to his skin. It smelled warm and male and indescribably enticing.

  A hand slid down her back, following the curve of her spine under water, slid around the curve of her hip. “I want to kiss you there,” he said, conversationally.

  Her body jerked in shock. “
No,” she said, the word muffled by his skin.

  “I must go downstairs and begin the dancing, but Kate . . .”

  He gently pulled her arms from around his neck and stood up. Perforce, she opened her eyes. He was all taut muscle, even the part that stood fiercely above the band of his smalls.

  “Won’t that be uncomfortable?” she asked, realizing instantly that her effort to make casual conversation was a failure. There was something aching in her voice, something that begged him to stay.

  He couldn’t stay.

  He was rubbing toweling over his chest and staring at her as if he couldn’t look away. “Yes,” he said flatly. “I’m going to have to wait on those stairs for a good ten minutes.”

  Looking at his face, Kate suddenly realized that there was no reason for her shock of embarrassment. What happened between them, no matter how intimate, was not shameful.

  So she pointedly let her legs fall apart, just as they wished to, and ran her hand down the inside of her thigh.

  “What if I want that kiss . . . now?” she whispered.

  Her flesh throbbed under her light touch, at the very idea of it.

  “You’re killing me,” he said hoarsely. “I have to go, Kate. You know that.”

  She gave him a devilish smile. “It’s all right. As long as you remember that I’m here, waiting.” She let her head fall backward, and her breasts rose above the water.

  He made a choked noise and disappeared through the velvet drapes. Kate heard the door close behind him.

  A small smile curled her lips. She had learned something rather wonderful, it seemed to her.

  Gabriel would go downstairs and do whatever it was he had to do . . . and then he would return.

  Thirty-three

  You almost missed the first dance,” Wick hissed at him. “I’ve delayed the musicians as long as I was able, telling everyone that Sophonisba was taken ill.”

  Gabriel felt as if he were in a dream. His mind, his heart, were locked upstairs, with Kate, with the silky, honey woman waiting for him.

  The only thing that got him to the threshold of the ballroom was the iron sense of duty in which he had been drilled since birth.

  “I’m here,” he said tightly.

  “Not a good night,” Wick said, looking at him. “She’s over there.” He nodded toward Tatiana and her uncle, in the middle of a small circle of gentlemen.

  Gabriel walked across the room like a sleepwalker and apologized to Tatiana for missing most of the evening meal. “My aunt is elderly, as you could see,” he said. “When we reached her chambers she wasn’t feeling well, and I’m afraid she is rather imperious in demanding attendance during those moments.”

  “I admire a man who has a sense of his responsibilities,” Dimitri said, rocking back on his heels and smiling approvingly at Gabriel. “Family always comes first in Russia. I don’t care for the kind of fathering that you see in England, with a child scarcely recognizing his own blood relation.”

  A little girl with Merry’s name and Kate’s face danced across Gabriel’s mind as he turned to Tatiana and requested her hand for the dance.

  Tatiana danced like a feather, her curtsies graceful, her sense of timing impeccable. And Gabriel, trained to dance from the age of three, was as good as she was.

  Dimly, from behind a haze of sensual frustration, he was aware of the pleasure of having a partner with whom he was truly in harmony.

  “Perhaps we might dance again?” he asked, as the music drew to a close.

  She bestowed a little smile on him. “Indeed, Your Highness, it would be a pleasure.”

  “A waltz, perhaps,” he said, knowing that he was putting the seal on his coffin. The moment a waltz began and he stepped onto that floor with Tatiana held in his arms, it would be a matter of days until he was signing a marriage contract. The dance was considered too sensual and disreputable by many sticklers in the ton; stepping onto the floor with an unmarried woman was tantamount to an announcement of their impending marriage. Not that anyone had any question about that.

  She looked a little puzzled, as if a shadow of the bleakness that stabbed through his body had become visible in his eyes.

  “I would be honored,” he said, getting a grip on himself.

  Tatiana turned from him to take Toloose’s hand, giving him the confident smile of a girl who is discovering her power over men. “I should have to ask my uncle,” she told him, secret laughter in her eye showing that she understood the implication of a waltz as well as he did.

  Gabriel took a breath. If he danced two or three more sets, and then told the orchestra to play the shortest waltz they had in their repertoire, then he could pretend to fall, or pretend to get drunk. Anything to get himself out of the room and back up to his tower.

  A sharp rap on his arm brought him back to himself.

  Lady Wrothe was standing at his side. “The music’s starting again,” Henry stated. The expression on her face was not entirely charming.

  “Lady Wrothe,” he said, bowing. “Would you be so kind as to—”

  “Yes, I would sit out this measure with you,” she said, interrupting. “Very kind of you, as I turned an ankle with these dratted heels of mine.” She headed directly for a secluded little alcove, just large enough for its padded settee.

  “Now where’s my goddaughter?” she asked, without preamble. “I’ve been to her room, so I know that’s a taradiddle about her stomach. Kate’s not the sort to suffer any ailments; I’d be surprised if the girl spent a day in bed in her life.”

  Gabriel’s jaw clenched as images of just how he and Kate could spend a day in bed together crashed into his mind. “I’m afraid that I can’t assist you,” he said, through the roaring in his ears.

  “Can’t or won’t?” Henry said, tapping him sharply again with her fan. “I’m not a jack-pudding, you know. That girl’s parents have both cocked up their toes, and so she’s mine now. And I”—she smiled with all the charm of a mother tiger—“will not be pleased if her heart is broken.”

  “I would feel the same,” Gabriel said.

  “Who would guess that, seeing you circle the floor with that over-nourished Russian girl on your arm?”

  “Princess Tatiana is a very . . .” He paused. “She’s a lovely girl.”

  “But would Kate enjoy seeing you make sheep’s eyes at a lovely girl?”

  “Lady Wrothe,” Gabriel said. “This marriage was arranged on the basis of my bride’s substantial dowry and my title. It’s an old tale, and one we’ve all heard before.” His words came out like hard little acorns, one to each beat of his heart. His eyes flicked to her face. “I cannot marry Kate.”

  “If you’re planning to weave me some sort of lament, don’t,” Henry snapped. “You don’t have to hide Kate away like some sort of doxy you hired for the night while you’re out there dancing with your bride-to-be. She can be here too, because there are plenty of men who would love to marry her, substantial dowry or no!”

  Gabriel took a deep breath. “I cannot marry where I will.”

  “I’m not saying you should,” Henry retorted. “There are men who throw the world at their lady’s feet, and then there are the rest of you, who see the world as a ledger in black and white. I encountered one of you early in life, so I know just what you’re like.”

  He had never been so close to striking a woman before. “If you’ll forgive me—”

  But her hand fell on his arm, and what he saw in her eyes stayed his tongue. “You’ve got a choice before you, prince,” she said. “You damned well better make the right one, or you’ll spend your life cursing yourself. That gentleman I mentioned just now . . . I don’t think the dowry he married made up for what he lost. And I believe he would agree with me.”

  Gabriel turned, rather blindly, and walked toward the door. A gentleman lurched out of his way at the last moment.

  Only Wick stepped in his way.

  “I told Tatiana that I’d waltz with her,” Gabriel said in a low, harsh whisper
. “Find her and tell her something.”

  “A waltz? I’ll have to tell her that you’ve taken ill.”

  “I have,” Gabriel said. “Sick unto death, I think they call it.”

  Thirty-four

  Upstairs, Kate dried herself off, examined her ruined chemise, retrieved her crumpled dress and put it over a chair, and finally pulled on a dressing gown that hung against the wall. It was silk, and felt like an exotic caress against her skin. She wound the cord twice around her waist to keep it closed.

  Still Gabriel didn’t come.

  She picked up the journal on Ionian treasures, leafed through it, and was amused to find a learned and aggressive letter from Gabriel featured in the notes. She picked up Aretino and put him down again immediately. Those engravings seemed to have nothing to do with the incandescent tenderness with which Gabriel had touched her.

  And, like that, she realized that she’d made a decision.

  She meant to sleep with Gabriel. She was greedy, mad with greed if the truth be told. She wanted this—him—for herself, to make up for the seven years in which not a soul touched her in a loving way.

  She would give him her virginity, and then leave for London. Her legs trembled at the thought, and she felt her cheeks warming. It was the only thing she had wanted ferociously in years.

  The door opened, and Gabriel walked through. There was something leaden in his face, in his eyes. “What happened?” she asked, from across the room. And then, walking to stand before him: “Gabriel, what happened? Are you all right?”

  He looked down at her, eyes full of an emotion that she couldn’t read. “Do you know what I’ve been doing in the ballroom, Kate? Do you have any idea?”

  She put a hand on his coat, wanting to feel the solid warmth of him in light of the chilly rage in his voice. “Dancing.”

  “Not just dancing,” he said, precisely. “I’ve been dancing with my future wife, Tatiana.”

  Kate never thought that pain could rip through one’s heart like a wound, but now she knew it could. She had managed to forget about Tatiana, to pretend that Gabriel was simply . . . elsewhere. Her whole body tensed and froze, just as it had when she had entered her mother’s room and seen a body with no spirit.