by Anne Stuart
Stillness surrounded Killoran like an uneasy cloud. Emma was already burrowed deep within the dressing gown; she controlled the urge to pull it closer around her as she turned to look at him in the gathering twilight.
“You remind me of a magpie,” she said unexpectedly.
He stood in the doorway watching her, a rare look of interest in his eyes. “I make you think of a noisy, chattering bird?” he said. “How very lowering.”
She swung around, careful to keep her long legs covered. Her red hair was a tangled curtain around her, impossibly curly, but there was no way she could restrain it with what they’d left her, so she decided to ignore it. “There’s more to magpies than noise,” she said severely.
“I stand corrected. I never was a bird fancier. Are you about to educate me?”
“They are very handsome birds, you know. All black and white, with elegant plumage.”
He bowed. “You reassure me.”
“They also have a weakness for glitter. If they see something shiny, they simply steal it, carrying it off with them to their nest.”
If she weren’t so near-sighted, she would have known for sure whether there was a glint of amusement in his green, merciless eyes. “I rather thought you were the one who stood accused of thievery.” His voice was as cool as silver. “There was the small matter of that young man’s diamond stickpin.”
“But you know that’s not true.”
“I don’t know anything at all about you, child, apart from your unusual thirst for violence.” He moved closer, but his expression, as always, was guarded. She had no idea what he was thinking as his eyes traveled over her oddly dressed figure. “And then there’s the undeniable fact that you helped yourself to my coat and my diamond studs. I suspect there’s a strong streak of larceny in your soul as well.”
“I presume you got them back,” she said, squashing her immediate guilt.
“I did. But that doesn’t necessarily absolve you, or answer my questions. I don’t suppose you care to enlighten me as to who you are?”
“Do you really care?”
He smiled then. “No.”
“I thought not. Miss Brown will do.”
“On the contrary—‘Miss Brown’ will not do at all. I refuse to have someone living under my protection with such a tedious name. ‘Emma’ will suffice. You seem rather like an Emma, despite your exotic appearance. There’s something definitely well ordered about the name Emma. Calm and reasonable, warmhearted and generous.”
“You think I’m calm and reasonable?” She was astounded. While that sounded a bit more flattering than she tended to view herself, he’d painted a fairly accurate picture of the real Emma. Well ordered, sensible, kind, and serene, despite the storms that surrounded her. But how could he possibly know that?
He sat down beside her on the window seat, carefully arranging the black-and-silver brocade of his coat so as not to crush it. He was too close to her, and she tried to scoot away, surreptitiously. She had little doubt he was aware of her every move, little doubt that she could edge away only because he allowed her to.
“I know a bit about human nature,” he replied.
“And you don’t care much for it.”
“What reasonable human being could? But I’m not a monster. Unlike the magpie you accuse me of being, I’m not about to carry you off to my nest and keep you there like a shiny new toy. If you wish to leave, you need only say the word and you’re free to go. Wherever.”
It was hardly the most appealing offer. The silk was soft against her bare skin, the fire warm. “And if I prefer to stay?”
There was no flare of triumph in his eyes. “Then you will abide by my decisions. You will wear what I choose, eat what I choose, go where I choose. You will be my creature, living the life I decide for you.”
“I would be your whore?”
He laughed then, hardly a reassuring sound. “You needn’t sound so dismayed about it. Most women would feel honored. You keep harping on that, child. I thought I made it clear that I’m not about to expire with passion for your undeniably lovely body. I have far more interesting plans for you.”
“What kind of plans?”
“Such a suspicious mind,” he murmured. “Nothing you need to worry about at present. We shall have to see how things unfold. In the meantime, I plan to present you to society as my ward. Ah… we’re not likely to run into any real member of your family, are we?”
“No.”
“Good. You look charming in that dressing gown of mine. Black suits you. I think I shall arrange for a suitable wardrobe. Your manners are genteel enough, perhaps better than mine, so there’s no need of working on them. After all, what can one expect from the Irish? We’ll dress you appropriately and take you to the opera. To start with.”
“I love the opera,” she said, a faint note of hope creeping into her voice.
“You aren’t going to listen,” he said. “You’re going to observe and be observed.”
“Why?”
“Why do I do anything? Because it amuses me. But you must make one thing very clear to all and sundry. Make certain you tell them you are not my sister.”
“Your sister? Why should anyone believe such an absurdity?” she said hotly shaken by the very notion.
He touched her then. His elegant, pale hand reached out and touched her chin, tilting her face up to his. He looked at her carefully, his dark green eyes revealing only cursory interest. “I cannot imagine,” he said after a moment. “But people do come up with the oddest notions. As long as you deny it every chance you get, things should be fine.” His hand left her, and he rose, tall, elegant, distant.
Her face felt warm and cold where he’d touched her. She had never wanted a man’s touch before in her life. She certainly didn’t want the touch of this beautiful, cold-eyed, coldhearted lord, did she?
She was unwilling to give in so easily. “Are you certain this is quite wise on your part?” she called after him as he started from the room.
He halted, turning to look at her. “Perhaps I’m dull-witted this afternoon,” he said. “Not that I’ve ever been particularly concerned with wise actions, but why don’t you explain your concerns?”
“You’re taking into your house a woman who’s already killed one man and almost killed another. Aren’t you worried I might take a sudden dislike to you?” she inquired in her most dulcet voice.
He wasn’t the slightest bit discomfited, blast him. “A sudden dislike?” he echoed. “Does that mean that for the time being you cherish a fondness for my worthless self? How very encouraging. Trust me, my dear Emma. I shall keep sharp objects and dueling pistols out of reach. If you find your murderous tendencies have suddenly become overwhelming, apply them to Nathaniel instead of me. I’m afraid I’m a very difficult man to kill.”
“Has anyone tried?”
“A number,” he said very gently. “And they’re no longer among the living. Keep that in mind, my pet.” He closed the door very quietly behind him.
“He’s a devil,” Nathaniel said bitterly.
Lady Barbara raised her eyes careful to keep her expression guarded. The painted chicken-skin fan was perfect for that; she could spin and tap it, distracting the eye from any stray emotion that might flicker across her face. She couldn’t match Killoran’s ability to hide his feelings. Doubtless he no longer had them. If only she could reach that same, blissful state.
“Don’t be tiresome, Nathaniel,” she said. “He’s a man, like all men. Quite human, underneath his airs and graces.”
Nathaniel flushed. She shouldn’t have said it, she thought. She shouldn’t have made him more miserable, reminding him of her relationship to the fourth Earl of Killoran. As far as he knew, she was Killoran’s mistress.
But he needed reminding. When he looked at her out of those adoring blue eyes, he started her thinking of what life could have been like, and she had no choice but to give him a setdown. For her own sake as well as his.
Not that she w
as, in fact, mistress to Killoran. And she could well agree with Nathaniel’s calling him a devil. It made no sense that he resisted her. Despite her gibes, she knew perfectly well that he had no interest in bedding those of his own sex, and his amorous exploits were well known. He hadn’t had a mistress in keeping for more than a year now, but it was put to the account of boredom rather than to alternative interests.
She’d toyed with the idea that he might be ill, might have suffered some grave wound during his last duel. But he hadn’t fought a duel in over four years, and the entire ton knew about the time he’d been caught in flagrante delicto with Lord Marlborough’s wife, sister-in-law, and the governess, all at the same time. Those who hadn’t shunned him had remained in awe of his prowess, and Barbara had every intention of sampling that prowess. After all, who was more deserving of the most dedicated rake in London than one of its most dissolute whores?
She glanced at her reflection in the mirror above Nathaniel’s head. She always preferred to sit in a place where she could see herself. That way she wouldn’t run the risk of forgetting exactly who and what she was.
She should use a little more paint. In the past few weeks she’d been oddly tempted to dress less outrageously, to paint less starkly, and she was horribly afraid the distracting presence of Killoran’s young cousin was responsible. She’d seen adoration in young men’s eyes often enough to recognize it. She’d never allowed herself to be moved by it before. But for some reason, Nathaniel moved her.
It was all Killoran’s fault. If he’d simply take her, use her, as so many other men had, then she would be distracted from the impossible temptation of pure young love staring at her.
And that pure young love was flawless. Nathaniel Hepburn was absurdly handsome, with broad shoulders, long legs, a flat stomach, and strong, tanned hands. He wore simple perukes when he wasn’t tying his chestnut hair back in a queue, and his clothes, while nowhere near Killoran’s elegance, were quiet and well tailored, fitting his strong young body almost too well.
He was intelligent, he was kind, he was honest and fierce and noble. An absolute paragon, with only one besetting sin.
He was fool enough to love her.
He must know about her. Gossip in London was rampant, and she’d never made the slightest effort to be discreet. In fact, she’d sought out notoriety, for her own reasons, and been well rewarded in her quest. By the age of nineteen, she’d already discarded five lovers, one of them a royal duke three times her age. She moved through society with a seemingly bright, cheerful amorality, taking her pleasure where she found it, with no interest in the consequences, and certainly no interest in besotted young men from the country who wanted to take her away from all this and breed babies.
She had no doubt that was exactly what Nathaniel wanted to do. If she gave him the slightest hint of encouragement, he’d be down on one knee, offering his heart, his hand, his fortune, and a future in the wilds of Northumberland, far from shops and theaters and civilization.
She gave him no encouragement whatsoever, apart from the occasional cool smile. She hadn’t yet been cruel to him, though that time would doubtless come. Sooner or later she would need to drive him away, before she was tempted by something she could never have.
Maybe she would have to seduce him. The boy might be a virgin, though she doubted it. Perhaps if she took him to bed, showed him things that some of her more jaded partners had taught her, it would be enough to convince him of the truth.
The truth was that Lady Barbara Fitzhugh was a whore. Deserving of no better or worse than a blackhearted rake like Killoran, who would use her and then discard her like the worthless creature she was.
Except that Killoran seemed to have no use for her. Anxious, Barbara looked up once again to the mirror. Her beauty was still there—her golden curls, her translucent skin, her huge eyes and soft mouth. She hadn’t yet begun to fade—there was no reason for Killoran to resist her.
“He means ill by her, I know it,” Nathaniel was saying in a bitter voice. “I don’t trust him for a moment. He’s never had a kindly impulse in his life, and he certainly hasn’t taken the girl in out of the goodness of his heart.”
“Are you talking about Killoran’s sister?” Barbara asked idly, stifling her irrational jealousy.
“She’s no more his sister than you are, despite what he wants the ton to believe, and you know it as well as I do. For the life of me, I can’t figure out what he wants with her.”
“Does it matter?”
“I can’t stand by and let him debauch an innocent.”
“Why not?”
Nathaniel stared at her, momentarily speechless. “You don’t know what you’re saying, Lady Barbara.”
“Of course I do. Why is it your concern whether he seduces the girl or not? She’s pretty enough, I admit, though not quite in the common style. Why should it bother you if he takes her to bed? Do you have a tendre for her?”
It was almost too easy to watch the color stain his face, the look of misery enter his wonderful blue eyes. “No,” he said.
And, of course, that was all he said. His code of honor prevented him from declaring himself to his host’s mistress. His code of honor should probably have prevented him from feeling those feelings in the first place, but Barbara was not misled. She knew that yearning look in his eyes. She knew it because, unaccountably, she felt the same fierce, fragile longing. She was experienced enough to know better, but still it persisted, irrationally, dangerously.
“In that case, I suggest you keep your concern and your opinions to yourself. I’ve known Killoran for several years now, and his nature is legendary. He will do exactly what he wishes to do, and no stalwart young hero will be able to distract him.”
Nathaniel flushed, as she’d meant him to. She rose, crossing the room to him, letting her body sway slightly, just a tiny bit, so that she could enjoy the dubious pain/pleasure of watching his eyes glaze in longing. She ought to bed him, she thought again. To remind herself that he was just like every other man who’d possessed her body and believed her moans of pleasure.
He looked up at her and she lifted a hand to touch him, then let it drop again, wise for once in her life. “If I were you, Nathaniel, I would go find myself a plump young mistress to entertain you. Then you wouldn’t waste your time worrying about Killoran’s affairs.”
He didn’t miss her gently worded message. “I have no interest in plump young mistresses, my lady,” he said. And he caught the hand that she’d let drop.
He was strong. His hands were hard, unlike the soft, pampered flesh of the men who’d touched her. She looked at him, and she almost had hope.
But there was no hope for the likes of her. She’d gone beyond it, years past. She pulled her hand away. “La, sir,” she said, laughing lightly, “you’re developing quite a gift for flirtation. Don’t let Killoran catch you at it—he’s scarce a jealous lover, but he holds what he has.”
“Does he have you, lady?” Nathaniel’s voice was low, intense, and its timbre thrummed through Barbara’s body.
“Me, sir? No one has me. And no one ever will.” And without another word she left him, almost at a run.
Chapter 7
It was three days before Emma saw Killoran again. She should have found that a relief. Her plain governess’s garb never made a re-appearance, though fine lawn underclothing supplemented the doubtful modesty of Killoran’s dressing gown. She was well fed—not only did Killoran possess a gifted chef, but the other servants were discreet and alert. Emma had only to feel a faint chill and the fire was replenished without her saying a word. Tea arrived a moment before she knew she wanted it, including cakes and scones with lashings of butter. Indeed, Emma, who always had a weakness for food, decided after the first day of piggery that she’d best find ways to distract herself from the bounty offered her. At Cousin Miriam’s house, the meals had been remarkably Spartan, even during holidays.
During the three-day sojourn she wasn’t entirely alone. Nathan
iel, all respectful concern and unaffected charm, taught her to play cards. It had been a knowledge she’d lacked, since Miriam considered cards to be instruments of the devil, and she showed a decided talent for it, beating Nathaniel soundly by the second day.
“I like this,” she announced ingenuously. “I think I have a real flair for it.”
Nathaniel glowered. “Just don’t do it for money. Cousin Emma. It’s hard enough on a man to lose to a female of greater skill. If any sum of money were involved, the consequences would be disastrous.”
She looked up from the cards with curiosity. “Why do you persist in calling me Cousin Emma?” she asked. “We’re no kin.”
“Indeed. But Killoran occasionally proves adamant, and he insists you’re his by-blow sister. We both know otherwise, but I can scarce call you Miss Brown, since that’s just as unlikely, and you don’t seem eager to share your real name with me. And simply calling you Emma is too forward.”
“Don’t you think sitting around playing cards with me while I’m wearing your host’s dressing gown should loosen the proprieties a bit?”
“Do you want them loosened?” he asked, suddenly intent.
She looked across the table at him. In truth, he was a very handsome young man, something she hadn’t taken the time to notice. She’d never been one to be distracted by handsome faces—granted, there’d been few enough in her cloistered existence at Cousin Miriam’s, but even so, she simply hadn’t been interested. She’d spent most of her time reading, preferring the fictional characters to those gentlemen with far too many frailties.
Nathaniel Hepburn was, without a doubt, the handsomest young man she’d ever seen. With his clear blue eyes, ruddy complexion, thick brown hair, and firm jaw, he should have been enough to melt her untouched heart.
