by Anne Stuart
“Killoran seemed just as surprised. Not everyone has the elegant upbringing you two had.”
“I doubt Killoran’s was terribly elegant, given the state of Ireland and his own inheritance,” Nathaniel observed wryly. “His father inherited the title late in life, and his mother was a Catholic. As it was, they didn’t have long to enjoy themselves. Bad trouble there, or so my father told me.”
“But—”
“Killoran wouldn’t like me gossiping, and I’m not in the mood to let him run me through,” Nathaniel said, abruptly changing the subject. “Put your tea down, Emma, and come with me. I’ll teach you to dance.”
“I don’t want to—” She wasn’t even able to finish her sentence before Nathaniel had whisked the cup out of her hand, caught her wrist, and dragged her from the room. She followed, not out of docility but curiosity.
She’d never noticed the ballroom on the third floor. Nathaniel pushed open the doors, and she stepped inside, momentarily astonished.
Obviously the rest of the exotic, elegant house had once looked like this. The walls were water-stained and shabby, the parquet floor worn and scarred. The room was dark—the skylight overhead let in the murky light of a late winter afternoon, and the sconces on the walls held only the occasional candle stub.
In one far corner stood an old clavichord, its painted sides faded with age and stained with damp. Chairs lay haphazardly here and there, as if tossed about by a giant in a rage, and the huge fireplaces at either end of the vast room were cold and dead.
“Why hasn’t this room been redecorated?” Emma asked, moving across the floor toward the clavichord, drawn by emotions she couldn’t begin to fathom.
“Killoran won the place from a young sprig of the aristocracy,” Nathaniel said, following her, his feet scuffing the dust-bedecked floor. “The boy had just come into his very sizable inheritance and was in the midst of fixing this house up when he had the bad luck to meet Killoran. It was only a matter of time before young Whitten had no house, no fortune, and indeed, no future.”
“No future?” She paused at the clavichord, glancing at him. She’d tied her hair back with a simple ribbon; despite the variety and luxury of the black-and-white wardrobe with which Killoran had provided her, it came unequipped with anything to fasten her hair. She’d had to snip a piece of trim off one of her new dresses.
“He killed himself, poor boy. Couldn’t face the disgrace, I suppose. Needless to say, society blamed Killoran, and made it clear he’d have no need to refurbish a ballroom.”
“Oh, the poor man,” she said in a hushed voice.
“Some might say it was his own fault, for gaming with Killoran in the first place,” Nathaniel said idly.
“I don’t mean Whitten. I mean poor Killoran,” Emma corrected him. “It is scarcely his fault that he has the devil’s own luck with cards.”
“In this case, I rather believe it was dicing,” Nathaniel said. “Give me your hand.”
Emma regarded him suspiciously. “Why?”
“So I can show you how to dance. We’ll start with a simple quadrille, I think. You’re naturally quite graceful, so I imagine you’ll pick it up rather quickly.”
“I’m not sure…”
“Come on, Emma,” he said, sounding rather like a bossy older brother. “I’m not going to bite you.” And he took her hand, drew her out toward the center of the room, and began to hum under his breath.
Unfortunately, he was completely tone-deaf. The sounds emanating from him had nothing to do with music whatsoever, though at least the rhythm was fairly decent. Emma moved as he did, mirroring each graceful step to the best of her ability, and wondered what it would be like to dance with Killoran.
“What in God’s name are you doing?” Lady Barbara’s voice carried from the doorway, arch with amusement. Nathaniel dropped Emma’s hand with unflattering haste, and even in the dim light Emma could see the faint stain of color on his cheekbones.
“Emma doesn’t know how to dance,” he said with a trace of defensiveness in his voice. “I was endeavoring to teach her.”
Lady Barbara sailed into the ballroom. She was dressed in bright teal, her skirts so wide they filled the doorway, her powdered hair carefully dressed. She had a beauty mark placed enticingly at one corner of her full mouth, and another just above her décolletage. Emma thought she could hear Nathaniel’s heart grind to a halt, but Lady Barbara was intent on other things. She was shorter than Emma, more delicately made, and when she came right up to her, she had to tilt her head back, a smile tinged with malice on her lovely face.
“You look none the worse for wear, my dear,” she said frankly, letting her blue eyes trail down Emma’s statuesque form. “We haven’t met formally, but I’m so fond of Killoran that I feel any sister of his is a sister of mine as well.”
“I’m not his sister,” Emma replied helplessly.
“Yes, he told me you’d say that,” Lady Barbara said. “And since I’m the one who brought you to his attention, I’m perfectly willing to believe that. But the rest of polite society won’t. The more you deny it, the more certain they’ll be that it’s true. If I were you, my dear, I’d cease protesting. Simply smile mysteriously, and that will start their doubts.” She turned to Nathaniel, and Emma could feel his temperature rise several degrees.
“You’re a lamentable teacher, Nathaniel,” she said sternly. “But a very graceful dancer. Perhaps Emma will play for us and we can give her a demonstration. You do play, don’t you? Or has that part of your education been lacking as well?”
“I play,” Emma replied, not certain what she thought of Lady Barbara. On the one hand, the elegant creature was going out of her way to be irritating. On the other, Emma could detect no real ill will from the woman who was at least nominally Killoran’s mistress.
The clavichord was dreadfully out of tune.
The ivory keyboard was yellowed and covered with dust, and the bench with the ripped damask seat cover felt dangerously rickety when Emma lowered herself down on it. None of that mattered. The moment the music started to flow, Emma was transported, beyond discomfort and questionable tone, beyond doubts and worries and even ridiculous infatuation.
It had been the one thing Miriam couldn’t take away from her. By the time of her father’s death she was already proficient, and as long as she confined her playing to religious works, her cousin had allowed her to continue, even though she shunned the sound. Emma was never quite certain why, unless it was to keep her docile. Without even her music, she might have run away by the time she was thirteen.
She played, reveling in the half-forgotten feel of the keys beneath her fingers; and, half in a trance, she watched Nathaniel and Lady Barbara move around the ballroom in perfect synchronicity.
The shadows darkened. Lady Barbara’s swirling skirts stirred up the dust of ages, but the three of them were caught in a dream, lost in the music. Emma played, her eyes half closed as she watched them dance, and she could feel the hopeless longing that flowed between them. Not just on Nathaniel’s part. She had only to glance at Lady Barbara’s upturned face, the cynicism temporarily washed away. She looked innocent, sweet, and ten years younger, a child discovering life.
The slow, mocking sound of applause brought them all to a stop. Killoran lounged against the open door, a shadow at the edge of shadows, watching them. A servant stood behind him, holding a candelabrum, and the glow was eerie, magical.
Emma’s hands landed on the keyboard with a crash. Nathaniel stumbled, and even Lady Barbara looked guilty. More proof, Emma thought, that she was indeed Killoran’s mistress.
“I grieve to interrupt this touching scene,” Killoran murmured, “but I arrived home to find we have visitors. Not just the esteemed Lady Barbara, but a lady downstairs asking for my dear sister.”
Sheer panic sliced through Emma. Miriam must have found her, though the notion seemed incredible. “Who is it?” she demanded in a hoarse voice.
Killoran crossed the room, ignoring
the motionless dancers, secure in the knowledge that his servant would follow with the candles. He stopped when he reached her, staring down at her hands as they rested on the keyboard. “At least you come equipped with some social graces,” he remarked. “You play quite well, you know.”
She wouldn’t be distracted. “Who is asking for me?”
“You look pale,” he observed. “Could it be that you’re afraid of some mysterious woman? Perhaps your first victim’s wife? Or the so-dear Mrs. Varienne?”
Lady Barbara’s stillness vanished. “Her first victim?”
Killoran didn’t even bother to glance in Barbara’s direction. “My dear sister has a habit of trying to kill any gentleman who attempts to take liberties with her. She succeeded once, though she only managed to maim your young neighbor. It’s fortunate indeed that you don’t share her bloodthirsty proclivities, Babs. Half the men in London would be lying dead.”
“Killoran!” Nathaniel’s voice shook with outrage.
“Go away, you two,” Killoran said, still looking down at Emma. “Go entertain my guest, and tell her my sister is indisposed.” He took the candelabrum from the servant, placed it on the clavichord, and then shooed him away.
“And who is this guest, Killoran?” Barbara demanded.
“Lady Aurelia Darnley. Jasper’s stepmother. Not my favorite person in the world, quite frankly. We’ll deny her the pleasure of my sweet sister’s company.”
Emma couldn’t even begin to hide the relief that swamped her. Her shoulders slumped, and she noticed that her hands were trembling as they lay on the keyboard. She quickly tucked them in her lap, out of sight, though she had no illusions that Killoran might have missed her panic. “I’m not your sister,” she said once more.
He turned away from her, leaning against the narrow box of the clavichord and surveying the room. It had emptied quickly. Lady Barbara and Nathaniel hadn’t hesitated in making their escape, and the discreet servant had closed the door when he left. She was alone in the darkness and shadows with Killoran, alone in the dust and stillness.
“Perhaps I should redecorate this room,” he said idly. “Throw a ball to introduce my sister to society.”
“Nathaniel said they wouldn’t come.”
He looked back at her, his smile completely lacking in humor. “He told you about my scarlet past, did he? I’m the destroyer of youth and innocence, with no soul and no conscience. But then, what’s to be expected of an Irishman in London? Everything that’s been laid to my door is doubtless true, plus a dozen other, more discreet crimes as well. I’m generally believed to have made a pact with the devil, you know. I cannot lose—at cards, at dicing, at any form of gaming. It gets quite tedious.”
“I’m sure it does,” she said, watching him. His black clothing was austere, unornamented today, a perfect match for her own dark clothing. And yet no one would ever make the mistake of confusing him with a soberly dressed churchman.
“Will you play for me some more?” he asked. “Or shall I teach you to dance?”
“That was Nathaniel’s intention.”
“He is to keep his hands off you,” Killoran said pleasantly, “or I’ll break them.”
It was a sign of jealousy, unexpected and, in truth, unbelievable. “Why?” she asked.
“Because I have plans for you, my dear. I didn’t import you into my household for your spectacular looks, as pleasing as I may find them, and I didn’t bring you to warm Nathaniel’s bed or my own. You have a purpose, definite and brief. You are here to be a lure, a trap for Jasper Darnley. Which seems to be working splendidly so far, considering he managed to send his stepmother in search of you. He must be desperate.”
Emma glanced up at him. “And that was the only reason you brought me here?”
“What else, pray tell, could I have had in mind?” He seemed genuinely mystified, but Emma pressed on.
“Christian charity?” she suggested.
His laugh was rich and full-bodied. “An Irish Catholic isn’t considered a Christian by British standards, dear Emma. And I believe I’m singularly devoid of charitable instincts.” He reached over and with one deft gesture stripped the black ribbon from her hair, freeing it around her shoulders. “Will you dance or will you play?”
She rose abruptly, angry, though she wasn’t quite sure why. He was so determined to prove himself a villain—she could hardly have expected him to admit to honorable impulses. Still, she’d half hoped for a gentle word. Silly, of course.
“Neither, my lord,” she said, pushing away from the clavichord and starting past him, carefully out of reach.
She should have known better. He barely seemed to move, but her hand was caught in his. “Dancing it is,” he murmured.
She had learned long ago that there was no escape from a man like Killoran. The hand holding hers was neither tight nor painful, but it was a prison as he led her through the same, intricate moves that Nathaniel had.
There was no music, no off-tune humming, no sound at all but the rhythmic swish of her black skirts against the floor. The gathering darkness, broken only by the candlelight, threw eerie shadows that danced with them, ghosts of a darker time, hovering, watching them, mimicking their footsteps, embracing them with the chill of night.
Emma sank into a deep curtsy as Killoran bowed, all mocking flourish. She stayed down. Her heart was racing, her pulses pounding, her face flushed. Without music the silent dance had been strangely, frighteningly intimate. It made her think of the stories Gertie had told her, of entwined limbs and sweat.
His cool fingers were under her chin, tilting her face up to his. “You dance very well,” he said, but instead of the usual mockery, there was a faintly husky note in his voice, and his eyes were intent on her. “You have the gift of grace.”
She stared up at him, caught in his gaze. And then, almost without volition, she turned her face, pressing her cheek against his hand.
His fingers cupped her, long, cool fingers, and his thumb feathered her lips, lightly. She opened them beneath the faint pressure, and she knew she was trembling, captured in a moment of magic and wonder, with his hand on her mouth, their eyes caught, and she waited, breathless, knowing that the world was about to change.
He bent down, blotting out the light, and she closed her eyes the moment before his mouth touched hers, his lips warm, damp, open against hers, and the shock of it sent her senses reeling, and she was falling into a hot velvet mass of glorious confusion.
She was falling toward the hard parquet floor. His mouth left hers, almost before the brief kiss had begun, and his hand wrapped around her wrist, hauling her to her feet before she could collapse entirely.
“A word to the wise, dear Emma,” he said in a voice as cool and unmoved as the frozen ground outside. “When you engage in a dalliance on the dance floor, remember to keep your balance. It’s better not to let your partner kiss you while you’re still in a curtsy.”
“I wasn’t expecting to be kissed,” she said stiffly, hating him.
“Weren’t you? Another lesson, my dear. Always expect to be kissed. You have the mouth for it.”
She watched him go. He left the light behind, disappearing into the cavernous shadows of the room with his usual fluid grace. It had to be her imagination that made her think he was running away from her.
She was no threat to him. She was just a pawn in his elaborate game, unwillingly doing his bidding.
She touched her lips wonderingly. They were still warm and damp from his mouth, and she felt a strange tightness in her chest that had nothing to do with the boning in her undergarments. She was no threat to him whatsoever.
And he would likely be her downfall.
There were no servants in sight when Killoran left the dusty ballroom. A fortunate fact for them, he thought wryly. If anyone had had the misfortune to cross his path at that moment, he very likely would have taken the person’s head off.
When he reached the solitude of his rooms, he found he was shaking. Absurd. His
lust for revenge, combined with his lust for that ridiculously innocent girl, was making him mad.
Why in God’s name had he kissed her? He couldn’t remember when he’d last put his mouth against another. He avoided it at all costs. Yet she’d looked up at him, so delicious, so trusting, so needing to be kissed that his body had betrayed his brain and all his well-defined defenses.
And the feel of her lips against his, the shock of it, the warmth of her breath, had been his undoing.
He’d almost had her down on that stained, dusty floor, her black skirts over her head, holding her down and taking her like a rutting boar.
He shook his head in remembered shock.
Not only had he kissed her, but the act had actually increased his desire for her. Almost to a fever pitch. And for the first time he wondered whether things might not be a great deal simpler if he simply skewered Jasper Darnley.
Ah, but he’d never been a man for simplicity. And if he let Jasper die too easily, Maude would still haunt him. To banish her ghost forever, he had to pay the price, and if the seductive danger of a pair of honey-brown eyes, a fiery mane of red hair, and the most voluptuous body he’d ever seen on an innocent was all part of the bill, then he’d accept it.
He pushed away from the door, catching a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror. He looked like the devil, he thought with a trace of wry amusement. And dear, sweet, murderous Emma was a Botticelli angel, ripe for debauching. If only he could resist temptation for a little while longer.
He poured himself a glass of brandy from the bottle he insisted be kept in his bedroom. He drank it down fast, without the proper appreciation it deserved, then splashed more in the tumbler. He needed to blot everything out, the sight of her, the sound of her, the touch of her. She kept reminding him of all he had lost, all he had turned his back on. She was luring him with her innocence, and he hated her for it.
Jasper would know if he bedded her. Part of Emma’s allure for his enemy was her indefinable purity. If he took it from her, he would lose a major weapon in his arsenal.
