Dancing on the Wind

by Mary Jo Putney

  An obliging visitor opened the door for Strathmore, who gave a nod of thanks and stepped into the hall. His footsteps echoed hollowly as he carried her from the empty theater. Even if she screamed, no one would hear her over the noise of the green room.

  When they reached the side door, the porter made a deep bow. "Your carriage is waiting, my lord."

  Strathmore inclined his head. "Thank you, Smithson."

  Kit tried to struggle free, but with no more success than before. "Help me, Mr. Smithson," she said urgently. "This is no game—I'm being kidnapped."

  The porter smiled indulgently as he let them out. "His lordship told me about his plans earlier, miss. Enjoy yourself. You work hard, and you deserve a bit of fun."

  Strathmore's carriage stood directly outside, the horses' breath cloudy in the cold night air. Smithson opened the door and lowered the steps for them. After the earl lifted Kit into the carriage and deposited her on the leather seat, he tossed a gold coin to the porter.

  Kit used the moment that his back was turned to try to free herself from the enveloping cloak, but before she could make any progress, Strathmore climbed in beside her and slammed the door. The carriage immediately began rolling along the rutted alley that led to the Strand.

  As the motion pitched Kit against the side of the vehicle, her fear flared into sheer panic. Through all of their improbable encounters, she had not really believed that Strathmore would hurt her, but now she wondered if her judgment of him had been dead wrong. In a matter of moments, she had gone from safety to imprisonment. So swiftly, so easily. He could murder her tonight and throw her body in the Thames. If her disappearance were ever investigated, all he would have to do is say that they had had a splendid night and he had left her in perfect health. No one would ever doubt a fine, upstanding nobleman who could lie with such elegant ease.

  Her hands clenched into fists underneath the cloak, and she bit her lip until she tasted blood. She had never felt so helpless, so much at a man's mercy. Frantically, she reached out to the source of strength that had never failed her.

  When she found what she was seeking, a thread of calm began to twine through her terror. She was not alone. Her breathing deepened, and her fear subsided to where she could think again. She must be strong, the equal of the man who had captured her.

  Closing her eyes, she created a new role for herself: that of a worldly, sophisticated actress who was afraid of nothing. When she thought she could be convincing, she opened her eyes and said coolly, "Do you make a habit of kidnapping women, my lord?"

  "Not as a rule," he said with matching coolness, "but it seemed appropriate since the female in question is apparently incapable of telling the truth."

  "My honesty or lack thereof are none of your business." Her tart words were undercut by a lurch of the carriage that caused her to roll against the seat. Without the use of her arms, it was impossible to maintain her balance.

  Strathmore caught her shoulders and tucked her back into the corner, where she could brace herself against the vehicle's motion. "Remember that Lucifer is the Prince of Lies—surely that gives me dominion over you," he said as he settled back on his side of the seat. "You're one of my most devoted followers."

  "In a pig's eye," she said inelegantly. "My most devout wish is to avoid you."

  Her ongoing struggles finally paid off, and she freed herself of the cloak. As she pushed it away, he said, "I suggest you keep that on. The door on your side is locked, so you can't escape that way, and it's deucedly chilly tonight."

  Plague the man, he was right; it was bitterly cold, and her Gypsy costume had not been designed for warmth. She wrapped the cloak around herself again. In the process she stealthily tested the door handle on her side, but it was indeed locked. With a sigh, she settled back into the corner and wrapped the cloak more tightly. The heavy wool folds carried the faint, tangy scent of his cologne. "Where are you taking me?"

  "To supper. Anyone who worked as hard as you did on that stage must have a fearsome appetite."

  The answer was so prosaic she almost laughed. Her fear receded further. "You're right—after a performance, I'm always ravenous. But why didn't you simply ask me to go out with you? I do not appreciate being manhandled."

  "No?" he said with biting sarcasm. "I understand that quite a lot of men have handled you."

  She gasped, then retorted, "Again, what business is that of yours? You are not related to me by blood or marriage, and you have no right to censure my actions."

  "I'm not censuring you," he said coolly. "In fact, I'm delighted to be free of the strictures of respectability. It was damned limiting to think you were virtuous. Now I can try more powerful persuasions."

  "If seduction is your aim, you've set about it very badly, my lord," she said with awful formality.

  Before he could answer, the carriage rumbled to a halt and a footman opened the door. Strathmore climbed out, then assisted her with as much courtliness as if she were an honored guest rather than a virtual prisoner.

  As Kit stepped down, she discovered that they were in front of the Clarendon Hotel. At least he had been serious about feeding her. Hastily she rearranged the cloak so that it made a high cowl around her neck, obscuring her face. The last thing she needed was to be recognized by someone else.

  A firm hand on her elbow, Strathmore escorted her up the steps. Inside, he said to the deeply bowing maître d' hotel, "A private dining room, Robecque, and a swiftly served meal suitable for a hungry lady. With champagne."

  Robecque hesitated, distress on his mobile face. "I am most sorry, Lord Strathmore, but I believe that all of the private rooms are reserved," he said in a heavy French accent.

  Strathmore arched his brows. "Oh?"

  The Frenchman reacted to that single, softly uttered syllable as if a knife had been laid against his throat. "This way, my lord, my lady," he said instantly. "I have just recalled a room that is available."

  He led the way along a private corridor to a small, lavishly furnished chamber. "Champagne and a suitable repast shall be brought directly."

  After Robecque had bowed and left, Kit said ironically, "I presume that you just bullied the poor man out of a room that a lesser mortal had reserved for tonight."

  "Very likely." Unperturbed, Strathmore removed the cloak, his fingers grazing her bare forearms for an instant.

  She shivered and stepped away.

  "My need is greater," the earl explained as he hung the garment on a hook in the corner.

  "And your purse deeper." Feeling that taking a seat would put her at a disadvantage, she prowled around the room, her full Gypsy skirts swishing around her ankles as the thick carpet soundlessly absorbed the impressions of her light slippers. She had dined at the Clarendon once or twice on special occasions, but had never visited a private parlor. It was a world of winter roses, sparkling crystal, and the soft sheen of waxed wood.

  Her gaze went to the velvet-covered chaise longue tucked in a corner, then shifted away. Nothing was missing for those who had come for a luxurious assignation.

  The door opened and a platoon of servants entered. While one lowered the small chandelier and lit the candles, another built up the coal fire. A third opened a bottle of champagne and the last rolled in a heavily laden cart with wisps of steam trickling out from under silver covered dishes. The food smelled heavenly, and it had arrived so quickly that Kit suspected they had received someone else's dinner.

  Strathmore said to the waiter in charge, "Thank you, Petain. You may go now. We shall serve ourselves, so your presence will not be needed for the rest of the evening."

  The waiter bowed, then led his troops from the room. When they were alone, Kit said, "Considering the service you receive, I'm beginning to wonder if you own this place."

  He shrugged. "I was once able to do a small service for the maître d' hotel. He has not forgotten."

  "I assume that means he lost a fortune to you at the card table and you generously chose not to send him to debtor's pris
on."

  "Something of the sort." He pulled a chair from the table and made a gesture of invitation. "Shall we begin?"

  Deciding that she might as well make herself comfortable, she tugged out the hairpins that secured her black wig. After removing the wig and hanging it on a hook beside the cloak, she shook out her own hair, then ran her fingers through it to loosen the flattened tresses. She guessed that she must look like a dandelion that had gone to seed. Yet there was admiration in the earl's eyes when she took her seat.

  He poured champagne for them both, then raised his glass to her. "To the most talented, devious female I've ever met."

  "Is that a compliment or an insult?"

  He smiled a little. "A mere statement of fact." He looked civilized and heart-stoppingly handsome. She would have believed him to be a complete gentleman, if not for the chancy light in his green-gold eyes.

  Uneasily aware of the sexual tension between them, she tried her own champagne. Bubbles danced across her tongue, then tingled into her blood, relaxing her tense muscles. Feeling more at ease, she turned her attention to the food. It tasted even better than it smelled. After sole with sage and artichoke, braised leeks, chicken in apricot sauce, and pistachio cream, she felt better prepared to face her adversary.

  He had eaten very little and was leaning back in his chair, one leg crossed over the other, his hair gleaming in the candlelight like spun gold. Now that she had recovered from the strains of performing, she was intensely, physically aware of him. Every time they met, their interaction was more profound, and she wondered uneasily what this evening would bring.

  Hoping to keep the mood lightly social, she said, "Thank you for an excellent dinner."

  "I've always found that it's more productive to question someone who isn't hungry." He sipped at his champagne. "And I have quite a quantity of questions to ask you."

  She took a deep breath, then laid her knife and fork neatly across her plate.

  The battle was joined.

  Chapter 13

  Kit raised her gaze to his. "I have nothing to say to you."

  "What, no more fanciful tales to spin? I'm disappointed," he said with delicate sarcasm. "You're one of the most creative liars I've ever met."

  "You should talk," she retorted. "I doubt that you have an honest bone in your body. You had everyone in the theater convinced we were lovers."

  "I'm honest when it's convenient and doesn't cost me anything," he said blandly. "We have much in common. Are you sure you can't conjure up another cheated brother or journalistic investigation for me?"

  She shook her head. "I'm tired of lying. As I said earlier, I am under no obligation to answer your questions, so I won't. I give you my word that I do not intend harm to any innocent person. More than that I will not say."

  "I wish I knew what you consider guilt and innocence." He studied her face. "Clever of you to pretend to be L. J. Knight. Since no one knows what the fellow looks like, your claim is hard to refute. It might even be true, though I wouldn't bet a ha'penny on it. It's more likely that you are merely a regular reader of Knight's work. Care to comment?"

  "I'd rather ask a few questions myself." Her eyes narrowed. "I think you have secrets of your own, for your behavior is hardly that of an honest, upright citizen. Why are you so determined to interrogate me?"

  "I find it hard to restrain my curiosity about a female who routinely practices fraud, burglary, and assorted other capital crimes." He accompanied his explanation with a smile that made her breath falter.

  Even if Strathmore wasn't the villain she sought, he was certainly a threat to her and her mission. That being the case, why was she still drawn to him? The memory of the kisses they had shared was as vivid as the flames burning on the fireplace grate. As warming, too.

  She must leave before the atmosphere became any more intimate. "If you think I'm a criminal and have the evidence to prove it, you should call a magistrate," she said steadily. "But if you decide to hand me over to the law, remember that I am not without influential friends who would come to my assistance."

  That produced a dark flash in the depths of his eyes. "It would be a waste to send you to prison, my dear. You wouldn't like it, and you would be of no use to me there."

  "I assume that your purpose is seduction, but I must decline the honor." She rose to her feet. "I'll see myself out."

  When she moved around the table toward the door, he raised a hand. Though he didn't touch her, she came to a halt, caught in the web of his formidable concentration.

  "Seduction implies taking advantage of a reluctant or defenseless female," he said. "You are neither of those things."

  "Thank you, I think," she said dryly. "But I have already declared my unwillingness, Lord Strathmore. Do you intend to keep me here by force?"

  Softly he said, "I don't think force will be necessary."

  He was seated, which made him seem less threatening. But his eyes—ah, his eyes were still dangerous, for they promised delights that would strip her soul bare. Steeling herself against his potent allure, she said, "If you hope to persuade me into your bed, think again."

  He gave her a lazy smile. "I have infinite patience, as long as I get what I want in the end." He took her hand, linking his fingers through hers. "You refuse to call me Lucien."

  She swallowed hard, trying to resist the subversive effects of his warm clasp. "To use your given name would imply an intimacy between us that I want no part of."

  "No?" His gaze holding hers, he drew her toward him, then raised their joined hands and kissed the inside of her wrist, his tongue tracing the blue shadow of a vein.

  The effect was shocking, causing every cell in her body to thrum with desire. She tried to edge away, yet though his hold was gentle, it was inexorable. He began caressing the sensitive hollow of her palm with his thumb, and she could not summon the will to free herself. A little desperately, she said, "To be an actress does not make a woman a whore, my lord."

  "No, but it implies that a woman might be... less conventional than most." He gave a slow smile. "And the one thing I do know about you is that you are not conventional."

  He increased the pressure on her hand, yet it was the golden light in his eyes that drew her toward him. Her breath quickened, as much from anticipation as alarm.

  He had an uncanny ability to read her mood, for instead of a kiss, he pulled her into his lap. "You must be tired." Softly his arms came around her. "Should I call you Cassie, or Jane?"

  "Cassie is a stage name. I really am named Jane."

  He began to knead the nape of her neck with gentle skill. "Jane. Such an undistinguished name for a remarkable woman."

  "I'm not remarkable—merely good at creating illusions," she said, and then wondered why she had said so much. He was even more dangerous than she had realized, for he made her want to trust and confide. It seemed utterly natural to have his arms around her, to rest her head against his shoulder. She wanted to pour out her fears and bask in his strength, for she was tired—so infinitely, painfully tired—of her lonely struggle.

  Though she was not fool enough to yield to her treacherous craving for union, her initial stiffness soon dissipated. She drifted, content to be in his arms, vaguely aware of the rich scents of food and flowers, the distant sounds of talk and laughter. But that was mere background for the profound reality of Lucien. He filled her senses, his quiet breath stirring tendrils of hair at her temple.

  As he had said, he was patient. For a long time he simply held her, slowly massaging away the tension in her taut muscles and tendons. His warmth and desire surrounded her, a crucible that gradually raised her temperature to match his.

  She scarcely noticed the first soft contact of his lips on her forehead, or how it became a delicate tracing of the planes of her face. A gossamer caress on her closed eyelids; a teasing, erotic exhalation into her ear. Finally, the light pressure of his forefinger under her chin tilted her head up, and with seamless ease his mouth claimed hers.

  The v
elvet stroke of his tongue soothed the raw place where she had bitten the inside of her lip in the carriage. Hard to remember why she had been so frightened of him. Her hazy pleasure thickened, became a craving, when he cupped her breast.

  His kiss deepened, exploring, evocative. He slid her Gypsy blouse from her shoulder and she welcomed the cool touch of air and the warm comfort of his hand.

  As he teased her nipple to hardness, he murmured, "Since Jane is too plain, I shall call you Lady Jane."

  How had he known? The thought jarred her out of her flowing contentment. She raised her head, shaken, and realized her foolishness. "I must go."

  "Not this time, Lady Jane," he said huskily.

  He bent his head and pressed his mouth to her breast, the lapping rhythm of his tongue matching the pounding of her blood. Her body arched, and she twisted in his lap, guiltily aware that she was not trying to escape, but to offer herself more fully.

  One of her heedless movements tilted him off balance and they almost fell. His reflexes saved them from crashing to the floor. After a swift recovery, he swept her up in his arms and carried her the short distance to the chaise longue.

  He laid her full-length on the padded surface, then sat on the edge of the chaise beside her. Holding her gaze with his own, he pulled her blouse from her shoulders, then untied the front laces of her corselet. Below it her chemise rose and fell with the quickness of her breathing, until he pushed her garments down to her waist. He brushed aside her modesty with equal ease, for her shyness vanished in the glow of his admiration.

  He cupped her newly freed breasts in his warm, strong hands, then leaned forward to suckle them. She gave an involuntary whimper and closed her eyes, deluged by delirious new sensations. The faint prickliness of his chin against her fragile bare skin; his teeth nipping with exquisitely judged force; his hands skimming her limbs and torso as if seeking to memorize every curve and texture. Her slippers had gone missing, and the velvet was a voluptuous caress under her bare feet as she shifted them with restless yearning. There was only him, only this moment...