Dancing on the Wind

by Mary Jo Putney

  Yet that was not true. There were far more important things in her life than the gratification of lust. In a frantic bid for sanity, she drew up her legs and braced her hands against his shoulders, pushing him away. "Stop! You frighten me."

  He went very still, then lifted his head, frowning as he studied her face. "Not, I think, with physical fear."

  "No," she said honestly. "I fear going too fast. Doing something I will regret."

  The corner of his mouth turned up ruefully. "Will it make you feel better to know that you frighten me equally? You are going to cost me dearly, Lady Jane. In fact, you already have."

  It gave her a sense of power to know she could affect such a man. And yet... "It may make me feel better, but not safer."

  "Is that why you keep running away from me? For you can't deny that there is something very intense between us." As he spoke, his hand glided down her left leg from knee to foot.

  A disorienting shiver ran through her as his thumb made slow, circular motions on the arch of her foot. "I won't deny there is attraction," she said, a catch in her voice, "but that doesn't mean I'll surrender to it."

  Yet her words were belied by the irresistible impulse to touch. Her hands softened their resistance and moved down his shoulders, feeling the hard muscles beneath his elegantly tailored clothing. She brushed aside his coat and ran her palms down his ribs and narrow waist, her hands open and hungry.

  He didn't mock her weakness, merely smiled into her eyes with quiet triumph as he stroked her leg again. This time the direction was upward and the movement raised her voluminous skirts to expose her anklet. His gaze went to the shining gold. "This does a splendid job of drawing attention to your lovely legs," he said as he followed the circle of gold links around her ankle with a fingertip.

  She inhaled sharply, her toes curling into the velvet and her fingers into his ribs. "The anklet belongs to the Gypsy maiden. The plain Jane who is the real me would never be so bold."

  "Plain Jane?" His glance was quizzical and a little mocking. "A gold chain can be removed, but this"—he lifted her skirts higher to reveal the butterfly tattoo above her right knee—"exists only to drive men mad. And it has maddened me."

  He leaned forward and traced the image with his tongue, his warm breath whispering along her inner thigh. Her eyes widened and her lower body tensed with craving. "Lucien," she gasped. "Oh, God, Lucien..."

  The restraint that he had shown dissolved in an instant. He stretched out alongside her, his taut body molding her soft curves. As he kissed her with fierce carnality, his hand moved upward between her thighs, burning across sublimely sensitive skin to the hem of the short drawers she wore when doing her provocative dancing. A warm, broad palm drifted over the light fabric. Fingertips found the open seam and probed through soft curls into moist, heated feminine folds. Sliding deep, profoundly intimate. Sweet, drugging torment.

  She whimpered helplessly as passion raged through her, making a mockery of morals and judgment. She could not bear this tumult, this wildness, could not bear it...

  Release, when it came, was shattering. She cried out, the sound smothering in the depths of his mouth as he drew her essence into himself. He was absorbing her, yet at the same time making her more fully herself by unlocking hidden desires.

  She came to her senses slowly, her lower body pulsing with aftershocks of fulfillment. She was physically sated as never before, and the process had drawn her to Lucien in a way she could not have imagined before this evening.

  That recognition was followed by furious self-reproach. Dear God, how could she have been so mad? She could not afford to lose herself in him. Even if she didn't have a desperate mission to fulfill, it would be the height of idiocy to allow a rake to become master of her soul. She had been criminally weak to allow such intimacy.

  And the intimacy was about to become greater. He caught her hand and drew it to the ridge of hard male flesh that pressed against her thigh. Through the layers of fabric that separated them, she felt a hot, insistent throbbing.

  Cautiously she squeezed. He groaned and rocked against her hand, his eyes closed and his breathing rough. There was deep satisfaction in pleasuring him, and in seeing that he was as defenseless as she had been a few moments before. Dimly, she sensed that this mutual vulnerability was a crucial element of the lovers' bond.

  Her musings ended when he started to undo the buttons of his breeches. He wanted to complete their union, and she yearned for that with matching intensity. She longed to enfold him, to make him part of herself, to cause him to lose himself in ecstasy.

  But she dared not. She dared not.

  Her racing mind sought and found the necessary excuse. She whispered, "Not yet. I... I must take precautions."

  His dazed eyes opened, golden with passion. "I'll take care." His feather-light fingertips brushed her temple. "I would never harm you."

  His tenderness was as potent a weapon as desire. Breathlessly, she wriggled away before her resolution crumbled again. "It will be better if you don't have to withdraw," she promised when he stretched out his hand to draw her back.

  He laughed a little and his hand dropped. "Obviously you know that that is an almost irresistible argument."

  Hating herself, she got to her feet and touched his tangled hair. He looked less intimidating than usual—no longer Lucifer but Apollo, born of the sun.

  Regret pierced her, yet her wicked, lying tongue continued, "I'll only be a minute... I have what I need with me, and there's a retiring room just down the hall." Hastily, she tugged her disarranged clothing into some semblance of order.

  His smile was a caress. "Hurry back, Lady Jane."

  She bent forward and kissed him. "I will," she said huskily. "I... I hate leaving you, even for an instant." And that, at least, was the truth.

  He settled back on the chaise and rested one arm across his closed eyes. Though he gave the impression of being relaxed, his body was still taut, unfulfilled.

  She would never see him so trusting again. Even if they did meet in the future under less troubled circumstances, he would never forgive her for what she was about to do.

  Before remorse could totally unravel her resolve, she darted across the room, retrieving her slippers and sliding her feet into them as she went. She hesitated when she saw the cloak and wig that hung on wooden pegs by the door. She was going to have to walk home, and she would need the cloak to prevent freezing and to cover her absurd, conspicuous Gypsy costume. The wig couldn't be abandoned, either. Silently she lifted both items, then slipped out the door.

  The corridor was empty, so she tugged the wig on and hastily shoved her hair under it. Then she wrapped the cloak around her so thoroughly that no one would recognize her.

  Almost no one—she ran into the maître d' hotel as she was on the verge of exiting through a side door. His eyes sharpened at the sight of her dishevelment and solitary state, but he was too discreet to comment. "I hope my lady enjoyed her dinner?"

  Donning her most patrician manner, she inclined her head and said in French, "The food was superb, monsieur. As always."

  A pleased light in his eyes, he swung the door for her.

  Before stepping out, curiosity prompted her to say, "Lord Strathmore mentioned that he had once done you a small service."

  The Frenchman's professional manner fell away. He said intensely, "It was not small, mademoiselle. He brought my family safely out of France. For that, my life is his for the asking."

  It was one more shock in a night that had already had too many. As she set out for the nearest of her abodes, she silently cursed the earl for his complexity. Though she suspected that he had done many things that would not bear close examination, it was entirely believable that he could act with generosity and heroism. But how the devil had he managed to rescue people from France when the Continent had been closed to the English for most of the last two decades? Perhaps he augmented his income with smuggling or something equally villainous.

  Despite the intimac
y they had just shared, he was still a man of mystery. And mysteries were dangerous.

  * * *

  Images of Jane haunted Lucien as he awaited her return. Her lithe limbs, her mesmerizing diversity, the soft, smoky-sweet sensuality of her responses. She intrigued him as no woman ever had, and he ached to possess her. Perhaps in the intensity of mating he would finally touch her quicksilver soul.

  He wondered about the fact that she carried the means of contraception with her. With most women he would have assumed that was a sign of promiscuity, but in the case of Jane, it might only mean that she was too intelligent to let herself be caught unprepared. Yet he could not rule out the possibility he was fooling himself because he didn't want to think that tonight was merely one more casual episode in the life of a free-spirited actress. He was reluctant to analyze his own feelings, but they were most assuredly not casual.

  His fingers drummed restlessly on the chaise as he wondered how long she would be. It had been several minutes. Ten, perhaps? Certainly five. It seemed longer. He never should have let her out of his sight.

  Never should have let her out of his sight...

  His eyes snapped open, and with sudden, shattering certainty, he knew that she was not coming back. The selfish little trollop had taken her satisfaction, then left him to burn. Christ have mercy, how could he have been so stupid? What was it about this one female that could consistently beguile a mind usually notable for wariness? He had never been violent with a woman, but if Jane were present, there was a very real possibility that he would make an exception.

  If she had been present, he wouldn't be feeling violent—at least, not in that way.

  Bloody helll He swung to his feet, furiously grabbed the edge of the dinner table, and hurled it to the floor. The dinnerware hit with a satisfying crash of splintering crockery and jangling silver. His mouth twisted as he watched wine splash across the oriental carpet. This would undoubtedly prove to be the most expensive dinner of his life, in every possible way.

  There was a discreet tap on the door, followed by the maître d' hotel's voice. "Is everything all right, my lord?"

  Grimly, Lucien straightened his clothing and his expression. He'd be damned if he would let anyone guess what that little witch had done to him.

  As he crossed the room, his anger flared again when he saw that she had stolen his cloak and repossessed her wig. The cold-blooded, scheming, light-fingered...

  Opening the door, he said, "A small accident, Robecque. I was abominably clumsy. Send me the bill for the damages."

  The Frenchman surveyed the wreckage, keeping his thoughts to himself. "As you wish, my lord."

  Lucien paused in the doorway. "Did my lady friend leave safely? I disliked letting her go alone, but she's a headstrong wench—very fond of her independence."

  "A woman to remember," Robecque said admiringly. "Her French is exquisite. As good as yours."

  "She's a woman of infinite talents." And the next time they met—as they surely would—she would pay for what she had done tonight.

  Chapter 14

  Like his quarry, Lucien was rather good at altering his appearance. He was disguised the next morning and looking for a hackney coach on Oxford Street when he saw the Duke of Candover approaching. Feeling mischievous, he said with a thick Yorkshire accent, "Excuse me, sir, but is the English Opera House near here?"

  Looking pained at being accosted by a stranger, Rafe said coolly, "Five minutes' walk ahead, on the left."

  Lapsing into his natural voice, Lucien said, "Many thanks, your grace."

  Rafe halted, then swung around. "Luce, is that you?"

  "In the flesh," Lucien replied, "and gratified that you didn't give me the cut direct when I asked you for directions."

  The duke snorted and fell into step beside him. "What are you up to this time?"

  "A bit of investigation, though I'd thank you not to announce it to all of Mayfair."

  "How do you do it?" Rafe asked in a quieter voice. "Obviously darkening your hair and wearing spectacles and shabby clothing make a difference, but those things are superficial." He gave his friend a searching glance. "Your features are the same, yet you look shorter and broader than usual, and entirely forgettable. If I hadn't known you since I was ten years old, I would have no idea who you are."

  "A disguise starts in the mind," Lucien explained. "Wealth and power and position endow a person with a kind of confidence that is unmistakable. Putting those things aside and thinking of oneself as insignificant and financially insecure creates a very different aura."

  "I suppose it would," Rafe admitted, "though I can't imagine wanting to do so. I quite enjoy wealth, title, and power."

  "You play the role of arrogant aristocrat so well that it would be a crime to drop it," Lucien agreed. "Speaking of which, we had better separate. It might damage your reputation for hauteur if you're seen speaking to such an undistinguished character as James Wolsey of Leeds."

  "I am perfectly civil to the lower orders, as long as they show proper deference," Rafe said blandly. "Be sure to tug your forelock when you leave."

  Lucien grinned. "I've heard that the negotiations in Ghent are going better."

  The duke nodded. "With luck we'll have peace with the Americans by Christmas."

  "Amen to that." After a parting nod, Lucien hailed a hackney and rode to the Marlowe Theater. There he introduced himself as a journalist writing an article about Cassie James. The young lady had often pleased audiences in the north, and readers there would be interested in her London success.

  His presence was accepted casually, and he spent several hours wandering about asking questions and taking notes. He was very skilled at extracting information; unfortunately, no one had anything useful to say. It was universally agreed that Miss James was a charming young lady, not high in the instep at all. Very professional, too.

  However, she liked her privacy more than most. No one knew where she lived or any details of her personal life beyond the fact that the night before, her aristocratic lover had swept her from the green room, and a rare sight it had been. Though it had been assumed she had a protector, they'd not known the fellow was of such exalted rank. The lass had done well for herself, and more power to her.

  Lucien took a certain satisfaction that no one recognized James Wolsey as the Earl of Strathmore. It was the only satisfaction he was finding in his day's work.

  Even the theater manager was unable to help. During a break from rehearsing a new production, which seemed to consist of bellowing insults at clumsy dancers, he explained that Miss James played small roles in a number of different plays, but her understudy would be filling in for a week or two because Miss James had asked for time off to visit an ailing aunt. A satirical edge in his voice suggested that he considered the aunt to be fictional; he had been in the green room the night before when his rising young star had been carried off.

  However, the girl would be back for the next performance of The Gypsy Lass, since that was her most important role. Mr. Wolsey should be sure to tell his readers that another play featuring Miss James was in development. She would play a breeches part, and it was safe to predict that all London would soon be worshipping at her dainty feet.

  No, he had no idea where the young lady lived. Considering what temperamental creatures most actresses were, he thanked his lucky stars that Cassie kept herself to herself, showed up when she said she would, and never threw objects at her long-suffering manager. Now if Mr. Wolsey would excuse him, he must get back to work.

  Lucien left the theater, frustrated but unsurprised. Once again, Lady Jane had covered her tracks well.

  He arrived home to find that in his absence, an anonymous youth had delivered a parcel. He opened it in his study and found his missing cloak and an unsigned note saying, "Whatever else you may think of me, I am not a thief."

  It did not improve his mood to see evidence that in her own weird way, Jane was honest. He was tempted to throw the cloak against a wall, but refrained;
the heavy wool fabric would not have smashed in a satisfactory fashion.

  Besides, he had already indulged in far too much emotion where Jane was concerned. It was high time he set lust aside and analyzed the woman objectively, as he would any other target of investigation. He tossed the cloak over the sofa, then sat at his desk with a sheet of foolscap and a pencil.

  To begin with, what did he really know about her?

  The one indisputable fact was that she was an actress, a worldly woman who was brilliant at assuming roles all the way from shy innocent to committed intellectual crusader.

  She was also like him in many ways—too damned much so, since that similarity underlay both his obsession and his anger.

  They were both devious, capable of lying with utter conviction. In his case he was convincing because there was always a purpose to his deceptions; he genuinely believed that he was acting for the ultimate good of his country.

  There must be a similar core of sincerity in Jane, or she would not be such a persuasive liar. In fact, she had said as much when explaining why her story about a nonexistent brother was so convincing. That underlying honesty was why he kept believing her over and over again.

  What was driving her to repeatedly risk her life and reputation? He wrote down the key question and underlined it twice. If he knew the answer, he would finally understand her.

  He thought back on the stories she had spun. First she had been a sister trying to help a younger brother, then an essayist determined to expose the rape and exploitation of defenseless young women. The common theme was protection, and her passionate caring had been utterly convincing.

  Ergo, her maddening, unpredictable behavior was probably caused by a desire to protect someone. Could the person she was trying to help be a lover?

  His mouth tightened. He didn't like the thought, but a lover who was in trouble would explain the ambivalence of her reactions to Lucien. Being torn between attraction to one man and fidelity to another could easily produce fevered kisses alternating with wild flight.