Midnight Kiss

by Nancy Gideon

  “Follow me, my lord.”

  He watched her climb ahead of him and was mesmerized by the graceful sway of her skirt. It had been... forever, it seemed, since he’d looked at a woman this way. Over the years, they’d become an insignificant clump identified as mortal female, serving one purpose only, that of slaking his thirst. The seduction, the magic, it all went toward that end. It was nothing sensual, nothing sexual. With Arabella, that definition had been refined. Everything she stirred within him was sensual and becoming very sexual.

  Perhaps it was Howland’s drug that altered his awareness. Maybe it was Arabella. He didn’t know. All he knew was that one night he ceased to be the charmer and became the charmed. Then all of his perceptions and preferences changed. He found himself longing to possess her body the way he’d once yearned to taste her blood. Once those emotions chafed to life, a riot of foreign feelings followed suit. The need for physical closeness. The want of spiritual bonding. The lust for basic coupling entwined with tender sentiment. Needing, wanting, lusting for all those things with just one woman—with the strong-willed and passionate Arabella. If this was being mortal, it was escalating to a restless existence.

  It was with some surprise that Louis recognized the restoration of his soul. It twisted within him in a nightmare of guilt the moment he saw Stuart Howland so pale and wracked by pain. He lingered at the opening of Howland’s bedchamber while Arabella rushed inside to kneel at her father’s side. The tender way she touched the older man’s face, the tears that trembled upon her cheeks, that sight tore thought Louis with a wretched consequence. How could she say she loved him after he’d brought such misery, such fear into her home? After he’d come so close to slaying her father as the doctor was serving a patient’s selfish purposes?

  He watched as the physician’s eyes flickered open, as they were overcome with emotion at the presence of his daughter. Relief quavered in his weak claim, “Oh, Bella, my dear. I’ve been so desperately worried over you.”

  “I’m fine, Father. How are you?”

  “I’ve too much to do to lie here in this bed,” he grumbled with typical impatience. “Radman—”

  “Is here with me.”

  “Are you all right?” His question was sharp, and she was quick to soothe him.

  “Yes, as I’ve told you. His lordship would like to speak to you while I tidy up. Do you feel strong enough for the interview?”

  “Where is he?” He was levering up on his elbows anxiously. Arabella calmed him with the press of her hand upon his sound shoulder. But his excited agitation increased. “Radman is here? Now? My God, what this means!”

  Arabella looked around and beckoned Louis to come closer. He approached slowly, weighted by conscience, but Stuart seemed to forget the cause of his injury in his rush of elation.

  “It worked. By God, it worked!”

  Then the true reality hit Louis. All he knew and was had been drastically altered. And he hadn’t the slightest idea what he was going to do now that it had.

  Chapter Nine

  DURING A GLOOMY, typical London afternoon, with low, scudding clouds and the threat of drizzle keeping most indoors, Louis had the quiet glades of the park almost to himself as he sank down on one of the benches to rest and to think. So much to consider, so little energy with which to see it done.

  Even the glare of overcast sky was brilliant to eyes used to darkness and subtle shadow. Louis closed them to ease the ache of brightness, though he hated to surrender up the sights. A world renewed, a life restored. He sat and absorbed the sounds that only came with the light. Vendors shouting, children laughing, birds singing. So many sounds, a veritable feast to the senses. Beautiful, poignant, fragile. Like the life he now held to—but for how long, and to what degree?

  Howland hadn’t been able to answer that. He could give no guarantees. For so long, Louis had dreamed of seeing a sunrise, of feeling the morning dew upon his face. Foolish wants, because now he realized they weren’t enough. He wanted more with such a determined greed. He wanted the security of growing old with one woman, with his children, without fear. And he couldn’t have it. All he had was the moment, and that’s when he learned another important truth. Life was precious only when endangered. Immortality bred indifference. But what he had now was so frail, so tentative, it woke him to worldly passions he’d forgotten. To live and love and accomplish. To procreate. Things mankind took for granted until too late. He no longer had the luxury of time. He couldn’t sit back and ponder for decades when the minute might be all that was left him. He was vulnerable. He could be hurt. He could be felled by influenza. He could be crippled by a runaway carriage. He could suffer death at the hands of thieves or through the careless envy of Wesley Pembrook. So delicate was this thread of human existence, so fleeting, so dear. And though he treasured it, it terrified him.

  A chill shook through him. His body was weak and his mind dull. His senses were barely adequate to serve him. How did men go through their days in such helplessness? Suddenly, Louis felt all too exposed where he sat in the park, trying to adjust to the pulse of daily living. He was eager for the familiar, for safety. No longer indefatigable, he had to hire a hack to see him home, and by the time he got there, he was almost too tired to stir. Agitated and alarmed, he hurried inside and bolted the door against the world he’d desired. Because it wasn’t his world anymore.

  THE ASIAN YOUTH answered Arabella’s knock. Recognition shone in his dark eyes, but he displayed no inclination toward opening the door wider.

  “Hello. I’m Miss Howland. Remember me from last night? Is his lordship in?”

  The boy regarded her inscrutably.

  “If he is, might I see him?”

  Still, the silent denial.

  “Would you be so kind to tell him I am here?”

  “Takeo? Is someone there?”

  At the sound of the marquis’s voice, Arabella rose on tiptoe to peer hopefully over the lad’s head. “Louis?”

  He appeared from out of the late-day dimness and came up to place a hand upon the boy’s shoulder. “It’s all right, Takeo. Miss Howland is a friend. She is welcome in my house.”

  The youth bowed in acquiescence, first to him, then to her, and backed away.

  “This is a surprise.”

  Louis’s drawling tones made Arabella aware of what she was doing. She was a single woman visiting a gentleman’s residence, unannounced, uninvited, and unescorted. But she’d been desperate to see him, and had refused to consider propriety... until she looked the slight distance up into his questioning eyes. And her brash courage faltered.

  “My father was very concerned about your welfare—for his notes, you understand.”

  “I understand.”

  “It’s important to keep careful records on cases such as yours, and—”

  “And?” he prompted, with a slight lift of one dark brow.

  “And I keep his journals for him, so I thought—”

  “You thought?”

  “I thought I would—” She was looking into his eyes, and suddenly the power of speech failed her. Her mind went a complete blank. She had no talent for tales, and none came to her in that awkward moment.

  “Yes?”

  Arabella sighed and gave up the pretense. “My father didn’t send me.”

  “No?” His expression took on the illusion of surprise, but she could tell he wasn’t. Amusement crinkled the corners of his eyes beneath the haughty arch of his brows. She was abruptly irritated with herself for not speaking the truth outright, as she was known to, and she writhed with inner embarrassment as he asked, “Then, why are you here?”

  With unprecedented humility, she murmured, “I was worried, and wanted to see how you were.”

  His graceful gesture encompassed all, from Turkish slippers and some sort of loose-fitting trouser to the wrap of his
burgundy-colored silk dressing gown and the bristle of slightly damp hair. He’d obviously come from the bath, and Arabella felt her cheeks darken.

  “As you can see, I am fine.”

  “Yes,” she stammered, feeling foolish and shamelessly eager for the sight of him. She knew she should go, yet she lingered, searching for something to say, for some reason to stay.

  “Would you like to come inside, Miss Howland?”

  Her voice was small, her presumptions huge. “If it’s no bother.”

  “As I’ve said, you are always welcome here. Please.”

  Then he stepped aside to allow her to pass. As she did, she was tempted by the scents of shaving soap and warm masculine skin. Right then, she should have realized the danger. Her will was in a state of ready collapse, and she wasn’t of a mind to shore it up. Instead of behaving with prudence and decorum, she smiled as he took her coat.

  “How is your father?”

  “Resting comfortably. Well, that’s not true. He’s chafing to get back to work. Mrs. Kampford has threatened to drug him into obedience if he so much as wiggles.”

  “Does he know you are here?”

  She gave him a chiding look. “If he knew, he would not be resting.”

  Louis’s hand brushed alongside of her arm. “I am sorry, Arabella.”

  Her fingertips fluttered fleetingly over the tops of his. “I know. I don’t hold you to blame for it. Things were rather... out of control last night.”

  Her forgiveness seemed to astound him, as if he, himself, could not have been so generous.

  Arabella was acutely aware of him standing close, and of her own desire to be closer, remembering that he’d called her his love, and that hours ago, they’d been lying upon the same rug where they now stood while he kissed her and she told him she loved him. A sense of intimacy drew them together, yet an uneasy nervousness would not abate. What was she supposed to do? Throw herself upon him? Wait for him to give some sign that he was ready for them to pursue the attraction? Hadn’t he promised that they would once the experiment had proved a success? Had she come to his house to remind him? Or had she hoped she wouldn’t have to?

  Uncomfortable in his presence and at the same time content, Arabella paused at the arch leading to one of the formal parlors. Her gaze swept over the crowded interior. “You have an amazingly diverse collection, my lord. I remember only a few pieces from when last I was here, but they were exquisite.”

  “Feel free to explore, if you like. If you can get through, that is. When one travels as extensively as I have, one tends to drag back memories. Unfortunately, those memories get lost in the clutter.”

  Arabella toured through the tightly packed furnishings. She recognized artifacts from India, Spain, the Netherlands, even China, and remarked upon it all in wonder. “Is there any place you haven’t been?”

  He stood in the doorway, watching her. “I’ve never been to the New World—America. I should like to, someday, but the long ocean voyage has deterred me. I have no great fondness of water.”

  She was studying an Egyptian carving. “How did you ever find the time to see so much?”

  Louis laughed softly. “Time loses meaning when one has no home.”

  She looked up at him then. “Where are you from? I’ve not been able to place your accent.”

  “I am—” He shrugged, struggling for the word. “International. But originally I was raised in Florence.”

  He didn’t sound Italian. At least, not like any Italian she’d ever encountered, few though they might be. “Do you visit your homeland often?”

  “I’ve not been back... for a long time. Nothing is familiar anymore. It makes me sad to see it. Perhaps now I will journey there. I’ve loved ones I’ve not paid respects to for far too long.”

  “You’ve no family?”

  “No, no one. No family. My ties are buried and nearly forgotten.”

  And he turned away slightly, his expression so melancholy she wished she hadn’t brought up the subject. “Will you stay in London long?”

  “It depends—on how long she interests me.” And then his eyes caressed her slowly from head to toe, and a flush of embarrassed pleasure filled all the areas in between as Arabella took his meaning. Then she frowned to consider the temporary nature of it. Was she to be a passing attraction? How many women had he known and held an interest in during all his travels? How vain of her to think she alone could hold him. And how hurt she was to think his purpose shallow.

  “Well, I have taken up enough of your time, my lord. I should be going.”

  “So soon?” He stepped to unconsciously block her when she turned to the door. “I would be honored if you’d stay to dine with me. Takeo will be laying out the meal shortly, and I have never cared to dine alone.” Then his mouth took a small, cynical twist she didn’t understand. And in her happiness, she didn’t try to.

  “I would enjoy that, my lord. If it is no—”

  “It is no bother. I’ll have him set out another place. Excuse me for a moment.”

  While he was gone, Arabella looked again about the treasure trove of antiquities. She was no historian, but she could recognize the significance of some of the pieces, and the value was unmistakable. Art such as this, carelessly stacked in corners, was museum quality. The far eastern objects were the rarest she’d seen. He was from Florence, he said. He traveled. What else was Louis Radman, with his hoarded memories and his century-deep sadness?

  “You may keep that, if you like.”

  Arabella started and clutched cautiously at the obelisk she held. It was heavy, of some rich black stone. The strange etchings on it appeared to be in some language but she was unfamiliar with it. “It’s beautiful, but no, I cannot.”

  “You must,” he insisted. “It would please me to think of you enjoying it.”

  She stroked the cool black surface shyly. “Thank you, Louis. I shall treasure it.”

  Crossing to her, he gestured wide. “I have many such treasures, each special, each unique in its own way, each chosen for its beauty. However,” he murmured huskily, “none come close to your beauty.” He stopped before her, standing close enough for the hem of her skirt to caress his toes. And his fingertips moved similarly along her cheek. “I should like to treasure you always, Bella.”

  Suddenly shy, and uncertain of his meaning, she offered a wistful smile. “I fear you have no room left here in which to keep me.”

  “I was thinking of keeping you elsewhere.” And he bent a bit, near enough for his lips to trail across her brow. When he straightened, he found her regarding him unblinkingly.

  “As what?” she asked, in a thin voice.

  Because he couldn’t touch her thoughts or interpret her taut expression, he chose to be careful. “Perhaps it is too soon to discuss these things. It isn’t wise to rush—”

  Her fingers touched to his mouth, silencing him. “Sometimes, it isn’t wise to wait.” Her hand then slipped around to cup the back of his head, to draw him to meet the part of her lips. It was a sweet, searching kiss, and she broke from it to study him with perplexity.

  “What?” he asked. “Is something wrong?”

  “Not exactly wrong. Different.”

  “Different? How?”

  “I—I can’t explain it.” She could, but she was afraid to try. He was different, less intense, less compelling, less powerful, somehow. The other times he’d embraced her, she’d been lost to an odd dreaminess, helpless to resist him, not wanting to. She’d succumbed to his touch as if destined to do so. There’d been a swallowing of her will by his own. And a fierce, almost frightening exhilaration. She felt none of that now. Now she was wide awake and in full control of her faculties. “You are not the same, somehow.”

  Louis took a step back. He hadn’t thought of this. He hadn’t considered what it was tha
t made her love him. What if it was the hypnotic vampire magic and not him at all? What if, as a human, he had no charm or means to captivate her heart? Manipulation of the mind and of the passions had been yet another quality he’d surrendered. Supreme confidence gave before a stirring of inadequacy. Had there ever been a real bond between them, or was it something he created within her? He was suddenly very afraid to find out. In this new world, Arabella was his only constant. How would he cope if he lost her?

  She was watching him, studying his subtle shifts of expression with that scientific somberness of hers, and part of him quailed beneath it. What if his shrewd and decisive Arabella found him lacking? It would be up to him to prove to her that difference need not lead to disappointment.

  “I am not the same,” he told her quietly. “I have been given la vita nuova—new life. There was nothing I could offer you before.”

  She was very still. “And now?”

  “Things are—different. I can offer you all that I am... if it is enough.”

  “Enough?” She gave a shaky little laugh. “Oh, Louis, you can’t imagine.”

  “No, I cannot. So you must tell me.” He stroked her cheek and she pressed into his palm, her eyes closing languidly as he said, “I have no magic with which to woo you, Bella.”

  From the cradle of his hand, she looked up at him, her gaze sultry and satisfied. “You are wrong about that, my lord.” And her smile was all the invitation he needed to seek out the softness of her lips.

  It was a gentle duel of tongues, a give-and-take of intimate initiation, like the whisper of promises. When Louis’s hands framed her features, she sighed into his kisses. When that touch shifted lower, easing down supple neck to sloping shoulders, she leaned into him, pliant and eager. He had no means to dominate her will, and knowing her actions to be of her own volition was for him a strange and strong aphrodisiac. He felt the difference, too. His focus was altered from the thrum of her pulse to the varying textures of her desire. Her mouth was warm and pleasing, sometimes sweetly passive, sometimes wickedly assertive. She was touching him shyly, stroking through his hair and along the back of his dressing gown with hesitance, then with mounting confidence. It was a subtle magic, but magic nonetheless. The slow, beckoning arch of her body against his provoked more potent sensations, and though he’d meant to go cautiously to protect them both within this new realm of circumstance, the excitement rose too quickly to contain, too keenly to control.