“I couldn’t put you out,” Lissa answered not too convincingly. The idea of spending the evening at the hearth with the dear Bishops seemed like a balm for what ailed her. She could escape this ball and not think about Ivan for the rest of the night, if that could ever be possible.
“Let’s get your mantle and be off.” Mrs. Bishop linked her arm with Lissa’s. “Herman will bring you back first thing in the morning.”
“But wait! I forgot about Evvie—”
“Evelyn is here too?” Mrs. Bishop paused. “Why, we haven’t seen her. How wonderful that she could accompany you. But wherever is she?”
Lissa thought for a moment. She knew Evvie was with Holland somewhere in the Hall. It was absolutely scandalous for her to even think of leaving Evvie at the castle unchaperoned. But she ached to be away from Powerscourt. Just the thought of spending another moment here made her head truly throb. Yet Evvie was in good company. She couldn’t relinquish her care to a better person than Holland.
“I hate to ruin Evvie’s fun, and besides, I know she’s in good hands. She’ll get back to Violet Croft safely, I’m sure,” Lissa mused. “But do let me write her a note, will you?”
“Of course, love.” Mrs. Bishop patted her hand. Mr. Bishop went to get a footman.
Lissa penned a quick note explaining that she would be at the Bishops’ for the night and that no one was to worry. After signing off that she would see her in the morning, Lissa handed it to the footman and, taking him aside, asked that it be given discreetly to Mr. Jones.
With that task accomplished, she gathered her skirts and hurried down the passage to retrieve her mantle. The Bishops, meanwhile, headed for the door to claim their carriage. Lissa was not gone for five minutes before, mantle in hand, she was again rushing down the passage. To her right and left the parlors were filled with guests, but she moved past them, deaf to their gaiety, intent on only one thing—departure. She was so anxious to be gone, she hardly saw the hand that reached for her from one door. Before she knew it, she was grabbed and pulled into Ivan’s billiard room.
“Where do you think you’re off to?” Ivan asked her, his voice filled with annoyance.
“I’m leaving. Evvie is in good company. She’ll do without my chaperonage for tonight,” she practically hissed at him.
“I suppose she’s with Holland. No doubt, you think he’s less a man than I? Return to your sister’s side, Lissa. Don’t give Holland the temptation.”
Her cheeks heated with suppressed anger. “You, of all people, dare to defame his character? You sink to new levels, my lord.”
“I’m only stating fact. Evvie is quite beautiful.”
“Oh, but surely not as beautiful as Antonia Kovel?”
The moment after her words were out, she could have horsewhipped herself. She hadn’t meant to blurt that out, but somehow once more he’d gotten the better of her.
Suddenly Ivan’s interest was piqued. His eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “So you’ve noticed Lady Antonia.” He released an ironic laugh. “But then, you would. You’re both alike in so many ways. Come, I shall introduce you.” He made to take her arm but she pulled it from him.
“I cannot meetLady Antonia because the Bishops are waiting for me in the bailey.” She moved to the door. He was right behind her.
Once they were out in the passage, Ivan called to a nearby footman. She ignored him but was only a few steps on her way when she heard Ivan say, “Tell the Bishops that Miss Alcester won’t be coming with them, that she’s decided to do the correct thing and chaperone her sister. That will be all.”
She spun in the passage and glared at him. The footman immediately left, and she spent a moment or two debating whether or not she could beat the youth to the bailey. But in her crinoline and satins, she knew she couldn’t. So she picked up her skirts and mantle and, with a vengeance, made her way back to the Hall. If Ivan wanted her to chaperone Evvie, she would, to the exclusion of everything and everyone else.
“I’d like a waltz, Lissa.”
“It’ll be a cold day in—”
Before she could even finish her oath, he had taken her mantle from her and flung it onto a bench in one of the Hall’s inglenooks. He then took her by the waist and, in moments, they were dancing among the guests.
Lissa’s movements were stiff and angry, but she didn’t dare pull from Ivan’s embrace. He was, after all, the host, and to reject him in front of his guests would be the height of impropriety. That was something neither she nor her reputation needed.
“You are an arrogant, self-serving, licentious, dissolute . . . rakehell!” she whispered harshly, all the while smiling to the guests.
“Try bastard, sweet. That word always works well.” Ivan glided her across the polished stone floor.
“Only because you work so hard at being one,” she hissed.
Ivan chanced a look at his guests—a studied mixture of London nobility and Nodding Knoll townsfolk. His gaze was almost contemptuous when he answered, “Believe me, it takes no effort at all.”
His hand tightened at her waist and he swept her past a long line of windows that led out to a snow-covered balcony. They both fell silent. The music was tender and dreamy, and though her cheeks still burned with anger, her nerves were soothed by the beautiful waltz. With Ivan’s possessive lead, her movements grew lighter and soon they waltzed in glorious unison, like the hero and the heroine of a fairy tale.
While they glided past the crowds Lissa chanced a look at Ivan. She was struck by the intent expression on his face. He was watching her as if she were as unearthly and beautiful as an angel fallen from the clouds. The moment stood still as their gazes locked, their eyes all too clearly expressing their unspoken thoughts. It was unbearably intimate, and she found herself wanting to look away. But Ivan wouldn’t let her. He held her tightly and close, and if they had been alone, and not in a crowded ballroom, she was sure he would have kissed her. And this time, whether because of the music or simply the dark, needful gleam in his eyes, she just might have let him.
“It’s me you love, isn’t it, Lissa?”
Hearing the question she dreaded most from him, she stumbled. Although he caught her, she couldn’t continue. Without word or warning, she broke from his arms and ran to the adjoining inglenook. Then, because the hearth couldn’t cool her raging emotions, she flung on her mantle, forced open the French doors, and stepped onto the snowy balcony.
Along its length, some of the Hall’s doors were cracked to allow air to circulate. The music had stopped but she could hear the tinkling of punch glasses and merry conversations. The snow was sure to stain the hem of her gown, but suddenly she didn’t care. Her heart was warring with her mind and she didn’t know where to turn. Ivan’s question had taken her off guard. She had stood on the precipice of disaster and she had almost fallen in. If she didn’t get away from him once and for all, she would be lost altogether and grow as mad from grief as her father had.
“Lissa.” She turned to find her nemesis right behind her, his black attire in stark contrast to the snow. He was so close she could see the great, lacy flakes caught on his hair and shoulders. She backed toward the carved stone balustrade.
“Ivan, don’t. Go back to your guests,” she whispered.
“What are you afraid of?”
“I’m not well. I need to go home. You should have let me go with the Bishops.” She put her hand to her temple and looked away.
“Then let me take you upstairs—”
“No!” She thrust his hand from her elbow. “Ivan, just leave me alone. I beg of you—”
Just then a peal of feminine laughter rang out to the balcony. Lissa looked up and saw that Arabella and several other girls she remembered from her childhood had gathered in the Hall right by one of the open doors.
“Letitia, you’re such a goose! You tell me the marquis’s scar frightens you, but then you’ve pouted all evening because he hasn’t asked you to waltz,” Arabella said.
“Lettie’s jus
t jealous,” another girl chimed in, one whom Lissa had seen dancing with Ivan only a half hour before.
“I am most certainly not! Besides it’s Arabella who’s set her cap for him, not I!” Letitia nervously fanned herself. A pleased look appeared on Arabella’s visage, yet she let another girlfriend respond.
“Well, I know one thing, my mother says no one will get him, not with Lissa Alcester still in Nodding Knoll—”
“Oh, pooh!” Letitia interrupted. “Your mother knows better! Even a man with the marquis’s wicked reputation wouldn’t marry Lusty Lissa Alcester! Why, everyone knows that!” They all broke into laughter again, as if Letitia had said the most hilarious joke. Lissa watched Arabella and though she didn’t seem to find the comment particularly funny, Arabella didn’t defend her either. She merely watched her chums with a placid expression on her face, as if she were blind to their cruelty.
Lissa moved away from the window. The pain seemed to choke her. She couldn’t even look at Ivan. He had wanted her hurt. Now he hadn’t even had to lift a finger to do it.
She felt Ivan’s hand touch her arm. Softly he said, “Lissa, you’re not one of them anymore. So don’t let yourself be judged by their morals.”
Tears threatened to spill upon her cheeks at any moment. His comment only made things worse. He seemed to be throwing her poverty in her face. She glared at him and stated sarcastically, “But you couldn’t be more wrong, my lord. Iam still one of them. I was born into their station and my morals remain just as high.”
“Alainn,you misunderstand.”
The first tear fell to her cheek. She was lost now. She reclaimed her arm, then released a bitter laugh. “No, it is you who misunderstands. They might think it’s you who wouldn’t marry me, but they’re mistaken. Arabella may have you, you ignoble gypsy, for you fall far short of my equal, . . . and always have!”
With that, she ran to the balcony stairs that led down to the bailey. She was determined to leave the ball now, even if it meant she had to walk home. The stones beneath her slippered feet were slick with snow, but miraculously she didn’t fall. Behind her Ivan called her name, but she refused to listen. She was leaving and no one was going to stop her.
She descended the snowy steps just as she heard Ivan slip. He cursed heartily, but she didn’t pause. His colorful oaths alone told her he was all right, and now she was ahead. She meant to make the most of it.
The snow was high in the bailey and the only path was cut from the sleighs leaving the front doors. Looking around, she noticed a pony cart by the kitchen door, no doubt left by one of the townsfolk who was now probably in the kitchens tippling gin with the help.
She would return it in the morning, she vowed, trudging through the snow, unmindful of her wet, ruined hem. Her slippers were also ruined, but she made it to the cart and took the reins of the little snowy Shetland. With her palm, she wiped the tears off her cheek, wishing fervently that they would just freeze there. There was no time for further indulgence, however, for Ivan was again right behind her. So she flicked the reins and forced the pony forward. When the little Shetland found the sleigh path, it broke into a trot.
“Damn it, Lissa! I said stop!” she heard Ivan call out, but she paid him no heed. She urged the pony on and soon she was beyond the gatehouse. The only thing that followed her after that was Ivan’s curses.
Beyond Powerscourt, the snow fell swift and silent. Her pony’s breath came in silvery puffs as it left the sleigh path to town and turned toward Violet Croft. A merciless opaque sky left them in darkness and they struggled to stay on the road, which was now blanketed in virgin white. The Shetland went a respectable distance, but quickly the snow grew too deep. Soon the cart became hopelessly bogged down in the drifts, and, in her disappointment, her tears began anew.
She cried for a moment, then descended the cart and went to the pony. Her mantle slipped from her shoulders when she pulled on the Shetland’s bridle, but she was unmindful of the cold. All she wanted was to get home and forget the entire evening. To her joy, the pony took another step or two with her help, and she climbed into the cart, relieved to continue. But again the sensible pony refused to go farther.
She felt she would go mad from frustration when a tall, shadowy horseman appeared behind her. She feared the rider was Ivan and she expected him to bear down on her, yet the dark figure paused, as if, somehow, he found her a fetching sight: a girl in a pony cart, her hair and gown iced with snow, the flakes glittering like the crystals in her hair, the night a velvety backdrop to her portrait. The rider seemed almost enchanted by her, but soon the spell was broken and he purposefully urged his steed closer until the falling snow no longer blurred his image.
She frowned and eyed the horseman with unveiled dislike. It was Ivan after all, and her anger only increased when she realized she was trembling before him.
“It’s the height of impropriety for the host to leave his ball, my lord. Or hasn’t your posh London lifestyle taught you that yet?” She flicked the pony’s reins in a futile attempt to get it to move.
Without a word, he dismounted. His silence was ominous as he walked to where her mantle lay in the snow. He picked it up and tossed it to her. It fell wet and heavy into her lap.
“What are you doing?” she asked nervously when he began unharnessing the pony.
“We’re going back.”
Her eyes flashed with annoyance. “Indeedwe are not. I’m going to Violet Croft.”
He didn’t even bother to debate the issue. His anger was all too clear as he tied the Shetland to the back of his Thoroughbred. Acting as if she were a child, he walked up to the cart and held out his hand, waiting for her to comply.
She refused.
“I’m returning to Violet Croft, Ivan. So take the pony back with you. I shall walk the rest of the way, if I have to.”
He laughed, dashing all her bravado. “I believe you would,alainn, but you’ve not just the snow to contend with now. You’ve got me. So get down from that cart before I drag you from it.” He held out his hand again.
But again she refused it. He was just about to climb onto the cart when she knew she had to do something. She clambered down the other side, barely pausing to don her mantle, and ran toward her cottage. Yet as she waded through the snow, with her ungainly satin skirts tripping her up more than the drifts did, Ivan had little trouble reaching her.
“I won’t go back with you, Ivan! I won’t!” she cried when he lifted her into his arms. She was thrown against his chest and though she wanted to fight him, the warmth of his body was almost welcome in the frigid night air. Still she knew this was madness, so she pushed against his chest with all her strength.
He merely laughed, seeming to enjoy the fight. Only when she had quieted did she know how much.
His desire was all too apparent when she was crushed against him in an intimate embrace. His arms were locked around her and he had lifted her completely clear of the snow. Though there were many layers of silk and wool between them, she could feel his hard, muscular body pressing against hers. The familiarity made her face flame. “Ivan, let me down,” she demanded.
“Shall you come with me back to the castle then?”
“I want to go home—”
She felt his hand move to her bottom. He squeezed her fondly. Her eyes opened wide in shock.
“Back to the castle?” he asked, lifting one of his jet eyebrows.
“Yes!” she blurted out hastily, willing to say anything so that he would release her. But even so he took his time letting her go.
Once released, however, she was not quite ready to admit defeat. This time, she gathered her cumbersome skirts in her hands and plunged through the snow toward Violet Croft. With every step, she was sure she could make out her cottage’s outline in the snowy night. But Violet Croft never quite appeared before Ivan seized her and they plummeted into the snow.
She gasped as he fell on top of her. His tall, well-conditioned frame seemed like a prison, and though she knew sh
e should try to get away, now it was impossible. She’d let herself become hopelessly vulnerable. She should have never gone to the ball; she should have never run away. She should have remained by Evvie’s side and refused any waltzes. Then Ivan wouldn’t have been able to torment her; then she never would have been hurt by Letitia’s cruel comment.
Yet even that hurt dimmed beside the pain that Ivan had caused. She pushed on his implacable chest. Her desire for him was becoming a torture she could no longer endure.
Warily she met his gaze, then promptly lost another battle. In his eyes, she glimpsed something she had never seen before—something that was sacred yet dangerous. It was as dark and beautiful as the midnight sky, and just as unreachable. It promised both heaven and hell; and she knew that in order to get one, she would have to chance the other.
“Come back to the castle, love. Don’t fight me any more,” he whispered to her.
She shook her head and smiled bitterly. “Ivan, we’ll destroy each other.”
He reached for her cold little hand and brought it to his mouth. He placed a burning kiss into her palm, then achingly brought her hand to his scar.
“So let’s destroy each other,” he answered in a husky voice.
A soft moan escaped her lips and his mouth came down on hers in a soul-stealing kiss. His lips grew impossibly demanding until he would accept nothing less than her full participation. He forced her to kiss him with equal ferocity and when she did, there was nothing in the universe but Ivan and her passion for him, which she had held in check for so long.
She prayed that as the phoenix could rise from its ashes, so could they, but when he brought her to her feet, her fears overwhelmed her. They were both covered with snow but neither of them seemed to notice. Without a word, without a glance, he took her hand and tried to lead her to his steed. But she pulled back, frightened.
“I can’t, Ivan. I won’t,” she told him.
He turned and faced her. His hand gently brushed the snow from her hair. “I’ve thought about this night for five years, Lissa. Don’t deny me it now.”
When Angels Fall Page 25
