by Liz Carlyle
Anaïs cast her eyes up at the skylight, the scant clouds above now lit with violet. “I saw it, Geoff,” she whispered. “The evil you spoke of. The blackness. Charlotte is in trouble—more trouble than Giselle, perhaps.”
“What sort of trouble, do you reckon?”
She bit her lip, and shook her head. “I wish I knew,” she said. “But there was something there, just beyond my grasp. Something the cards wanted to show me. I have the most awful sense we are missing a part of the puzzle here. I do know we cannot leave her here. We must get the both of them away, and soon.”
Geoff’s hands still sat at her waist, his gaze intent as he looked up at her. “All right,” he said calmly. “We need to end this. But first we need as much information as we can get, as fast as we can get it.”
“Of what sort? And how?”
Geoff’s brow furrowed. “Tomorrow night we’ll dine with them,” he said. “Lezennes will keep the child away from us, I am sure. One of us must distract him. I need an object—something belonging to Giselle, perhaps, that her mother has given her. Something that might be imprinted with both their emotions. That, and Charlotte’s handkerchief together—yes, perhaps that will help us time our approach.”
“Or our escape,” Anaïs grimly added. “And I’ll find you something that belongs to Giselle, trust me. By the way, Lezennes has already proposed marriage to Charlotte, and he’s pressing her hard. Perhaps I can give her a little breathing room.”
“And how would you do that?”
Anaïs let her gaze drift over his beautiful face. “I shall bat my eyes outrageously at Lezennes,” she said. “Perhaps he will think to use me to make Charlotte jealous.”
“Too dangerous,” he said. “Don’t even think of it.”
“But you will be with me,” she said. “And—”
There was a sharp sound somewhere within the house, like the clack! of a broom handle striking a wall. Geoff’s eyes widened. “Good Lord,” he said. “The real world returns. And I forgot to lock the door.”
Anaïs smiled. “I shall take that as a compliment,” she murmured.
“Aye, you should,” he said, his gaze heating as it drifted over her. His warm, long-fingered hands slid up her ribs to cup her breasts. “Ah, Anaïs, is there anything about you that is not utter perfection?”
“Oh, I think you know the answer to that,” she said, hitching one leg over him to sit down on the mat at his side.
He shot her a chiding glance, then rolled gracefully to his feet like a great cat bestirred, and strode across the room to lock the door. “We had better get dressed,” he said. “I’ll have something cold sent up for dinner.”
Anaïs did not answer, but watched him as he strolled to the high, dormered window, then leaned on his elbows as if watching the street below. Ever the gentleman, he was giving her a moment of privacy in which to dress, she realized.
After sparing his naked glory one last glance, Anaïs dressed in haste, shinnying out of his shirt and into her own, then hitching up the buttons on her trousers. Not once, oddly, had he commented on her mark. Perhaps he had not seen it. She picked up his shirt, carried it across the room, and held it out for him.
Geoff turned from the window and flashed one of his quizzical, sideways smiles. “Where did you get those trousers, anyway?” he said, thrusting his arms into the shirtsleeves, then shrugging it on.
Anaïs glanced down a little sheepishly. “They used to be Armand’s,” she said. “I brought them along, just in case I needed something to climb in.”
Or something to seduce you with, she thought.
But Geoff had crossed to the mat, his long, muscled legs bare beneath his shirttail. And she wanted, suddenly, to follow him. To lift the fine cambric of his shirt and set her lips to that mark high on his hip; the mark that had propelled him toward his destiny, perhaps in part trapped him into a life he wanted no more than she.
Good God. Was that how she felt?
Geoff obviously would have surrendered his Gift in a heartbeat, were he to be given the chance. But perhaps it went deeper than that for both of them. Did she resent having lost her chance at a so-called normal life, and having to set forth on this strange path? Did she resent what Nonna had called her destiny? Or had she simply grown tired of waiting for her prince to come?
Surely, at her age, she did not long to become ordinary? To become just another of society’s butterflies, flitting from garden party to tea to soiree, all in the search for a husband? But if not, why this heavy feeling in her heart? This sense of having lost . . . something.
Anaïs did not know. And there was really no point in thinking about it. Life was what it was, hope and heartache included.
Geoff dressed in silence, and together they strolled back downstairs.
Inside the privacy of her bedroom, he drew her into his arms. “I don’t know how much longer we’ll have together, Anaïs,” he said, gazing into her eyes. “Not long, I think. And I will miss you.”
“And I you,” she whispered.
But it was not so simple as that. Not anymore.
He slipped a finger under her chin, and lifted her gaze back to his. “We’ll be back in London soon, God willing,” he said. “Back in the real world, with all its expectations.”
“Yes,” she said simply.
Some nameless emotion sketched over his face; then, as if to obscure it, he bent his head and kissed her again, slowly and sensually, plumbing the depths of her mouth with his tongue. They came apart a little breathlessly.
“Am I still Mr. Right-for-Now, Anaïs?” he asked, his voice warm and raspy against her ear. “And if I am, will you spend this one night in my bed?”
“Yes,” she said.
Yes, she thought, and the next and the next and the one after that, too, if you would just invite me . . .
But that was a foolish notion.
He had a life in London to return to.
And fate had other plans for her.
Chapter 14
The quality of decision is like the well-timed swoop of a falcon which enables it to strike and destroy its victim.
Sun Tzu, The Art of War
Anaïs woke the next morning snuggled in Geoff’s embrace. The sun was already limning the draperies with a warm, golden glow. After easing herself gingerly from beneath his arm, she rose and went through to the bathroom. Bracing her hands wide on the washing table, she stared at herself in the mirror.
Her plain, rather long face stared back at her beneath a tumbled mess of unruly hair.
But I’m not precisely ordinary, Anaïs consoled herself.
No, she was plain in an extraordinary way—or, as her mother had always diplomatically put it, she was handsome. Sometimes, in the right gown and the right light, even striking.
Then she let her hands fall, and sighed. The hours spent in Geoff’s embrace had made her feel beautiful—sensual and deeply desirable—and that would have to be enough. She was not the sort of woman who ordinarily gave her looks a second thought, and it was time she readopted that fine attitude.
After washing her face and hands in cold water from the tap, Anaïs went through to her room and flung open the doors to her wardrobe. Absent Geoff’s sheltering arms, she was cold. Lifting the robe from its peg on the door, she noticed the dress she’d worn the previous day. The dress she’d stripped off in a temper, and flung across the bed for poor Claire to deal with.
And dealt with it she had, even going so far as to press it, and stitch up the little bit of lace Anaïs had ripped from the cuff in her furor.
Suddenly, Anaïs recalled Sutherland’s letter she’d shoved deep into her pocket. Mildly alarmed, she rummaged through the folds until she found the pocket slit.
It was still there, precisely where she’d left it.
She breathed a sigh of relief.
Still, it had been careless of her. Of course, she trusted the servants, and Sutherland had worded his letter carefully; initials rather than names, and otherwise vague ref
erences. Nonetheless, a dress pocket was hardly the place for such a thing.
Strolling slowly back to Geoff’s room, she let her eyes run over the Preost’s words again, taking comfort in his assurances. If they could get Charlotte and her child safely to England, all would be well.
On the threshold, she looked up to see that Geoff still slept as she’d left him; turned almost flat on his belly, one big arm still outstretched over the hollow she’d left in his mattress, his wide shoulders rounded with muscle and glowing warmly in the early sun.
A shock of his gold-bronze hair hung over one eye and his face was heavily shadowed with black bristle, offsetting the aristocratic perfection of that harsh, aquiline nose, and lending him an almost piratical air. The bed linen had been shoved away, only to catch on the swell of one perfect, well-muscled buttock, drawing the eye to his black tattoo just above.
At the sight, something in her chest gave a traitorous little flip-flop—her heart, she feared—and she started toward the bed, intent on rousing him. Then she recalled the letter in her hand.
Geoff’s traveling desk, where he kept all their pertinent papers, sat open on a little table by the window. Hastily crossing the room, she tucked the Preost’s missive under a stack of what looked like ordinary personal letters, wedging it inside the fat fold that she recognized as Monsieur DuPont’s dossiers.
As she turned, however, a stack of books on the other side of the table caught her eye. After cutting a surreptitious look at bed, she shuffled through them. Geoff, it seemed, was a bit of a Renaissance man. His reading included poetry by Coleridge and Burns, a well-worn copy of Scott’s Castle Dangerous, an engineering manual—something to do with valves and steam—and below that a book of Grecian architectural drawings.
But it was the topmost book which most interested her—L’Art de la Guerre by the famous general and philosopher Sun Tzu. Translated into French by a Jesuit priest, the ancient manual of military strategy—the art of war—had been a favorite of Giovanni’s, and it had come to be a favorite as hers as well.
Anaïs smiled a little at the memory and moved as if to leave. Then, as a woman in love will often do—in the vain hope that a personal possession will reveal some hidden, intimate insight—she took a second, more curious, look at the traveling desk.
It was a big, old-fashioned box made of mahogany bound in brass with one of the inkwells empty, the other filled to the brim. The leather writing surface was folded shut, and in the main compartment, Charlotte’s handkerchief lay neatly on the right of his correspondence, beneath Giselle’s yellow hair ribbon.
Carefully, Anaïs tilted the lid to see the brass plate on the top bore Geoff’s monogram, and beneath it the full mark of the Fraternitas. There was no coat of arms, no heraldry whatever. Obviously, this was something he had owned a long while; since before coming into his title, almost certainly.
She tilted the lid back again, and this time her eye caught on the top letter, which was penned in a tidy—and obviously feminine—script. Tilting her head, Anaïs saw that it was from his mother.
Lady Madeleine MacLachlan was a renowned beauty who had surprised society by giving up the title Countess of Bessett upon her remarriage to a commoner, though by custom if not law, some widows did not, preferring instead to cling to their dead husband’s higher rank. Anaïs thought rather more of the lady for it, and wondered if mother and son were much alike.
Unable to contain her curiosity, Anaïs glanced more closely at the lady’s letter.
As with eavesdropping, reading another’s mail usually comes to no good. The first paragraph, however, was innocuous enough; warmest wishes for Geoffrey’s good health, and an inquiry about the weather. The second paragraph, however, was not so benign:
As you asked, I had Lady A. to tea again. Oh, Geoff, the more I see of her, the more I am persuaded you have set your sights wisely. I only hope you have chosen for love, and not just duty, as you are wont to do . . .
Anaïs dropped the letter as if it had burst into flames.
For an instant, she could not get her breath; it was as if all the sweetness of the previous moment was sucked from the room, taking the air with it.
She turned to look at Geoff, still sleeping. Then somehow she commanded her shaking legs to move, and pushed blindly through to the bathroom. Locking the door behind, Anaïs sat down on the lip of the tub and clapped a hand over her mouth, the horror of it roiling up inside her.
I only hope you have chosen for love.
The words taunted her. She ran through them all again, struggling to ascribe to them something save the most obvious meaning.
There was none.
There was none, because it was happening again.
No. No, it was not.
This was not the same thing. He was not married. He had simply chosen wisely.
But what did it matter? She had already fallen in love with him, however much she might try to deny it. And the result was going to be the same. A broken heart. A life tinged with disappointment, if not full-blown shame. And she had brought it on herself, too—and this time, she could not even console herself that she had been naïve, that she had been seduced by someone experienced and cynical.
No, she had sauntered right up and asked for it.
Anaïs wasn’t sure precisely how long she sat there, one hand over her mouth, the other trembling in time with her knocking knees. But eventually, the numbness receded and full awareness flooded back, painful as the warmth of a raging fire after a long chill. It brought with it a heavy, swamping grief that filled her chest and weighed down her extremities.
If what she’d done to Charlotte had left her hands dirty, this left her tainted from the inside out. It was almost—almost—the unspeakable all over again.
Hands shaking, she got up, corked the tub, and turned on the tap. It sputtered and spewed, then began sluggishly to run as Anaïs stripped off her thin nightclothes and stepped in. Ice-cold water washed round her toes, and only then did she remember there was no boiler, no way to draw hot water.
Dear Lord, she could not even run a bath properly.
It felt like the last straw. Plopping down in the cold water, Anaïs pulled her legs tight to her chest and let her forehead fall to her knees on a stifled sob.
Just then she became aware of the presence beyond the door. Forcing herself to attend, she picked up her head and turned her ear but heard nothing for a long moment. She knew, though, that he was there.
“Anaïs?” Finally Geoff’s voice came, barely audible over the loudly tinkling water.
She turned off the tap—a frightful, wrenching sound that had likely awakened him—and willed her voice not to shake. “Yes?”
“What are you doing?”
It seemed an oddly personal question. “Taking a bath.” The words echoed hollow as her heart in the cold, tiled room.
He paused for a long moment. “And you know there’s no hot water on tap, right?”
Anaïs closed her eyes, and let her head fall forward again. “Yes, thanks,” she said, staring down at the shimmering water. “I’m fine.”
Another few heartbeats passed, then, “All right, then,” he said softly. “I miss you.”
She listened as his footsteps trod away from the door; could even envision him in all his naked, long-legged glory as he moved toward the bed. He sat down on the edge of the mattress, legs spread wide, elbows propping on his knees as he let his head hang.
She knew that was precisely what he was doing; she could feel it. She could feel him, though not as clearly as she felt some people. It was like that for her sometimes, and she didn’t know why, but she could all but see Geoff’s long hair falling forward as he bent. See his fingers laced pensively together.
So if he was betrothed—or all but betrothed—to another woman, why the hell couldn’t she sense that?
Perhaps because he was a Vates? Or perhaps because he wasn’t betrothed?
Perhaps he had not even lied to her. Not with words, at any rate.<
br />
Yes, he had said. I mean to do my duty to the title.
He had as good as said he meant to marry. And she had not been surprised. Noblemen were expected to provide an heir. All that they stood for—indeed, much of what England stood for—was predicated upon that assumption.
He had said, too, that he was not the one for her.
And she knew that. She knew it, for her great-grandmother’s tarocchi had told her long ago, and never had it been wrong—vague and mystical, perhaps, but always unerring. But that thought merely compelled her to choke back another sob. All of this—her belief in the tarot, her infatuation with Geoff, the nagging loneliness that had begun to plague her these last few years—all of it welled up and left her wretched.
And it was only then that Anaïs realized she had allowed herself to hope. Oh, only a little, for she had learned the necessity of restraint in a hard school. The importance of holding back a little of one’s self. The imperative of never quite trusting.
But had Geoff lied to her?
I am persuaded you have set your sights wisely.
So he had set his sights. He had set his sights, and shared those hopes with his mother. Anaïs needed to get over it. Despite the nausea swirling in her gut, and the fact that she was still shaking inside, she told herself Geoff was not so much a liar as an opportunist.
And why not? What had she offered him? Said to him?
That she was waiting for someone. That she was only looking for something temporary.
She drew a deep breath, stabbed her fingers into her hair, and tried to think rationally. Was that so very different from what he had said?
Well, yes. But only if he was betrothed—not that she’d troubled herself to ask that question before throwing herself at him in her bedchamber that afternoon.
So she had fallen in love again, this time far worse than the last. This time everything had gone against her instincts—Geoff was not right for her, he was too implacable and autocratic, too English, too overtly male—he was not, in short, The One.
And she had fallen in love with him anyway. Given herself to him anyway.
Given herself to a man intended, at least eventually, for another woman.
