Perhaps Mozart had simply done his job too well. Don Giovanni had never been one of Aidan’s favorites. Its theme of the Commendatore avenging his own murder by dragging Don Giovanni down into hell hit far too close to home for his comfort. Neither of his parents had been murdered, but they might as well have been: his mother by a ravaging illness and his father by a villain who had all but pressed the pistol into his hand and squeezed the trigger.
His skin continued to crawl with a nameless anxiety. Raising his glass, he resumed his distant perusal of Laurel, visible again now that his eyes had adjusted. The stage held her riveted interest as the floodlights flared and the curtain opened upon a dusky courtyard scene. Clutching the handle of her opera glass, she flinched each time the orchestra hit a crescendo. When the actors entered the stage, she seemed swept up in the drama of Giovanni’s relentless pursuit of the innocent Anna.
Suddenly Aidan’s mind filled with images of Fitz pursuing Laurel in similar fashion, and like an arctic wind, animosity spread a bitter frost through his chest. But he had no hold on Laurel Sanderson. No obligation. If she chose to involve herself with the likes of George Fitzclarence, what business or concern was it of his?
Unless, of course, she had an ulterior motive, which would make anything and everything she did very much his business.
Was he hoping for that? Hoping she would give him a reason to interfere in her life, make demands of her, and insist she answer his questions? He looked over at her again, tracing the upsweep of her hair, the curve of her neck, the swell of her bosom.
Yes, he could not deny that he would very much like to make her his business.
Chapter 12
During the intermission, Lord Munster’s attentions toward Laurel heightened to an uncomfortable degree. Not only did he continue to address her as Laurel, but he added endearments—lovely Laurel, sweet Laurel. She enjoyed a moment’s respite when he went to procure her a glass of champagne punch and a plate filled with marchpane cakes, but soon enough he planted himself at her side, so close that each breath she drew came laden with the sharp redolence of spirits.
All of that might have been bearable had he been inclined to continue their earlier discussion. She very much wanted to hear more about these world-altering aspirations of his. Were his goals limited to scientific advancement and the betterment of society, or did they include toppling the monarchy? When he had spoken of pointless traditions, the traces of peevishness in his voice had confirmed her suspicion that sentiments other than altruism drove his ambitions.
Bitterness toward his cousin?
She would not find an opportunity to question him in the lobby, for the noise level allowed for little more than occasional shouted comments. At the earliest possible moment she sought her escape.
Placing her glass and plate on the tray of a passing waiter, she excused herself. “Lord Munster, I believe Lady Harcourt presently wants for a companion.”
“G-George, if you please.”
“Now, Lord Munster, we are hardly well-enough acquainted for that.” She raised a hand to gesture across the lobby. “But see there, Lady Harcourt is standing alone.”
“I d-don’t see her.”
“Near the pillar. Lord Harcourt seems to have abandoned her, and that will never do. Please excuse me.”
“B-but—”
Laurel swept away, squeezing through a crush that quickly closed behind her and cut her off from Lord Munster’s sputtering protest. She lost sight of Lady Harcourt as well, and when she finally arrived at the pillar, the woman had disappeared. Within the confusing tableau of silks, jewels, and tailored black evening wear, she took a moment to reorient herself. She finally spotted Lady Harcourt ascending the staircase with Lady Devonlea and Mrs. Whitfield. Rather than rejoin Lord Munster, Laurel hurried in their direction.
She never caught up to them; there were too many people in the way and one in particular stopped her in her tracks, one foot poised on the riser in front of her. Several steps above, Aidan climbed the stairs flanked by a pair of willowy young blondes, one on each arm. Dressed in the height of fashion and remarkably similar in appearance, they could be only sisters, and barely out of their adolescence. Their giggles carried over the general din, and as Laurel watched through narrowed eyes, one of them turned her cherubic face toward Aidan and touched a finger to her bottom lip in a blatantly suggestive manner.
A sense of utter wretchedness filled the aching hollow beneath Laurel’s breast. Raising her skirts, she hurried on blindly and hoped he would not see her. Or if he did, that he would not notice the moisture clouding her vision.
Minutes later, she came to a halt as the house lights dimmed and the corridor emptied. Looking about, she discovered nothing familiar, not the runner beneath her feet nor the damask covering the walls. Even the wall sconces were of a subtly different shape from those she remembered outside Lord and Lady Devonlea’s box. Had she climbed too far?
Turning, she began to retrace her steps. From behind the closed velvet curtains, a low drone of conversation drifted from those who had resumed their seats. As Laurel approached the corner, someone came hurrying around toward her. A hooded cloak flew out to tease the shadows.
She let out a gasp at the same time he pulled up short. He lingered several yards away, his face unfathomable but for the dull gleam of his eyes. As his black cape sifted into place, a treble note of fear trilled through her.
She shook her trepidation away. He was merely a man hurrying to find his seat, as she must do.
“Excuse me, sir.” She attempted to sidestep around him. He shifted to block her way.
“Simone?” His voice was a rough whisper. He hissed several more words that sounded French to her. He pressed closer. Laurel caught a brief glimpse of his features—hooked nose, thin mouth, craggy chin. His dark eyes sent shivers down her back.
She retreated a step. “Please, I don’t speak much French. Are you lost?”
He repeated the first word: a name—Simone? Laurel felt sure it was when he added another to it: de Valentin.
Her throat gone dry, she shook her head. “I do not know whom you mean. Now let me by.”
“Non, mon Dieu.” He came closer still, his stride urgent, angry. “Vous n’êtes pas Simone. Vous êtes Lissette.”
His hand came up. She recoiled, filled with bone-numbing dread and an inexplicable sense that she should know him. Relief poured through her when two ladies and a gentleman rounded the corner. The man brushed the stranger’s shoulder.
“Terribly sorry,” the gentleman said. The trio continued on, passing through a set of velvet curtains into a box.
As if from far off, Laurel heard the heavy rhythms of Don Giovanni rise from the stage as the second act commenced. The notes burrowed inside her, warning of danger. This man in his hooded cloak could well have been the ill-intentioned Don and she his victim. She considered darting into the nearest box when footsteps along the corridor heralded another approach. The stranger jerked his head toward the sound, spat an incoherent word, and pushed past her.
Her heart careening, Laurel whirled to watch him until the blackness at the end of the passage swallowed his form. The music built to a crescendo that spread ripples of unease through her, though she could of think of nothing as unsettling as the stranger’s cold stare, his harsh words. . . . What did it all mean?
Without being able to recall how or why, the rhythm of his stride, the set of his shoulders . . . even the vehemence of his incomprehensible oaths, seemed uncannily familiar.
But from where?
The name he had spoken echoed in her mind. Simone de Valentin. A quiver began at her core and trembled outward to the tips of her fingers and toes. In her mind’s eye, flames raged—the flames of the dream that had haunted her since her earliest days, her dimmest memories. She felt suddenly small and helpless and terrified as her mind filled with the shrill sound of a woman’s scream, the crack of an explosion, and a figure draped in black speeding toward her down a corridor.
The whisper from behind her sent her spinning into panic. She tried to cry out, but an arm like an iron band went round her and a hand covered her mouth.
“Laurel, it’s me, Aidan. Stop struggling, and for heaven’s sake, don’t scream.”
For several seconds fear held her rigid against him. Gradually the resistance drained from her limbs and he turned her to face him. Lingering panic glinted in her eyes.
He pulled her close, feeling the hammer of her heart through their clothing. From far off, the opera gathered force with deep harmonies driven by the lower register of violas, cellos, and basses. Laurel’s hands clutched convulsively around his coat sleeves. Her body melted against his. With a tremulous sigh she burrowed her face into the side of his neck with a sweetness that silenced his suspicions and imprinted a burning desire on his soul.
No sooner had the thought formed than he felt her strength returning, her shaking subsiding. As she pulled away, it was with painful reluctance that he let her go.
Relief lent a wraithlike quality to her beauty. “Thank goodness it’s only you.”
“Whom were you expecting? And what the devil are you doing up here?”
“I became lost and . . .” Her expression turned instantly wary. “Did you follow me?”
The accusatory note propelled him back a step. “I saw you miss the landing on the staircase. I tried to catch up and stop you.”
“You could not have.”
“You’re calling me a liar?”
She thrust her chin forward. “I am saying I have been standing in this corridor a sufficient length of time for you to have reached me long before this.”
“I was waylaid by well-meaning acquaintances wishing to inquire after Melinda’s health.”
“Oh.” Her stance lost something of its stubborn heft, but only momentarily. As a solo baritone filled the theater with menacing tension, her eyes narrowed within their halos of golden lashes. “If you ask me, they had an odd way of showing their concern.”
The statement sparked with rancor. With a huff she started past him. He caught her arm and stopped her. “Are you speaking of the Lewes-Parker twins?” He couldn’t help grinning at the thought.
“You may wipe that smile off your face. Do you not find them a trifle young for you?”
Now he laughed outright, albeit beneath his breath to prevent the sound from carrying into the nearby boxes. “They are distant cousins whose father and brother happen to be next in line for the Barensforth title—a title the family would very much like to acquire. But in the event I do not meet my demise before producing an heir, their next preference would be for one of the twins, Edwina or Emily, to become my countess.”
“I see.” One bare shoulder lifted in a show of indifference belied by the crease above her nose and a blush even the shadows could not conceal. “So which is it to be?”
“Neither.” He didn’t elaborate, didn’t bother to explain that he would rather leap off Pulteney Bridge into the Avon than endure a lifetime chained to either of his vain, impossibly shallow cousins.
Instead he stepped closer and said, “What I cannot help wondering is why it should matter to you. As it so clearly does.”
“It doesn’t. Not at all.” But the protest sounded forced, halfhearted. Her gaze locked with his, and her eyes grew large and liquid, swimming with fathomless desires that mirrored the carnal images racing through his mind.
Putting a hand beneath her chin, he tilted her face up and bent his head, touched his lips to hers, and experienced an inferno of pleasure that spread havoc through his loins. When she didn’t resist and, in fact, released a purring sigh against his lips, he put his arms around her and deepened the kiss, prodding his tongue past her lips. She met the gesture shyly, tentatively, but no less thoroughly as her tongue swept his and entered his mouth.
Their surroundings melted away, leaving only satiny heat and licking flames of mutual desire. Somehow they had swung about until Laurel’s back was against the wall. She didn’t seem to notice or care but clung to him, her arms wound tightly around his neck, her lips pressed urgently to his, until an abrupt burst of applause broke them apart with a jolt.
An aria had ended; which one, Aidan couldn’t say. His thoughts were heavy, drowning in lust, yet at the same time spinning with the shock of how readily they had lost control and in such a public place, where anyone might have exited a box and witnessed their display.
The same sense of alarm held Laurel’s eyes wide. Her kiss-reddened lips fell open. “Oh, I . . . Good heavens.”
He took her hand. “Let’s go.”
Her skirts raised a hiss as she let him propel her to the stairs. She seemed dazed, as disconcerted by their brief passion as he felt. It was more than the mindless urgency of the moment continuing to affect him. It was how she had felt in his arms, how her lips had responded to his kisses. Like Virgo, ablaze and glorious in the night sky . . . and a virgin.
Was it possible that this widow had never been kissed? Never been loved as a woman was meant to be?
Partway down the stairs, he brought them to a halt. “Laurel, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for that to happen.”
“Please, let us not discuss it.” She looked everywhere but at him. “It was a lapse, nothing more. I must find my way back to Lady Devonlea’s box. They all must be wondering what happened to me.”
“Will you answer one question first?”
Fresh panic washed over her features; he half expected her to bolt. “How can you kiss me like that, and return to George Fitzclarence? What do you see in him?”
She shook her head, looking half- guilty, half-bewildered. “Nothing. I am not returning to Lord Munster. He simply happens to be occupying the same box as I.”
Apparently, not all of tonight’s acting was to be confined to the stage. Aidan pushed out a breath. “I see.”
They continued down. As they turned onto the lower level, his curiosity once more took control of his tongue. “Then answer me this. When I found you, you were ready to jump out of your skin. Why? What frightened you so?”
“I had become lost.”
“Yes, you already said that.” Detaining her at the foot of the stairs, he refused to give ground. He placed his fingertips beneath her chin and raised her face to a nearby circle of gaslight. “Why not tell the truth—for once?”
Laurel’s heart swelled to clog her throat even as her stomach plunged in dismay. She wanted to launch herself back into Aidan’s arms and give in to every temptation . . . to kiss him, to trust him.
To tell him the truth.
What truth? What had been real about her encounter with the stranger, and what distorted by her imagination? Because he had spoken French, her suspicions had immediately turned to the scientist Claude Rousseau. But no, this man had not worn spectacles; his features were different from Rousseau’s and his stature greater.
No, it could not have been Rousseau.
And now she considered it, perhaps the stranger’s agitation had arisen from his being lost, and when his attempt to communicate with Laurel had met with in-comprehension, his frustration had surged.
With tonight’s performance conjuring images of murder and ghostly vengeance, was it any wonder she might perceive a threat where none existed? And the name he had spoken—Simone de Valentin. Perhaps here, too, she had been mistaken in what she heard. Her proficiency in French had never been much to boast about.
“Well, Laurel?” Aidan’s query caressed her cheek like a warm summer draft, but his fingers held firm beneath her chin. He seemed prepared to wait the rest of the night rather than let her evade his question.
“There . . . was a man.”
He startled her by lurching closer and tightening his hold on her chin. “What man? Did he hurt you? Insult you? Tell me what happened.”
His sudden fierceness unnerved her. His eyes blazed with it. His lips became pinched and drained of color.
“He did nothing,” she hastened to a
ssure him.
His piercing gaze held her for another moment, then softened. His hand fell away. “He must have done something to leave you so distraught.”
She shook her head, trying to remember exactly what had happened, and why the brief incident had filled her mind with the horrific images of her recurring nightmare. “He wore a cape with the hood up, and I could not see him properly. I believe he might have been lost as well. He seemed overset, but when he spoke to me, I could not understand the words.”
“Why not?”
“He spoke in French. It is not a language I mastered as a child.”
“Then what happened?”
She thought back. Footsteps had sent the stranger scurrying away. An instant later, Aidan had whispered her name. “Then you came,” she said, suddenly filled with the conviction that whenever she most needed him, somehow Aidan would be there to rescue her, just as he had been on that day in London.
He studied her for several pulse-tripping moments, his gaze lingering over her lips before sinking lower. Surely he witnessed the labored rise and fall of her bosom as she struggled to breathe. But each gulp of air filled her with his scent, his taste. Her lips burned with the imprint of his kisses; her mouth tingled for the return of his tongue.
His hand rose, and with his forefinger he traced the gold chain hanging around her neck. At the heat of his touch against her bare skin, her heart thrust wildly against her ribs; her nipples tightened to peaks straining to be touched.
“Come,” he murmured. “We’d best get you back before people begin to talk. Before I give them more reason to talk.”
Those words left her feeling giddy and slightly afraid . . . afraid she would not have had the strength to resist temptation. Reluctance and relief warred within her as they arrived outside Lady Devonlea’s box, and she stepped alone through the velvet curtains to endure the remainder of the night without him.
Most Eagerly Yours: Her Majesty's Secret Servants Page 15
