by Brenda Joyce
She shivered. She was already in far more deeply than she had ever imagined. “I promise to be prudent and cautious.”
Grimacing, Cliff started away with his wife. Ariella sagged with relief, watching as her stepmother took his hand and tugged him to the dance floor. She hated deceiving her family, but she couldn’t regret what had happened.
Feeling his stare, she glanced across the room.
Emilian stood amidst the crowd, yet he was obviously alone and utterly apart from everyone. Their gazes instantly locked. She wanted to tell him that these people were hateful, that her father was only protecting her, and that she was his friend, no matter what, but she didn’t dare go over to him.
“Would you care to dance?”
She turned to face a portly, pale blond man, a few years older than herself. It was hard to smile. “I am sorry, I have two left feet. You truly do not wish to dance with me…sir.”
He bowed. “To the contrary, Miss de Warenne, it would be an honor to dance with the loveliest lady in the room.”
His regard was piercing, but it was not sensual or bold. She was about to insist that she could not dance, and offer up another excuse, when he smiled and said, “How remiss of me. I have not introduced myself. Robert St Xavier.” He bowed.
Her pulse sped. Was this Emilian’s brother? He was close to Emilian’s age, but they did not share any resemblance. She smiled. “I would love to dance—if you will ignore me when I tread upon you.” She held out her hand.
He laughed. “It is impossible to ignore a beautiful woman.”
He led her onto the floor and she turned into his embrace. She was certain he did not find her very attractive; his words were spoken as if by routine. Bemused, Ariella said, “You dance well, sir.”
“As do you.” He smiled, studying her closely.
“Do you also reside at Woodland?” Too late, she hoped she had not given anything away.
“I reside in London, Miss de Warenne. My cousin, the viscount, resides at Woodland. As he comes to town so infrequently, I find myself in Derbyshire often. Otherwise, we should lose our close familial affection.”
He insisted he was close to Emilian, yet somehow, his words made her want to pause and carefully consider them. She was uncertain—he gave her an odd feeling. “I have just met the viscount. Your cousin is very charming.”
Robert laughed. “Yes, all the ladies find him quite gallant, although I have never understood his charm. But he is available and Woodland is a fine estate.”
She tensed. “I found him charming, sir, that is all.”
“So you know him well?”
“Not at all. We only just met.”
Robert smiled, and somehow, the expression was smug.
EMILIAN WAS TIRED of playing games with the gadjos. He was already sick of their whispers, but he was oddly reluctant to go. There was one reason—she had, miraculously, forgiven him for what he had done to her. There hadn’t been any hysterics or accusations. Instead, she thought to be friends; she had even tried to rescue him from the gadjos. It was stunning. He turned to look at her one last time before leaving.
Ariella was in his cousin’s arms.
The alarm he felt was quickly replaced by rage. Robert was a scoundrel, a worthless rake. He was his rival. And now he was pursuing Ariella? Did he wish to thwart Emilian as he had tried to do time and again for the past twenty years? It did not truly matter. The dance they were sharing was unacceptable and he would not have it.
As he approached them, images flashed from that night, of her crying out in rapture as he moved within her. The images changed and he could see her being kissed by his cousin. He shook off the horrid fantasy. Ariella was no fool. She would never allow Robert to seduce her. He would never allow it.
But Robert was entirely English. He came from old stock, a good name, and he would be an acceptable suitor, just as Emilian would not ever be such a candidate. De Warenne would surely approve of him, at least socially.
That fueled his rage.
He moved, his strides stiff and hard. He saw her polite smile and Robert’s affected one. Were they enjoying dancing together? It didn’t matter. He would tear them apart.
She started when she saw him. Robert glanced at him blandly, and Emilian knew he relished the moment.
“I am cutting in,” he said curtly, taking his cousin’s arm and pulling it away from her waist.
Robert released her and stepped aside. “Of course you wish to dance with the most beautiful woman in the room.” He bowed gallantly. “Miss de Warenne, another time.”
She managed a smile. “Of course.”
Emilian seethed, swiftly taking her into his arms. It was hard to think clearly now.
The black mare was the most beautiful horse he had ever seen. It was his thirteenth birthday present, given to him by his father shortly after he had agreed to stay voluntarily at Woodland and explore the opportunities Edmund wished to give him. That first night, he had slept in her stall with her, refusing to come out. He had ridden her every day and the horse had been a great joy in his new and still-frightening life. He had fallen in love with the mare and she had loved him in return. And then Edmund had taken him to London for the day.
When they had returned to Woodland, he had instantly gone to his horse to give her treats. He had found the mare hot and wet and lame, her forelegs swollen, whip marks on her haunches and neck. Robert had taken her and ridden her into the ground….
Near tears, he had meant to kill his cousin but his father had broken them up. The mare had survived and healed and Robert had gotten away with his crime. But that was only the beginning.
Robert had made certain to take whatever he could, if he thought Emilian had wanted it….
“What are you thinking?” Ariella asked. “You look ready to commit murder!”
He heard her and focused, but with difficulty. It took another moment to forget the black mare and Robert’s treatment. How often had he heard Robert complaining to his father that Woodland should belong to him, and not Emilian?
Those complaints had ceased, of course, with Edmund’s death, but Emilian knew he lusted after the estate, the title, and Emilian’s wealth and possessions. Now he lusted after Ariella.
“Emilian,” she cried.
He looked down at her and met her wide, searching blue eyes. The moment he did so, he became aware that she was in his embrace.
He held her very closely, the way a man would hold his lover or his wife, but not a dance partner. He held her as if it were the other night. He recalled the extent of the passion that had consumed her, and he thought about the passion that would consume him if he allowed it. In that moment, he realized he wanted her even more than he had before arriving at the ball.
He glanced past her and saw Robert watching them. He took a breath as he put a proper distance between them. “You will dance with others, but not with me?” he asked, but he could not force levity into his tone.
“That isn’t fair, Emilian. Of course I will dance with you.”
Her eyes had softened. She was so easy to play. She was too naive and kind for her own good. He had learned how kind she was that night. De Warenne had every right to protect her from rogues and scoundrels—he had every right to protect her from him. He whirled her on the dance floor and immediately, she tripped. He steadied her and murmured, “Dancing should be easy for you. It is a pleasure, Ariella.” His mood had finally eased.
Her eyes warmed. “It is not easy for me. But I am glad,” she whispered, “that you insisted we dance.”
His hand tightened and he pulled her closer. His own loins were entirely full now. He let the heavy, hot feeling mesmerize him, just for a moment. Why were they denying the attraction that surged between them? He had never been this tempted by any woman before.
“We are being watched,” she said breathlessly.
He reminded himself that she deserved better and he had already wreaked havoc on her life. She deserved her Prince Charming, not a didik
oi viscount. Besides, he was leaving.
He saw Robert then, continuing to stare openly at them. “Did you enjoy dancing with Robert?”
“No, I did not. Generally I do not like dancing.”
“Then I must change that, must I not?”
She smiled and he saw warmth and trust in her face. “Maybe you already have,” she said—and stepped on his foot.
He thought he heard himself laugh. “Follow my lead…as you did the other night…and you will dance superbly.”
“Emilian,” she whispered, and he felt her body melt against his.
He gave over to the moment and the woman in his arms. She was soft and she trembled with tension, and so did he. He murmured, moving his cheek against her hair, thinking about sharing her bed, “Do you hate dancing now?”
“No.”
Their eyes locked again. It would be so easy to renew the affair. They both wanted it. She wouldn’t look at Robert twice, not when she was sharing his bed, day in and day out. He could never let Robert have her. She wasn’t innocent now and she was smiling…she was smiling at him.
Instantly, he put a distance between them.
“What is wrong?” she asked softly, and he felt her fingers graze the nape of his neck.
He stared down at her. He must not allow his desire to best him. She wasn’t indifferent or nonchalant. She claimed she wanted to be friends, and that meant she wanted a part of him he would never give. She couldn’t love him now, not after his seduction, but the look in her eyes told him she cared more than she should. She deserved better than a meaningless, carnal affair. She deserved a friend, he realized, if that was what she wished her lover to be. He would hurt her, no matter what she claimed, because he could only give her a night or two.
“Is it Robert? Or did someone else say something?”
He whirled her forward, not wanting to discuss his cousin.
“Do you dislike your cousin?” she probed.
He sighed. A conversation about Robert would be the nail in the coffin of the desire thrumming between them. “I hate him.” He halted but tightened his hand on her waist.
“How can you hate your own flesh and blood? You can’t mean that!”
“We are not all as fortunate as you, to have kind and caring relations.”
“Robert says you are close,” she insisted.
He realized they stood in the center of the dancing crowd, and more stares were being directed their way. He pulled her back into the dance, but without any feeling now. He kept her carefully at arm’s length. “Stevan, Jaelle, Simcha and my cousins are my family. The kumpa’nia is my family. Robert is barely a relation. He is heartless. Stay far from him.”
She was the one to halt abruptly. “I have no intention of going near him. But I am sorry you dislike your own cousin so.”
“Do not feel pity for me,” he warned.
“I do not feel pity for you,” she said. “I am sorry you have no emotional connection to your father’s family, which must make you feel isolated, indeed.”
The dance was a mistake. She was a mistake. He stiffened. “And what would you suggest? That I pretend to care for my cousin? Or better yet, I pretend to be an Englishman?”
She cocked her head at him, “You could have fooled me tonight.”
He knew she was teasing, that she wished to defuse the moment, but he was annoyed. Worse, he felt like crushing her in his arms, and kissing her senseless, until she stopped caring about him. Maybe, if they had an affair she would learn to hate him and then it would be over. “I am afraid it is late and I must go.”
“Coward.”
He was stunned by the slur.
She stared back very boldly.
“I beg your pardon?”
“You heard me.”
“And why, pray tell, do you think me cowardly?”
“Because you are afraid to face the truth about a great many things, perhaps even about me.” She flushed, glancing around. “We should finish this discussion aside from the dance floor.”
“What’s wrong? Do the stares and whispers bother you?” he snapped.
She glared. “Yes, they do, just as they must surely bother you!”
He whirled, intent on leaving her standing there by herself, but that was despicable. He turned back to face her. “I have never met a more annoying woman! My concerns are mine, not yours! Why do you meddle? Oh, wait, of course, how foolish of me. You wish to be my friend!”
“I am your friend, no matter how rude you try to be. And you need someone to share your concerns with. That has become glaringly obvious tonight.”
He was incredulous.
She smiled. “And, as annoying as I am, you can be insufferable. That is what makes us well suited.”
He did not smile back. She was daring to presume upon him, as if they were really friends. He was truly angry, but she was laughing at him. Did she think to have the upper hand? “We are very well suited.” He leaned close. “In exactly one place—my bed.”
Her smile faded but did not fail entirely.
“Whatever you think you know about me, you are wrong.”
She stiffened, unsmiling now. Quietly she said, “I know you are not heartless. I know it is a facade. I understand now, after this night, why your bark is so terrible and why you threaten to bite. But you won’t bite. Not me, anyway.”
“You know nothing.” He was livid with her, although he didn’t quite know why. He bowed like a courtier. “I am afraid I must end this dance prematurely.”
She seized his arm. “I know you are lonely.” She released him.
It took him a moment to recover from the accusation. He would not even deign to respond. “Thank you for the dance. Good night.”
“You’re welcome…Emilian.”
Didn’t she care about being exposed? He was aware that parts of their conversation had been overheard. Pretending not to hear, forcing himself not to look back, he strode from the dance floor. But all he could think of was the small woman standing behind him on the dance floor, feeling sorry for him. She thought him lonely.
But at the door he did look back.
She stood where he had left her, as if a beautiful statue, her face as pale as alabaster. Several gentlemen had come up to her, perhaps to ask her to dance. One of them was Robert. She shook her head—but she was staring only at him.
Her eyes were soft, shining.
In that moment, he knew he must stay as far from her as possible. Her allure—and her faith—were simply too immense. Shaken, he hurried out.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
ARIELLA TENSED as her carriage paused in the circular drive at Woodland. Another carriage, hardly as grand as her own, was also parked before the estate’s paneled front doors. Emilian had callers.
It was the afternoon after the ball. No matter how loudly he barked at her, they were friends now—even if it was a strained and odd friendship. Last night, she had seen how desperately he needed her friendship. It was a bit forward to call, but as he would never call on her, she had no choice. She had briefly attempted to come up with an excuse for the visit, but then she had given up trying. She hated pretense.
How did he live the way that he did? She couldn’t imagine having so much malicious gossip aimed at his back. Was that why he preferred his Romany relations to his English ones? Was Robert as bad as he thought? She had overheard the gossips mentioning that he had never been to the Simmonses before. Was the gossip why he avoided society?
Ariella’s nervousness increased as she was ushered into Woodland’s front hall. Last time she’d been at Emilian’s home, she had entered from a terrace through the library. She looked carefully around, very curious now. The hall was entirely English, from the ancestral portraits on the walls to the ancient armor standing in one corner of the room. The chairs, placed against the walls, were faded and worn. The tables were centuries’ old. Everything in the hall had undoubtedly been in his father’s family for years.
She recalled their first two unforg
ettable meetings, when he had been as exotic and different from an Englishman as a Rom could be.
“Miss de Warenne, please follow me,” the butler said, having read her calling card.
Ariella started. “Surely you wish to inform his lordship that I am here first?”
The butler, who was a small, thin man with bright eyes, smiled. “The viscount cannot stand formality, Miss de Warenne. And I am certain he will be pleased by your call.”
Ariella grinned. The servant was unusually garrulous. “My good man, I am certain he will be in a snarl when he sees me.”
“We shall see, won’t we?”
Ariella followed him into a corridor, glancing at a central staircase that swept upstairs. “What is your name?”
“It is Hoode, Miss de Warenne.”
“Have you known the viscount for many years?”
“I was employed by the previous viscount when his lordship first came to Woodland as a boy.”
Ariella took his arm. “Hoode, I am intrigued!”
He stared at her, surprised by her enthusiasm.
She flushed. “He told me he was twelve years old when his father brought him here. I am aware that he spent the first years of his life living with his Romni mother. I am so curious about his life.” She knew she was entirely transparent.
“The viscount is not a loquacious man,” Hoode said, eyebrows furrowed. “I am surprised he would reveal so much,” he added. “Although perhaps I am not surprised at all.”
Ariella didn’t comprehend that, but she knew this was an opportunity she must grasp. “What was the previous viscount like?”
Hoode smiled. “He was a proud and honorable man—very much like his son. However, unlike the current viscount, he was not adept at managing the estate, and he left it in a state of ruin. Matters continued to worsen. It wasn’t until the present viscount came home from Oxford that Woodland was revived from its state of disrepair and indebtedness.”
He had gone to Oxford and he had salvaged the estate. She was astonished by the former and impressed by the latter.
