Glynis glared back at him.
Watching the silent exchange between brother and sister, St. Albans slowly eased into the room. His Gypsy still defended him, it seemed.
And she had called him back.
His departure from the field had been a gamble. And there had been six agonizing heartbeats of silence in which he had doubted himself. His palms had actually broken into a sweat, something he could not recall happening since his first day at Eton, when he had stared at a sea of strange faces and felt himself alone in their midst.
However, the Earls of St. Albans did not doubt anything, particularly not themselves. So why had anxiety raced through him? Nothing, after all, had been at risk. If she had not called out, he would have found another way for their paths to cross again.
But it had mattered to him that she did call to him.
It mattered also now what lay inside that blasted box. Was it proof to gain her respectability, or the lack of such which he could use to coax her, as an illegitimate half-Gypsy, into becoming his mistress?
She took a deep breath, and St. Albans braced himself as his Glynis went to her brother and gently took the box from him.
Glynis held the box in both her hands, grateful it was heavy enough to keep her grip steady.
At last. At long last. Inside lay the key to Christopher’s rightful inheritance. And hers. Now they could have a future. A home. Respectability.
She looked up from the box and to St. Albans.
He stood close by, his eyes narrowed so they seemed almost like cat’s eyes, flickering green with that disdainful expression of his. He looked dangerous in his flowing dressing gown, his white lawn shirt open at the throat to reveal the hint of muscles that lay under his polished exterior. He looked as if he had just come from his bed to her. His mouth curved into the cynical twist she knew so well. The one that kept others away.
Pressing her lips together, she glanced down at the box again. Cunning carving decorated the rich rosewood. The red and gold tones in the wood had been worked so that the hewn dragon seemed almost to breathe as she tiled the oblong box. More carving, rich and intricate and ancient, marked its pattern on her palms as she clutched the box.
She looked at St. Albans, her lips parched, her throat tight. If she opened the box, she gained her future.
But what of St. Albans? He had no use for a respectable lady—not even for a wife.
With a muffled curse, she pushed aside such thoughts. No use to long for what could not be. Dej had taught her that. But she could act on what must be.
She held out the box to St. Albans. “It has a secret latch. We do not know how to open it. Can you?”
For an instant, his mouth crooked even higher on one side. He will refuse, she thought, disappointment seeping into her.
In the next instant, he was at her side, his hands covering hers to take the box from her.
“Please, allow me,” he said, his tone drawling and sounding dreadfully bored.
She hesitated one last moment, her mind telling her not to trust him with this treasure. But this one knew things. This man one could do things. If anyone could open this box, he could.
Letting go, she released the box into St. Albans’s grip.
He stood there, the box in his hands, turning it over. He pulled back the iron lock and opened the lid.
“I emptied that already,” Christo said, sounding irritated.
St. Albans lifted one eyebrow. “So I see.” He glanced at Glynis, and took the box over to the marble flooring that formed a square around the fireplace. By firelight, St. Albans angled the box, studying it.
Either it had a very thick bottom, or there was indeed a secret compartment, St. Albans decided. Blazes, but he hated puzzles such as this. As a child, he had burned his aunt’s wooden puzzles. He had not been able to get any of them to fit, and so, embarrassed by his failure, hating the things, guilty for his own inadequacy, he had shoved the lot of them into the fire. That had solved them quick enough.
But that uncomfortable sense of inadequacy had remained, even after the flames had died.
It was back again.
Well, he knew but one method to solve this new puzzle.
Gently, he put the box down upon the floor, the bottom up, the lid still open, so it arched there upon the marble. With a fast move, like a saber cut, he grabbed and lifted the poker from beside the hearth and brought its weight crashing down on the rosewood.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Wood split with an echoing crack, and the force of the impact vibrated in St. Albans’s arm. Silence—tense and shocked—held the room for an instant.
Dropping to her knees, Glynis reached out to the broken box, her fingers trembling. She drew her hand back before it touched wood. Her brother started forward, muttering curses in his Gypsy tongue, and St. Albans, leveled a stare at him, one that made the Gypsy’s step falter and stop.
At least he has some sense, St. Albans thought, eyes still narrowed and jaw clenched. He was quite prepared to use the poker on the fellow if that knife appeared. But Glynis’s anguished words drew his full attention.
“Christo, there’s nothing!”
St. Albans glanced down.
His Glynis knelt on the floor, a mottled pheasant feather in one hand and a childishly scrawled map in the other. The box, its secret compartment now cracked open, spilled loose a lock of red-blond hair tied with a yellow ribbon, and a tuft of ancient fur. And the truth of it struck St. Albans at once.
All of it had been a lie. A Gypsy swato. A tale invented by a woman to comfort herself with illusion. And to send her children on a devil’s errand.
Sympathy stirred in him for his Gypsy. She had had to learn the truth at some point, but disillusionment was always such a brutal thing.
Turning, he busied himself with putting the poker back with the fire irons, controlling his movements with extra care. He bent down to his Gypsy, took her hand and lifted her to her feet.
She looked at him, tears trembling on dark lashes, her hands clutching at this inadequate inheritance from her father.
“Dej said he must have kept their...” Her voice faded into a sharp intake of breath, as if she were trying to hold back her anguish.
St. Albans’s back teeth tightened. There were times he wished he could throttle that mother of hers. But his Gypsy would forget this moment. He would make her forget.
Surly and silent, her brother came forward to stand over the cracked box. He scooped up the paper that Glynis had allowed to fall back to the floor. “Nevin,” he said, staring at the village drawn onto the map, his voice flat and empty.
Glynis straightened. “Do you think it was meant to lead us—”
“There is nothing here, phen! This is a boy’s map. Look at the writing. There never were any marriage lines. We have been wrong from the start.” He threw the paper back on the floor.
The bitterness in his voice deepened as he spoke, and an unexpected empathy stirred in St. Albans. He knew how it was to have the world shown suddenly stark and bare, revealed for the mockery it was. The fellow’s anger about it would have to go somewhere. However, he did not want it going anywhere near his Gypsy.
Letting go of her, St. Albans started towards the bellpull to summon a servant and see about rooms for the fellow. But the gypsy started toward the door, and St. Albans checked his own steps.
“Christo? Where are you going?” Glynis said.
“To do what should have been done long ago.”
St. Albans went to his Glynis at once, reaching her just as her brother stopped, one hand on the doorknob. His dark eyes glittered, hot and dangerous. The man looked in a mood to do something foolish, something that only a young man with festering anger could do.
A profound gratitude settled in St. Albans that he was long past this age of being driven by his emotions. But he wondered what this fellow had in mind—and he thought he had a good idea of what he’d do in this Gypsy’s place. It was not going to be anything pretty—or legal.
Glancing from his sister to the gaujo lord, Christo clenched his fists. The hurt ached inside him so hard that the world blurred. There had been a marriage. There had been! But the empty box mocked his belief.
Well, he was done trusting. Done with listening to advice from his mother’s dreams. Done with this useless waiting.
He knew the path before him.
But there was no place on that road for Glynis.
Frowning, he glared at the gaujo. He did not want to leave Glynis with this one. However, better for her to stay than to follow him. As she had said, she could look after herself. She would have to now.
He forced a smile for her. “Ashen Devlesa, Romale.”
May you remain with God.
He swung out the door, his smile twisting as he thought how this gaujo earl’s black devil of a horse was a good one to take him to hell. And then he was gone.
Numb cold settled into Glynis as she watched her brother leave. She did not like that Christo had said goodbye in that fashion. She did not like the tone in his voice—one she had never before heard. And she did not like the look in his eyes. He had looked far too much like St. Albans in one of his dark moods.
“I must go after him,” she said, smoothing her gown.
Larger hands covered hers, stopping their agitated movements, and she glanced at St. Albans, scowling. “I must go! Christo is going to do something stupid.”
The corner of his mouth lifted. “That, my dear, is what hotheads such as your brother do best. However, he is not likely to listen to reason just now.”
She frowned, but St. Albans was already leading her to the brocade-covered couch and pulling her down next to him. His put his arm over her shoulders, sheltering and secure, tucked her close next to him.
She ought to get up. She had to find Christo. She could pound some sense into him.
Instead, she lay her head on the shoulder so temptingly near, burrowing into the smooth silk that smelled of sandalwood and musky male essence. Her fingers tangled in the silken cords of his robes, and her feelings tangled even more.
She ought to go.
But she wanted to stay.
Ah, but this gaujo stole the will from her mind and the soul from her body.
A sigh—deep and exhausted—escaped from her lips and she allowed her eyes to drift closed. Just for a moment, she would rest. Just a moment.
“He is going to do something stupid,” she repeated, worry for Christo nibbling at her.
A hand stroked her hair. “Allow him to be a man, my dear. And to choose his own path.”
Pain and loss lanced into her chest. “What path does he have now? I thought...Mother was so certain...she dreamed about Father giving that box to her.”
St. Albans’s mouth twisted and his arm tightened around his Glynis. “Some dreams are only dreams. And there are decided benefits to being wide awake in this world.”
She made what sounded like a snort, but which held enough of a choked sob that St. Albans grew impatient with this absurd self-pity of hers. Rising, he pulled her to her feet and led her to the mirror that hung above the mantle.
Standing behind her, he put his hands on her shoulders. “Tell me about the woman you see reflected there?”
One shoulder hunched, then she said, hurt and disgust mixing in her voice, “I see a penniless poshrat who has nothing. Not even a father to name!”
“Look again. Look and see through my eyes. A woman stares at me. Beautiful. Desirable. Deviously clever. She has light fingers and passion enough that she could rule London if she so chose.” His hands ran down her shoulders and strong fingers encircled her wrists. “My sweet Gypsy, you saw how gentlemen watched you at the Cyprian’s Ball. You have assets you have not even begun to explore. With my introductions, you could dominate any theater in London. Or you could be the most coveted courtesan in Society. All you must do is wake to your own choices. You could have the world at your feet. Have gentlemen ready to shower you with jewels and riches beyond anything.”
His voice, low and seductive, teased her with the image he painted. The red dress she had worn at that ball. The way those gentlemen had treated her with deference, and with interest. The elegant world in which St. Albans lived.
Ah, but could she be those things as he said?
She stared at herself—at the pale face, the enormous, shadowed eyes. She saw only herself. She was no actress. She had spent her life learning skills of hiding, of stealth, not of flamboyance. She could dance. But the thought of doing so on a stage with others staring at her left her mouth dry and her stomach empty. And what of selling her body?
She frowned.
He tempted her, right enough, but in truth she could no more sell her body than she could sell her soul. She could not without separating the two.
Gazing at their reflections, her stare locked with his, and she knew then that what she wanted was not riches and power and position.
What she wanted lay in his eyes. In the spark of desire that stirred a craving inside her for more from him than such looks. She longed to twist in his arms and turn her face up to his for his kisses, and to forget herself, and to forget the world.
What she wanted was him.
Ah, would it be so wrong to give into him? To give into my own need?
Turning, she faced him. His hands fell away from her wrists, but he stood so close to her that the heat from him washed over her. His scent mixed with the faint fragrance of summer that drifted in from the open window.
The tug between them pulled like the rush of a river—only she stood on one bank, and he stood on the other. And neither of them, she knew with soul-weariness, could cross.
Yes, she could have a night with him. Perhaps even a few nights. And how many other nights would she spend afterwards wishing for him? How long would she torture herself when he left her, with thoughts of him and other woman in his bed? She did not want her mother’s empty life. She did not want a love that lasted but a short time and which left her alone for her lifetime.
The heaviness of her choice weighted her shoulders and her soul. But she lifted her chin, and met the look in those gleaming eyes of his.
“None of those things would make me happy,” she said.
He stared at her, his expression puzzled, as if he had not quite understood her words. His frown vanished and his mouth quirked. “I see what it is. You still worry about that brother of yours—what will become of him. Why can you not think of yourself for once?”
“I am! I am thinking how miserable I should be, even if I rule the world, while those I love still travel endlessly. And I think about how you use your money and your houses and your power to please yourself. But you never seem happy. And you want only what you cannot have!”
His mouth twisted even more. “If we are to speak of chasing, then let us talk of your pursuit of illusion. You are a bastard child, and the sooner you accept the truth, the sooner you can have something more than this half-life of dreams that are destined to be shattered again and again. How much pain do you need to inflict on yourself?”
“What I seek is not an illusion. I believe in my father’s honor. He loved my mother. He married her! Christo and I will prove that someday.”
St. Albans scowled at her, exasperated. He had thought this box would be an end to it, but she would not relent. Bloody all, but he had just offered to lay London at her feet—something he had offered no other woman, and she had said it would make her miserable. Miserable!
Well, he was done with the game. He would have her, and that would honestly be an end to it. He would have her in his bed, and would he would satisfy both his own interests, and he would awaken that passion of hers so that she saw the world differently afterwards.
Circling her wrists again with his fingers, he captured her hands behind her back and pulled her closer.
She stiffened. That martyr face closed her expression, shuttering the fire in her eyes, masking her feelings. Closing her eyes, she set her mouth into a line.
With a low, frustrated growl, he pinned both her hands in one of his, and brought his other hand around to cup her chin. This trick would not save her. Not this time.
He bent over her, lowered his mouth to hers, pressing her body against his, heat and need and longing mixing in a dangerous combination inside him.
And then one tear trickled from her eye.
For an instant, he could not move. He watched the crystal drop trace her cheek. The track of it cut into him as if it were etching a line through his own skin, cutting into him like an acid, carrying her anguish into him.
He could not bear it.
Releasing her, he turned and strode for the door. He did not look back. He dared not. He did not want to see her staring at him with wounded eyes. He did not want to see himself reflected in those dark depths.
What the hell was happening to him?
Glynis’s eyes flew open and she watched St. Albans stride out the door. Wrapping her arms around herself, she caught her lower lip between her teeth and shivered.
She had come so close to losing herself. So very close.
Her body still burned from his touch. Her heart still pounded. If he had kissed her, she would have surrendered. She would have given herself to him. And it shamed her to realize her own weakness.
But he had released her.
Why? She had been desperate for him to loosen his hold, but the moment he had, a sense of abandonment had swept over her, and now she wondered if she had somehow disgusted him.
He slammed the door behind him, and Glynis jumped at the sound of it.
Was that it? Had her lack of response wounded his pride? Another tear leaked from her eye and she dashed it away. Ah, but this was probably part of his game to make her want him—and it worked far too well. He wanted her to call for him again—to bring him back. He was counting on her to give-in, was he not?
Well, she had pride, too. She would be glad that he had left her. She would not follow after him and beg him to hold her again.
She would not.
Hugging herself, she made her way to her bed. She curled up with her knees press against her chest and the bed clothing pulled to her chin.
A Much Compromised Lady Page 16
