by Lisa Kleypas
“Amersham, please.” It was a village on the coach road with many old inns. Her plan was to stay there for the night, sell her grandmother's little gold cross for as much as she could get, and then hire a local man to convey her to the west of England. She knew there were numerous rural towns and ancient villages there, where she would be able to hide and assume the anonymous life of a dairymaid or houseservant.
Efficiently the footmen loaded the bags into the gleaming laquered carriage and helped her inside. “Thank you,” Tasia murmured, flinching as the door clicked into place. She stuck her head out the window for another look at Seymour.
The butler's lips parted in a restrained smile. “Farewell, Miss Billings, and good luck.” For Seymour, it was a rare burst of emotion.
“The same to you,” Tasia said brightly, and then withdrew into the carriage, fighting back tears as the wheels rolled away from Southgate Hall.
Several minutes passed before Tasia realized they were traveling in the wrong direction. It began as a vague suspicion, which she tried to reason away. After all, she was hardly familiar with the landscape of England, and her only knowledge of Amersham was that it was located somewhere to the west of Southgate. But then the carriage turned off the main road, onto a narrow, heavily wooded path studded with a few ancient bits of gravel. Unless they were taking a shortcut through a forest, they were definitely not going to Amersham. Anxiously Tasia knocked on the roof for the driver's attention. Whistling cheerfully, he ignored her. They went deeper into the woods, passing a small unplowed meadow and a pond. Finally they came to a stop at a two-story cottage that was half-buried in ivy.
Stunned, Tasia emerged from the carriage, while the driver unloaded her belongings. “What are we doing here?” she asked. The driver gave her an impudent smile and gestured to the doorway, where a tall, dark form had appeared.
Luke's smiling blue eyes met hers, and he spoke in a gently chiding tone. “You didn't really think I'd let you go, did you?”
Six
Tasia clamped her mouth shut, while rage flooded her. Whatever else she had lost, she still had the power to make decisions for herself. No one was going to take it from her. Did he think he could trick her, manipulate her, and she would fall into his arms with a grateful sigh? It was beyond arrogance.
The carriage rolled away down the wooded lane, leaving her stranded with Stokehurst. Most women would probably consider it extremely good fortune. Stokehurst looked particularly dashing that morning, dressed in fawn trousers and a loose white shirt, his black hair disheveled. He was quiet, staring at her with apparent fascination. and something else she couldn't quite understand.
Finally Tasia thought of what to say. She made her tone as cold and calm as possible. “This is how it will be when Nikolas Angelovsky finds me. He'll allow me no choice, and he'll justify himself however he wishes. You are just like him. Neither of you lets anything stand in the way of what you want.”
To her satisfaction, a scowl appeared on Stokehurst's face. He folded his arms across his chest, watching as Tasia approached the front of the cottage.
The dwelling was decorated with terra-cotta panels and bricks molded with the same hawk-and-rose motif she had seen at Southgate Hall. The initial “W” was woven into the pattern at regular intervals. Over two centuries of weathering had caused the designs to fade, but they were still distinguishable. The house had been lovingly cared for. Sections of ancient timber had been replaced with new wood, and the clay filling was freshly whitewashed. Had she not been so confused and angry, Tasia would have taken pleasure in the fairy-tale cottage, whose touches of crumbling age gave it an air of romantic decay.
“William, Lord Stokehurst,” Luke said, watching her trace the faded initials by the door. “An ancestor of mine. He had the cottage built for his mistress in the sixteenth century, to keep her close to Southgate Hall.”
“Why bring me here?” Tasia asked stonily. “Are you planning to keep me as your mistress?”
He seemed to give the matter great attention. Tasia realized he was considering the best way to handle her, which stirred her wrath even more. She didn't want to be handled or pacified. She wanted him to leave her alone.
“I want some time with you,” he said bluntly. “With all that's happened in the last few days, we haven't really talked.”
“We've never really talked.”
He inclined his head in agreement. “Now we can.”
Tasia made an infuriated sound and strode away from the door as if it were the gate to hell. She went to the side of the cottage, to a shaded paddock where a black stallion nibbled on a clump of hay. The horse's ears pricked, and he turned his head to the side, eyeing her with interest. Hearing Stokehurst's footsteps behind her, Tasia whirled to face him with her fists clenched. “Take me to the village!”
“No,” he said softly, holding her gaze.
“Then I'll walk.”
“Tasia.” He came closer and wrapped his hand over her fist. “Stay here with me, just for a day or two.” His fingers tightened as she tried to pull away. “I won't make any demands on you. I won't touch you at all, if you don't want me to. Just talk to me. You're in no immediate danger of Angelovsky finding you, certainly not here. Tasia…there's no need for you to go on running for the rest of your life. We can find another way, a better one, if you'll trust me.”
“Why?” she asked, her anger fading a little. The softness of his tone affected her oddly. He had never spoken to her like this before, with quiet, intense appeal. “Why should I trust you?”
He opened his mouth to say something, then appeared to think better of it and kept silent. Staring at her, he brought her fist to his chest. His heart was beating very fast. Slowly Tasia's fingers unfurled, pressing over the driving thump.
Because I love you, Luke yearned to say. I love you more than anything in my life except Emma. You don't have to give me anything. You don't have to love me back. I just want to help you. All I want is for you to be safe. But she wasn't ready for those words. She would be frightened, or scornful, and throw them back at him. He hadn't reached the age of thirty-four without developing a reasonably good sense of timing. Strategically he hid behind a mocking smile.
“Because I'm all you've got,” he said, “except for the Ashbournes. If I were you, I'd take help where I could find it. There's not exactly a queue forming.”
Tasia snatched her hand away and glared at him. She said something in Russian—decidedly not a compliment—and went into the cottage. The door closed with a slam.
Luke let out a sigh of relief. She wasn't happy to be there…but she would stay.
As the day progressed, Tasia changed to her peasant blouse and skirt and left her hair to hang in a long braid down her back. There was no one to see her except Stokehurst, and she might as well be comfortable. Truth be told, the cottage was not a bad place to be held captive. She went from room to room, discovering treasures in every corner: rare books, engravings, and miniatures of haughty dark-haired people who could only be Stokehurst ancestors.
Everything in the house was worn and comfortable, the walls covered with faded tapestries and rich oil paintings, the furniture splendidly heavy and old. So cozy and private…It was not difficult to imagine William, Lord Stokehurst visiting his mistress here, shutting out the rest of the world to seek pleasure in his lover's arms.
After investigating the underground wine vault and pantry, Tasia went outside to stroll around the pond, the paddock, and the vegetable plot. She wasn't exactly certain where Stokehurst was, but she sensed that he was aware of her movements. Fortunately he had the wisdom to let her wander alone and cool her temper.
In the afternoon she watched him exercise the stallion, training him to pivot on his haunches. Stokehurst was patient as he worked with the animal. The stallion, with its supple legs and elegant movements, reminded her of a dancer. For the most part he was well-mannered, but there were moments of rebellion for which he was disciplined by being halted for several seconds
.
“He hates to be kept still,” Luke said, noticing Tasia's presence during one of these periods. “Like any two-year-old.” They proceeded with a walk and executed a perfect half-turn. Silently Tasia admired the sight of a skilled rider on a sensitive horse. Stokehurst guided the animal with the expert pressure of his legs, maintaining the rhythm of the walk as they pivoted a full turn. Having completed the trick with each hoof in proper sequence, the horse was rewarded with generous praise.
Luke dismounted and led the horse to the wooden railing where Tasia stood.
“Constantine, meet Lady Anastasia.”
Tasia reached out to touch the horse's velvety nose. Constantine delicately investigated her empty hand. Suddenly he lowered his head to push at her shoulder, forcing her back a step or two. Tasia laughed in surprise. “What does he want?”
Luke scowled at the horse and muttered a reprimand, and then a rueful grin pulled at the corner of his mouth. “Emma spoils him with sugar lumps. Now he demands them. It's a hard habit to break.”
“Greedy boy,” Tasia cooed, stroking the horse's neck. Constantine turned his head to the side, to watch her out of one bright eye.
Smiling, Tasia glanced up at Stokehurst. His breath came fast from exertion, and his tanned face and throat glistened with sweat. The white shirt clung to his skin, following the curve of hard muscle. He was so masculine and natural, very different from the men she had known in Russian court life. They had been smothered in buttons, perfume, and pomade, all passion concealed by artifice.
Suddenly Tasia thought of a court ball she had attended, and the hussars and noblemen who had danced attendance on her. The Winter Palace, a building of more than a thousand rooms filled with priceless treasures, had blazed with light that defied the frosty darkness outside. The galleries had been lined with officers in full dress uniform. The air had been scented with heated perfume carried in small silver dishes by the imperial retainers. If Tasia closed her eyes, she could still recall the sweetly exotic fragrance. Women and men alike had been covered with jewels that blazed beneath the light of the golden chandeliers. Her own mother, Marie, had been acclaimed as one of the most beautiful women there, her smooth dark hair confined in a net of gold thread and diamonds, her snowy bosom half-exposed by her low-cut gown, her throat concealed by ropes of pearls and emeralds.
Tasia had danced beneath her chaperone's watchful eye, then picked daintily at a plate heaped with golden and black caviar, stuffed quail eggs, and buttery wisps of pastry. The Russian nobility lived with a splendor unequaled by anyone else in the world. She had taken it all for granted. Now that life was gone, and she was dressed in peasant clothes and standing in a paddock. Another world away. And she was experiencing a feeling perilously close to happiness.
“You're thinking of your old life,” Stokehurst said, surprising her with his perceptiveness. “You must miss it.”
Tasia shook her head. “I don't, actually. Those days are interesting to remember, but…now I see that I didn't belong there. I don't know where I would belong, even if I had the freedom to choose.”
“Tasia…”
She glanced up and found him staring at her with an absorbed look that made her insides tighten in sudden awareness. The silence seemed to hold them suspended in anticipation. Tasia struggled for a way to break it. “I'm hungry. I saw some food in the pantry…” She backed from the paddock railing.
“Mrs. Plunkett sent along a cold supper. Chicken, bread, fruit—”
“Did Mrs. Plunkett know about this?”
Suddenly he wore an expression of pure innocence. “Know about what?”
“That I would be here with you!” Tasia regarded him with narrow-eyed suspicion. “She did! I can see it in your face. Everyone at Southgate Hall must have known I was going to be kidnapped today. And Emma? What have you told her?”
“She knows,” he admitted, having the grace to look sheepish.
It was not a pleasant feeling to be the victim of a conspiracy, no matter how well-intentioned. Tasia stiffened with stung pride and walked off without another word.
She was still fuming as she busied herself with unpacking the food and setting it on a table in the common room. Mrs. Plunkett had prepared a feast of roasted meats, salads, fruit and cheese, and a small cake filled with custard. The sun had begun to descend in the sky, casting pinkish-golden light through the half-shuttered windows. After washing and changing, Luke went to the downstairs vault and brought back two bottles of wine. Tasia ignored him and unwrapped a crusty loaf of bread from a linen napkin.
Seeming unperturbed by her silence, Luke sat in a chair and applied himself to opening the wine, holding it between his knees while he uncorked it. “Steadier this way,” he said, noticing Tasia's curious glance. “I could hold it in the crook of my arm—but I've lost a few good bottles that way.” He gave her an ingratiating, boyish smile that caused some of her reserve to melt.
“Who looks after the place and tends the garden?” she asked.
“A caretaker who lives over the hill.”
“Does anyone ever stay here?”
He shook his head. “It doesn't make sense to maintain a house that no one uses, but I've never been able to bring myself to close it. I like the idea of keeping a hideaway.”
“Have you brought other women here?”
“No.”
“Did you ever bring her?” This time Tasia's voice was soft. They both knew she was referring to Mary.
Luke was silent for a long moment, then gave a short nod.
Tasia wasn't certain how she felt about that…flattered, perhaps, and uneasy. She was beginning to understand that she meant something to him, something important, and the knowledge was disturbing on a deep level.
“I'm sorry I deceived you.” Luke aimed for a casual tone but didn't quite reach it. “I didn't know how else to get you here.”
Tasia found a long wax taper in the drawer of a worn sideboard. She lit it from a wall sconce and then moved about the room, lighting candles until the air was golden. “You could have tried inviting me.”
“Would you have accepted?”
“I don't know. I suppose it would have depended on how you asked.” She pursed her lips and delicately blew out the taper, and looked at him through a veil of smoke.
Slowly Luke stood up and came to her. His eyes were filled with seduction, his smile an invitation to wickedness. “Miss Billings…I beg you not to leave. There's a place I'd like to take you to. A cottage hidden deep in the woods. We could stay there, just the two of us, and shut out the rest of the world for as long as you want…a day, a month…forever.”
“And what would we do there, just the two of us?”
“Sleep by day, and wake when the stars come out. Drink wine…share secrets…dance in the moonlight…”
“With no music?”
He bent to her ear with a confidential whisper. “There's music in the forest. But most people never hear it. They don't know how to listen.”
Tasia closed her eyes briefly. He carried a tantalizing mixture of smells, soap and water, damp hair, a touch of starched linen. “Are you offering to teach me?” she asked faintly.
“Actually, I was hoping you would teach me.”
She drew back, staring into his eyes. Suddenly they laughed together, for no reason Tasia could fathom, except that all at once the moment was filled with delight.
“I'll consider it,” she said, moving to a chair, and he seated her obligingly.
“Wine?”
Tasia nudged her empty glass forward in reply. He joined her at the table and poured the wine, and they raised a silent toast. The pale golden vintage was mellow and slightly sweet. Tasia nodded in answer to Luke's questioning glance, and lifted the glass to her lips again. Her drinking had always been limited to a few sips of wine here and there, always supervised by her mother and various chaperones. She relished the freedom of being able to have as much as she wanted.
They consumed the meal at a leisurely p
ace, while the sky darkened outside and shadows crept into the corners of the cottage. Luke devoted himself to being charming. He watched with amusement as she kept holding out the wineglass for more, and warned that she would have a headache in the morning.
“I don't care,” Tasia replied, downing more of the delicious beverage. “It's the best wine I've ever tasted.”
Luke laughed. “And it gets better with every glass. Sip it slowly, sweet. Being a gentleman, I won't be able to take advantage of you if you're drunk.”
“Why not? Drunk or sober, the results are the same, aren't they?” She tilted her head back, letting the sweet liquid slide down her throat. “Besides, you're not that much of a gentleman.”
He gave her a narrow-eyed glance and made a lunge for her across the table. Tasia sprang up with a giggle, barely managing to avoid him. The room tipped, and she concentrated on keeping her balance. When she found her feet, she picked up her glass and wandered away aimlessly. She knew she was drinking too much, but she had a glowing feeling of well-being, and she didn't want it to stop.
“Who's that?” She gestured toward a portrait of a fair-haired woman on the wall. A few drops of wine sloshed over the rim of the glass. Frowning in dismay, Tasia applied herself to drinking the rest before she spilled any more.
“My mother.” Luke joined her in front of the portrait and plucked the wine from her hand. “Don't gulp it, sweet, you'll make yourself dizzy.”
Tasia was already dizzy. He was so steady and solid…She leaned back against him, squinting at the painting. A handsome woman, the duchess, but there was an utter lack of softness in her face, and a compressed thinness to her lips. And her eyes, so keen and cold. “You don't favor her very much,” Tasia said. “Except for the nose.”
Luke laughed. “She has a strong will, my mother. She hasn't softened a bit with age. Very quick-minded, too. She's always sworn she would never outlive her wits. So far she's kept an iron grip on them.”
“What is your father like?”
