Sliding his hand under her chin, Luke bent her head back and kissed her upside-down. “I'll think up some torments of my own,” he warned
.
She laughed against his mouth. “I'm sure you will, darling. But in the meantime, run along and let me practice. Read a book, puff on your pipe, shoot something with your gun…whatever it is men usually do in their leisure hours
.”
Luke slid his hands over her full breasts. “They usually prefer to make love to their wives
.”
“
How bourgeois,” she murmured, arching willingly against his palms. “You're supposed to go to your club and talk politics. Besides, it's the middle of the day
.”
He kissed the side of her neck. “I want to see you naked in the sunlight. Come to bed with me.” Ignoring her protests, he lifted her in his arms, and she gave a surprised laugh
.
“
But my practicing
—”
“
Later
.”
“
I may never accomplish anything great in my life,” she said, “but after I go, they'll always be able to say ‘My, she played that waltz to perfection.’” She stared over his shoulder at the abandoned piano as he carried her upstairs
…
Remembering, Luke felt his mouth twist in a bittersweet smile. “Mary,” he whispered, “you did play it to perfection.”
“My lord?” His valet's voice broke the spell. Luke started, and looked toward the mahogany bureau. Biddle was standing there with an armful of starched white shirts and cravats. A lean, small man in his forties, Biddle was never so happy as when he was putting things in order. “Did you say something, sir?” the valet asked.
Luke stared down at the patterned carpet, taking a deep breath. The ghostly echoes faded from his ears. He made his voice crisp. “Pack a change of clothes for me, Biddle. I'll be staying overnight in London.”
The valet didn't blink. It was a request he had obeyed hundreds of times before. Everyone knew what it meant. Tonight a visit would be paid to Iris, Lady Harcourt.
Tasia was still sitting at the piano when Emma returned to the music room. The girl was dressed in a simple blue frock that matched her eyes. “I've had my breakfast,” Emma said in a subdued tone. “I'm ready for my lessons now.”
Tasia nodded matter-of-factly. “Let's choose some books from the library, then.”
Emma wandered to the piano and touched a key. The single note hovered in the air. “You were playing my mother's waltz. I always wondered what it sounded like.”
“You don't remember her playing it?”
“No, but Mrs. Knaggs told me that she was especially fond of one waltz. Papa never would tell me which one it was.”
“I'm certain it is painful for him.”
“Would you play it for me, Miss Billings?”
“I don't believe Lord Stokehurst would allow it.”
“After he leaves. I heard Biddle—that's his valet—telling one of the footmen that Papa will be visiting his mistress tonight.”
Tasia was startled by the child's frankness. “You know everything that goes on in this house, don't you?”
Her sympathetic tone caused Emma's eyes to fill with tears. “Yes, Miss Billings.”
Tasia smiled, reaching for her hand and squeezing it. “I'll play it for you after he leaves. As many times as you want.”
Emma sniffled, wiping her eyes with the back of her free hand. “I don't know why I cry so much. Papa doesn't like it.”
“I know exactly why.” Exerting a gentle pressure on her hand, Tasia tugged the child onto the bench beside her. “Sometimes when you're growing up, it seems as if your emotions fill you up inside, and no matter how you try, you can't hold them back.”
“Yes,” Emma said with a vigorous nod. “It's dreadful. They come spilling out at all the wrong times, and I feel like such a ninny-head.”
“That's how everyone feels at your age.”
“Even you? I can't imagine you crying, Miss Billings.”
“Of course I did. In the years after my father died, I hardly did anything else. He was the most important person in the world to me. After he was gone, it seemed there was no one for me to talk to. I would burst into tears at the slightest provocation. Once I cried for an hour after stubbing my toe.” Tasia smiled. “But eventually it passed, as it will with you.”
“I hope so,” Emma said, her tears drying. “Miss Billings…were you very young when your father died?”
“I was about your age.”
“Did they make you wear black crepe?”
“Yes, I wore mourning for a year and one month.”
“Papa said I must never wear it. He wouldn't even allow it when my cousin Letty died, because it makes him sad to see me draped in black.”
“That is very wise of him. It's very wearisome, being in mourning for someone.” Tasia closed the piano and motioned for Emma to stand up with her. “The library,” she said briskly. “We have work to do,
ma chère mademoiselle
.”
Iris, Lady Harcourt was standing in her bedroom before a full-length mirror. The glass had been placed there ostensibly so she could view herself after she was dressed, but had been used on occasion for more interesting purposes. She was dressed in a gold gown that flattered her peach-tinted skin and red hair. It had taken all day to prepare herself. She had soaked in a scented bath, dressed with the help of a lady's maid, and endured two hours of having her hair curled with heated tongs.
Luke, who had walked into Iris's elegant Cornwall terrace unannounced, stood with his shoulder braced against the side of the doorjamb. A half-smile curved his mouth as he watched her. Iris was the kind of woman he had always liked, a beautiful redhead full of warmth and relaxed charm. Her voluptuous body was always tightly corseted, her long legs concealed by the draped layers of her skirts. Her bountiful breasts were modestly covered, for there was no need to make an impressive display. The lushness of her bosom spoke for itself.
Suddenly realizing she was being observed, Iris turned with a start. Her ruddy brows inched up her forehead. “Darling. You were so quiet I didn't hear you. What are you doing here?”
“Surprise visit.” Pushing off from the doorframe, Luke approached her lazily. “Hello,” he murmured, and kissed her.
Iris pressed up against his mouth with a sigh of delight. Her arms climbed around his hard shoulders. “A surprise indeed,” she said when their lips parted. “As you can see, I'm dressed for the evening. I'm going out.” She shivered at the way his teeth closed gently on her neck. “Dinner party,” she managed to say.
“Send your regrets.”
“If I don't attend there'll be an odd number. And they're expecting me.” She laughed as she felt Luke unfasten the top button of her gown. “Darling, no. What if I promise to leave early and hurry back to you? Will that satisfy you?”
“No.” The second button slipped free. “You're not going at all.”
Iris frowned at him, even as her breath quickened. “You're the most arrogant man I know. And you have a definite problem with compromise. I'm not saying you don't have your good points, darling…but we must work on your temperament.”
Luke tangled his fingers in her upswept hair, ruining the elaborate pile of curls. “It's taken centuries of selective breeding to achieve a specimen like me. You should have seen the early Stokehursts. Nothing to brag about, believe me.”
“Oh, I do,” Iris purred. “I'll bet they were complete savages.” Her eyes widened as he jerked her against his aroused body. His mouth toyed gently with hers, then sealed over it. Iris groaned softly, all thoughts of the dinner party dissolving. She pushed herself against him, eager for his possession. Luke was an experienced and generous lover, knowing how to bring her to the edge of insanity. He liked to tease, to make her beg, to leave her sore and exhausted and satisfied. “At least let me take my corset off,” she whispered. “I nearly fainted the last time.”
Luke smiled, a movement of bristle and warmth against her cheek. “That's because you stop breathing at the important moments.” He finished the row of buttons, and the dress fell to a heavy heap on the floor. The sharp edge of his hook caught the tapes of her petticoats and the strings of her corset, until her sumptuous body burst from its tight bindings.
“You should have to wait like other men,” Iris said with a shiver of excited laughter. “It isn't civilized to go around ripping off women's garments, like some ruthless pirate.”
“You can rip mine off,” he said diplomatically.
“Oh, how very generous. How very…very…” The rest of her words were smothered by his demanding kisses.
Hours later they lay entwined in the darkened bedroom, while a few lit candles touched the air with a soft glow. Iris stretched in contentment as Luke traced the rich curve of her waist and hip. “Darling,” she murmured, rolling toward him. “I want to ask you something.”
“Mm.” Luke kept his eyes closed, letting his fingers drift across her skin.
“Why won't you marry me?”
Luke turned his head, giving her a thoughtful glance. Through all the years of their acquaintance, he'd never considered marrying Iris. They had separate lives, never needing each other in more than a superficial way. There was friendship, and passion, just enough to make everything pleasant.
“Don't you care for me?” Iris wheedled.
“Of course I care for you.” He patted her round hip and stared into her eyes. “But I'm not going to marry anyone, Iris. You know that.”
“We're very good together. There's not a soul in the world who would begrudge us this marriage. And no one would be surprised by it.”
He shrugged uncomfortably, unable to deny it.
“Is it that you're reluctant to commit yourself only to me?” Iris propped herself up on one elbow. “I wouldn't keep you from going to other women's beds, if that was what you needed. I wouldn't take away your freedom.”
Surprised, Luke sat up and scrubbed his fingers through his dark hair. “Freedom to have sex with women I care nothing about?” He looked down at her with a wry smile. “Thank you, but I've done that before. I didn't find it all that satisfying. No, I don't need that kind of freedom.”
“My God. You were born to be
someone's
husband.”
“Mary's,” he said, nearly inaudibly.
Iris frowned, stroking the light pelt on his chest with her palm. “Why only her?”
Luke was silent for a moment, choosing his words with difficulty. “After she went, I realized…part of me was gone forever. I don't have as much to give a woman as you seem to think. I wouldn't make a good husband. Not the kind I was for her.”
“Darling, your version of being a poor husband would far surpass anyone else's best attempts. You were so young when you lost Mary. How can you claim you'll never love again? You're only thirty-four. You must want more children, a family—”
“I have Emma.”
“Don't you think she'll want brothers and sisters?”
“No.”
“Fine, then. I don't have my heart set on children.”
“Iris,” Luke said gently, “I'm not going to marry you or anyone else. I don't want more than what we already have. If this relationship is making you unhappy, if you need more than I can give you, I'll understand. There are men who would jump at the chance of marrying you, and God knows I don't want to stand in the way—”
“No.” Iris gave an anxious laugh. “I'm just greedy, I suppose. I wouldn't mind sleeping with you every night, and living in your home, and having everyone know I'm yours. But that doesn't mean I'm unhappy with things as they are. Don't look guilty. You've made no promises. You've been very careful not to. If this is all I can have of you, it's still more than any other man has given me.”
“That's not true,” Luke said gruffly, wishing he could be what she wanted. He was uneasy at the thought of living with a woman who loved him, when he couldn't love her back. It would be a shadow marriage, a mockery of what he'd once had with Mary.
“It is true,” Iris insisted. “I'm always honest with you, Luke.”
He kissed her shoulder, keeping his face averted. “I know.”
“Which is why I'm going to tell you something. You haven't let yourself fall in love with anyone since Mary. But someday you will. You won't be able to stop it from happening. And I wish it could be me.”
Luke caught her hand, which had wandered down to the indentations of muscle below his rib cage. Gently he kissed the tips of her fingers. “If I could love anyone that way again, it would be you. You're a good woman, Iris.”
Her mood changed from lovelorn to wanton, and she eased her sleek body over his. “I'll have to correct that impression. I'm really very naughty.”
Luke laughed and rolled her over, straddling her voluptuous hips. He brushed his mouth over hers in a provocatively light kiss. “Let me please you tonight.”
“You always do.” Her breath caught in her throat as his hand traveled slowly down her body.
“I have something special in mind,” he whispered, and for a long time after that she was too consumed with pleasure to reply.
It had been two weeks since Tasia's arrival at Southgate Hall, and she had found a place for herself amid the comfortable routines of the estate. It was a blessing to live in such a peaceful place, after the last traumatic months. She had been the focus of suspicion and condemnation for so long that she was grateful for the opportunity to fade into the background. And Alicia Ashbourne had been right—no one took notice of a governess. The servants were pleasant to her, but hardly inclined to welcome her into their group. And she was too far beneath Lord Stokehurst and his highborn guests, socially speaking, to merit their attention. She existed in an in-between world.
Not only was Tasia's position isolated, but she was unable to let down her extreme reserve with anyone except Emma. Perhaps spending three months in prison had given her this sense of being an outcast, of being separate from everyone. It was impossible for her to trust anyone, when she couldn't even trust herself. She was afraid of her own feelings, and most of all she was afraid to remember what she had done the night of Mikhail Angelovsky's death.
She experienced frequent nightmares about Mikhail, in which she had visions of blood and knives, and her ears rang with his taunting voice. Worse, there were odd moments in the day when she would have frightening flashes of memory. In the space of a second, she would see Mikhail's face, his hands, a glimpse of the room where he was killed…and then with a hard blink, she would make the vision vanish. It made her as nervous as a cat, never knowing when something would trigger another image of her dead cousin.