Tempted By the Night (19 page)

Rockhurst kissing her, undressing her, claiming her body.

He’d ruined her. She should hate him for it.

Wish him to perdition.

Well, she did now. Now that he was dangling after Lavinia Burke like Rowan with his soup bone.

A sour pit turned in Hermione’s stomach. Lavinia Burke with her perfect blond hair, her sumptuous gowns and elegant Bath manners. He couldn’t think Lavinia was her…was his Shadow, so why this great show of showering her with his attentions?

Of course, what had she done when her mother had
dragged her up to see Rockhurst earlier? She’d turned three shades of red.

And she hadn’t dared look him in the eye, for fear he’d notice the color of her own.

For as much as she wanted to declare herself, and in her imagination saw him falling down on bended knee and begging for her hand, she knew the more likely outcome was his rejection.

His attention this morning had been cutting, for he’d barely spared her a glance. Then again, as she looked down at her own gown, a bright capucine and covered in ribbons and froufrou, one she had thought quite perfect when she’d had the modiste sew it up…but now it seemed so impossibly foolish. She glanced through the rose-bushes toward where the party had gathered to begin choosing partners for the archery contest, and in the middle of it all stood Lavinia, elegant and cool in her plain white muslin—so self-composed, never posing, never trying to be anything she wasn’t.

That was the sort of woman the Earl of Rockhurst favored. Not bumbling, foolish, tongue-tied Lady Hermione. Not one of those “odd Marlowes.”

“Perhaps it is because of the time element to your wish,” Quince was saying. “Mayhap we need to wait until sunset.”

“I hope so, for I am running out of excuses for why I suddenly turn ill each evening. My mother is threatening to call the surgeon to have me bled if I do not ‘perk up’ as she calls it.”

“Then we have no choice but to wait,” Quince de
clared. “But do your best to avoid him until then. It will do you no favors if he learns of your identity.”

Hermione stole a glance over at the archery field, where the earl was bending over Miss Burke’s outstretched hand. Oh, what she’d give for her bow and one arrow. She’d prove her skill by sending a shot directly into his well-sculpted—

And as if on cue, Lord Hustings came blundering down the path. “Lady Hermione! There you are. I’ve been looking for you everywhere.”

Hermione smiled at the man and then turned to Quince, but the lady had disappeared. Hermione thought if she was ever to get another wish, she might ask for such a power—for it would be demmed convenient to be able to slip off every time Lord Hustings came searching for her.

“It seems you’ve found me,” she said as she pulled her glove back on.

“Yes, indeed, and just in time,” he said.

“In time for what?” she asked.

“The archery competition,” Lord Hustings declared, taking her hand and settling it on his sleeve, then towing her toward the field. “We are set to shoot against Lord Rockhurst and Miss Burke. Devil’s own luck, wouldn’t you say?”

“A fine shot, Miss Burke! Most excellent,” Lord Rockhurst declared. “You have quite a natural flair for archery.”

Hermione’s fingers tightened around the bow she held.
A natural flair for archery.
Indeed!

The archery contest was proving to be more than a competition of sport, but rather a competition to keep Hermione’s temper in check.

She nearly snapped her arrow in half as she glanced over her shoulder and found the earl bent over the infamous heiress, dangling after her like the worst sort of Lothario, all under the guise of “helping her.”

Hadn’t those same strong masculine hands been roaming over her just last night? The one now cupping Miss Burke’s elbow, the other resting so nonchalantly on her hip? Had he forgotten about
their
interlude so easily that he could spend this afternoon dallying with some other woman?

And not just dallying, helping her!

Hermione’s blood boiled.

“Helping himself,” she muttered as she raised her bow and took her shot. It went wide of the target, sailing into the rose-bushes beyond. Pressing her lips together, she bit back the curse that rose almost immediately.

“Tough shot that,” Hustings said as he strode forward. He leaned over her shoulder and gauged the target. “You were aiming for that one, weren’t you?” he asked, as if she didn’t know where to shoot the arrow.

“I do believe Lady Hermione was aiming for France,” Miss Burke chirped. “Perhaps she meant to stop Bonaparte.”

There was a general bit of laughter, for nearly everyone at the party had gathered to watch the archery contest. And Hermione knew it wasn’t from a keen interest in sport but rather the fact that Lord Rockhurst had
spent the entire afternoon at Miss Burke’s side, when, that is, he wasn’t fetching punch or her parasol for her.

So as the crowd enjoyed Miss Burke’s jest, Hermione had no choice but to force a smile on her lips to avoid being seen as a bad sport.

I know exactly where my next one could go. Accidentally, of course,
she thought as she turned and yielded the field to her partner.

“Never mind, Lady Hermione,” Lord Hustings was saying. “’Tis a difficult sport, archery. Let me rectify our standings.” He squinted at the target and let go the bowstring, and Hermione cringed as his shot barely made the target, hitting in the far outside ring. “Hmm,” he said, looking down at his bow. “Usually don’t shoot this badly.”

From out of the crowd, Thomasin and India came forward.

“Whatever is wrong with you?” whispered Thomasin over Hermione’s shoulder. “I’ve never seen you do so poorly. This is your chance to show the earl your superior skills.”

“If he wasn’t so distracted,” India said, nudging Hermione in the back and nodding toward the earl, who at the moment was bent on one knee to take a rock out of Miss Burke’s slipper.

At least that was his excuse, Hermione thought as she watched his hand slide over the girl’s ankle, just as he had done to hers the night before.

How he’d pulled her stockings from her legs, and then traced lazy, haphazard kisses up her bare skin.

As he climbed higher and higher, his lips hot and
eager, his tongue laving over her skin with teasing swipes…

“Is that better, Miss Burke?” he was asking Lavinia.

Why that wretched bounder,
Hermione thought.
Whatever is he doing?

“Oh, yes. Thank you, my lord,” Miss Burke was saying in her polished, I-went-to-finishing-school-in-Bath manner of speaking. “I am quite indebted to you for rescuing me from that horrid pebble.” Miss Burke took her place and shot. A perfect hit in the bull’s-eye. She turned and smiled gracefully, one might even say, gratefully, at the enthusiastic applause and more than a few masculine cheers from the onlookers.

“Come now, come now,” Hustings called out. “Let us get on with this, or we’ll never finish before the sun sets.”

“Sunset?” Hermione gasped, looking to the west and seeing for herself the sun lolling low in the sky. How had it gotten so late this quickly?

“Yes, quite my favorite time of day,” Rockhurst declared, before he made a perfect shot, and now it was Hermione’s turn.

“You can do it,” Thomasin whispered at her. “You are the finest shot around. When the earl sees how well you shoot, he may not be so enamored with Miss Burke.”

True enough, Hermione realized. She’d best Miss Burke with this arrow and win the prize. She’d show the earl how well a lady could shoot.

But when she took her stance and aimed, she glanced back where Thomasin and India stood with fingers crossed, and Lord Hustings offered an encouraging smile.

But it was the earl who stopped her. For he was watching her. Not Miss Burke. But her. Hermione.

And now was her chance to catch his eye.

But if she did, then he would know her secret. And surely then the ring would fall from her hand, and her wish would be over.

She glanced at the target and took aim.

Her wish would end. No more nights spent in his bed. No more evenings spent being
his
Shadow.

Over. Ended. Finished. With one shot. She could do it. She must. Her hands trembled, and she did her best to still them.

And then she glanced back at him and saw what so few others did. The tired resignation behind his charm.

The loneliness. For being the Paratus was a solitary occupation. Rowan, notwithstanding.

He hadn’t looked so last night. Not when he’d told the legend, as they’d made love.

The bow slumped in her hands, and she bit her lip and considered what she must do.

She
must.
She
should.
She
would.

And so she raised her bow and took her shot. As the arrow sailed well over the target and into Lord Belling’s prized rose-bushes once again, all Hermione could do was bow her head. She couldn’t even look at the man, let alone see the disappointment and amazement that would surely be on her friends’ faces.

How could she explain her decision to them when she barely understood it herself?

Rockhurst had tried all afternoon to discover who Miss Burke had been mocking when he’d heard her say “jiminy” to her friends.

It had been a perfect imitation of his Shadow, and since he was well aware of the animosity between the two, he thought perhaps to use that to his advantage.

But to his chagrin, Miss Burke had strung him along, being coy with her answers and giving him hints, and before long he knew she was using his attentions to shore up her suddenly flagging reputation. Wily chit. No wonder she was so loathed by every other miss in London.

Still, he remained at her side, for he couldn’t shake his suspicion that his Shadow was here. At this party. In full view, no less. And while he’d spent a good part of last night memorizing her every curve, her every line, he had no more clue of what she looked like than what the back of his own head did.

“And the archery purse goes to Lord Rockhurst and his delightful partner, Miss Burke,” Lord Belling was saying. “And thank you, Miss Burke for not deflowering my rose-bushes as Lady Hermione did.”

There was general laughter at the marquess’s jest, but instead of laughing, Rockhurst glanced around. Where was Lady Hermione? He had a moment of pity for the poor, awkward chit. No wonder she’d fled more of Lavinia’s nasty taunting.

“I do believe,” Miss Burke said. “Lady Hermione has gone to fetch her arrow…all the way in Paris.”

There was general laughter from the crowd and much jostling, as everyone drew near to offer their
congratulations—and most likely get a closer look to see if Rockhurst was truly in love with the legendary Original.

But the earl was paying them all little heed. Because he couldn’t shake the image of Lady Hermione out of his thoughts. For an odd moment, as she’d drawn up her bow and poised to shoot, Rockhurst had stilled. There it was, the curve of her cheek, the line of her brow, the full thrust of her breasts. And something else, something else about her features that had struck him—but what it was he couldn’t remember.

And even as he went over the moment again, he found his breath catching in his throat as it had until she shot. Then her arrow had gone wide for the second time in a row and he knew he’d been mistaken.

He glanced back down at the archery field and what he saw there stopped him cold—a lone figure standing in the last bright rays of light. From this distance, it was impossible to discern who she was, for the sun left her in a stark silhouette, but he could see she held a bow.

And when she raised it to shoot, it was like watching Diana, goddess of the hunt. For the lady shot, true and perfectly, the arrow zinging through the air and landing with a strident “
thump
” square into the bull’s-eye.

A more perfect shot could not have been imagined.

But when he trained his eyes back at the lady, he saw her only for a second, and then she shimmered like the last bit of the day’s determined light and vanished, just as the sun dipped below the horizon.

Rockhurst took off across the lawn in a flash, leaving a gaping Miss Burke behind him.

Not that he would have cared, for the chit was utterly, and completely, forgotten.

Not when
she
was close at hand. Something pulled at his heart, drew him as if he were being tugged along by a set of chains.

Was it the ring? Was he as bound to the ring as she was now?

He whistled to Rowan, who came loping along. “She’s got you charmed as well, I see,” he said to his hound, reaching out to ruffle the dog’s head.

Rowan, bone still clenched in his giant mouth, looked like he was grinning. Rockhurst knew in an instant his dog was as much a milksop as he himself was in danger of becoming.

He turned the corner on the path and came to a stop where the garden gave way to the marquess’s prized rose garden, a twisted and twined arrangement of paths and thorny bushes, now cast in growing shadows.

But he was only interested in a certain shadow.

“Where have you gone,” he said aloud. “I know you are about.” He glanced down at Rowan to see if the dog had caught sight of her, but his turncoat hound had eyes only for his prized bone. “So you’ve gained Rowan’s attention, wouldn’t you like a little bit of mine?”

“What? So you can kidnap me again?” came a voice so clear and familiar, it sent shivers down his spine.

Spinning toward an arbor, he swore he’d heard that voice today. But where and when, and more importantly, from whose lips, he couldn’t place. “From all accounts, you didn’t seem to mind.”

There was an indignant gasp, then a shuffle of stones on a path as she moved. “Why don’t you go back to your new paramour. You looked quite content simpering over her.”

He resisted the urge to smile.

Having been with enough women in his time, he knew the way to raise the ire (and ardor) of one lady was to pay attention to her rival. Obviously his pained afternoon of listening to Miss Burke lord her position over one and all hadn’t been ill-spent.

Not in the least.

“She has her charms,” he teased. “And to her advantage, I know her name.”

“Harrumph!
”

Jealous little puss. But if she was jealous, that also meant she…

He shook off that thought. He didn’t want to know that she cared for him. That could be dangerous. For her. For him.

He should walk away. Leave her to her mischief, her wish. Whatever magic it was that had left her a creature of the night.

But he couldn’t do that. Not as long as she wore that ring on her hand.

The ring…that was the reason he was pursuing her. Or so he told himself.

“Go back to Miss Burke,” she told him.

And now he couldn’t resist. He laughed. “She doesn’t compare to you.”

“How so?”

“Her breasts are too small.” He turned toward where he thought she stood. “Yours, on the other hand, are more of a devilish handful, as is the lady attached to them.”

There was another sputtered snort, but this one wasn’t quite as indignant. “Then why…why would you—”

Oh, the jealousy in her voice teased at him.
Tempted him.

“Spend the day with her?” he offered.

“Well, yes.” He could almost see her lips pressed in a firm line, a furrow across her silken brow. “She’s really quite odious.”

“True.”

“Then why would you spend the day—”

“Letting everyone think I admired her?”

“Yes, exactly. You’ve quite given her another reason to prance about Town, preening and placing herself well above—” There was that sputtering sound again.

“Her situation?”

“Precisely,” she told him. “There are any number of ladies who are—”

“Of better lineages? Older families?” She was thinning the herd for him as if she were a sheep-dog.

“Why of course,” she said.

“Like you?”

A shocked silence filled the space between them. He wished he could see the furious glint to her eyes as she realized she’d been tricked. Led down the path by the piper’s tune.

“You are a wretched devil, Rockhurst.”

“I am, aren’t I?” He grinned toward where he thought she stood.

“That still doesn’t explain why you were dangling after her like one of those…those…” A stone skipped forward on the path where her toe had kicked it up.

There. Now he knew where she stood. “Other fools?” he supplied.

“Yes.”

“Jealous?”

“Oh, I would never be—”

He cocked a brow and stepped toward her, watching the gravel to see if she moved. It didn’t, and his heart quickened. “Now, now, it is unbecoming of a lady—and you are a lady, we’ve established—to lie.”

“I’m not—” The gravel creaked beneath her unseen slippers as he grew closer, but she didn’t give ground.

It was something he liked about her. Nonsensical as she was, she was a stubborn chit.

“A lady?”

“Rockhurst,
” she warned.

“No, my dear little Shadow, I spent the day dangling after Miss Burke for your pleasure.”

“Mine?” Disbelief and skepticism coated her response.

“Yes,” he confirmed. “Yours. For I can see my attentions quite raised your passions.”

“My wha-a-at?”

“Passions. Ardor. You proved it so last night,” he said, reaching out and catching nothing but air.

Damn. He thought he’d cornered her.

But his attempt made her laugh, and then it was a simple matter to catch hold of her. With a tug, he had her right where he wanted her. Against his better judgment, against anything that made sense. He had this mercurial little mystery right up against his chest, trapped in his arms. “You are a creature of your passions.”

“I am no such
—”
she argued, twisting a bit in protest, but, he noted, more because that was what a lady was supposed to do.

Then again, she wasn’t your usual lady.

“I rather like your passionate side.” He nuzzled her neck, inhaled her perfume.

“Rockhurst, let me go,” she ordered.

He nuzzled her neck. “You left me.”

“I escaped you,” she pointed out. “You were holding me against my will.”

“I hardly think
—”

“You kidnapped me, carried me off to your bedchamber, and ruined me.”

“Ruined?” Now it was his turn to sound offended. “You make me sound like some calf-handed fellow.
Ruined.
That implies that I didn’t know what I was doing.”

“I hardly found it to my liking.” There was a pained little sniff added to her words that only seemed to add credence to her lack of enthusiasm.

Oh, the little minx. She was good. For now she had his blood boiling.

“Is that so,” he said, before he swooped down and kissed her fiercely, sweeping his tongue past her lips.

But the spell he hoped to cast over her turned on him, for her lips were sweet, her eager response taking him by surprise. Her tongue tangled with his, her body pressed closer.

Those breasts, the ones he’d called devilish, were full and lush, rubbing against his chest, her tight nipples teasing him through her thin silk gown. He reached down and cupped one, pulling the edge of her bodice down, freeing it to his touch.

There was an advantage to ravishing a woman who was invisible—no one could see her state of
déshabillé
—but he could. Even as he felt the silk of her skin, traced the curves and lines of her body, he could
see
her.

He dipped his head lower and took a nipple into his mouth, sucking deeply, until she gasped, rising up on her toes as if offering him even more of her bounty. And so he took it, plucking up her gown, so he could
delve beneath her skirts, his fingers tracing a line up her legs, over her thighs, then teasing the soft curls at her apex.

She shuddered again, her legs opening at his touch. There wasn’t a man alive who didn’t know
that
invitation, and he continued to seduce her, teasing her nether lips apart, so he could touch her, stroke her, until she was trembling and rocking against him.

“Rockhurst,” she gasped. “I don’t want to stop.”

“Neither do I,” he said, considering taking her right here and now, but he wanted more. He didn’t want to just tumble her and have her slip back into the shadows.

He wanted to make love to her for the entire night.

And for that, he needed a bed.

“Will you come with me?” he whispered.

“Yes,” she gasped.

“To an inn?” he offered, realizing she might not trust him enough to come willingly to his bed. An inn would seem safe, when in truth, he intended to make love to her all night, keep her so occupied that she’d never notice the dawn. Not until it was too late. “Will you go with me?”

“Please,” she said, her voice quaking with need.

Catching hold of her hand, he tugged her down the path to a door that appeared carved into the wall. Like so many of the old houses in this part of London, Lord Belling’s garden gave way to his neighbor’s, the Earl of Brichet. Rockhurst towed her past the man’s collection of classical statues and prized camellias.

Ducking through yet another garden door, he led her down a long alley to the street, where he had left his carriage in Tunstall’s able care.

Up until now, Rowan had been ambling along behind them, his bone held tightly in his huge jaw. But the sound of it hitting the pavement, and the low growl out of his lips was enough to bring the earl to a sudden stop.

“Ooof,” she gasped as she skidded into his back, her hands clutching at his hips. “Whatever is…”

…
wrong?

Her unfinished question was answered by the sight of two creatures blocking their way.

“Bron,” Rockhurst said, nodding to the first. “Ah, and Dubhglas, of course.”

Not both of them. No, this didn’t bode well. Not in the least.

“We have a message for you, Paratus,” Bron said, as he rubbed his large hands together.

Dubhglas laughed. “That is, if you live long enough to hear it.”

One moment Hermione had been lost in a haze of passion, dashing along with Rockhurst toward…

Another night of complete ruin, most certainly.

And she hadn’t cared. For she knew he wanted her. Not Miss Burke. Not any other woman.
Her.

But the visions of a night spent in his arms, of hours of feeling nothing but him, were dashed away in a moment at the sight of the two horrific creatures blocking their path.

She peered around the earl’s back, clutching his coat like a wayward child, afraid to move.

“Derga,” she whispered, remembering the drawing
she’d spied in one of Mary’s books. If the rendering in the book had sent a chill down her spine, the living breathing examples were enough to send a shock of cold fright down her limbs.

Oh, jiminy! What had Rockhurst said last night about these creatures?
Portents of death.

Death? Oh, that wasn’t going to bode well for the passionate evening the earl had just promised her. Not if he was dead.

Hermione let out an aggrieved little “
harrumph.
” Well, this wasn’t going to do at all.

Rowan, in the meantime, had moved between his master and their foes, planting himself like a great stone edifice. The dog stood so erect, so still, that one might have thought him as harmless as a garden statue.

But there was no mistaking Rowan’s intent as he growled low and menacingly: To get to his master, they would have to come through him.

“Paratus, it is a great honor to be chosen to kill you,” the larger one was saying. Bron, she thought Rockhurst had called him. His red eyes glittered ominously in the growing darkness.

Kill him? Hermione glanced from the earl back at the boastful, scaly-looking fiend. They couldn’t kill Rockhurst. Not when he hadn’t finished what they’d started.

Indignation ran down her spine. Rather like the time Miss Burke had purchased an entire bolt of a blue silk that she knew Hermione had wanted, and then given it to her maid to have made up into curtains for the poor woman’s attic room.

“’Tis a great honor to kill the Paratus,” the other one repeated.

“And to die trying, so I have heard, Dubhglas,” Rockhurst tossed back, throwing down his challenge as casually as if he’d just added a paltry sum at an evening’s card party.

Hermione poked him in the back. “Rockhurst,” she whispered furiously. “Whatever are you thinking? There are two of them.”

“It isn’t the first time this has happened,” he whispered back.

She glanced up the alley, where at the end sat the earl’s carriage. “But you don’t have anything to defend yourself with.”

“That does give them a bit of an advantage,” he said under his breath, his gaze never leaving the pair before them.

“What are you muttering about?” Bron called out, his red eyes squinting.

Dubhglas nudged his brother. “He’s praying we make a quick end to him.”

“I don’t think they can see me,” Hermione said. Gingerly, she stepped out to test her theory. She wiggled her fingers at the brothers, but neither of them paid her the least bit of heed. “They don’t see me at all.”

“Just stay behind me,” the earl told her, trying to wave her back.

“Hey, what are you doing?” Bron said, rising to his full height, which made him at least a head taller than Rockhurst. “If you think to distract us, so you can run away, it won’t work.”

“Did the last time,” Rockhurst said. “And then I killed your brother, as I recall.
For he dared to follow.
” He lowered his head and whispered to her, “When they charge, you are to run back into the garden and hide.”

“I have a better idea,” Hermione said, convinced she could help. That was, until they did charge.

Bron and Dubhglas launched themselves forward, and happily so, Rockhurst noted. Perfect. He had two idiot derga coming at him, most likely having been filled by Melaphor with promises of riches and glory if they killed him.

And if they managed to do so, he knew what would follow. The two would be filled with a blood-lust that they would let loose for the night on any poor mortal who unwittingly fell into their path.

There would be more murder and mayhem than his untimely end tonight if he didn’t stop them.