A Dangerous Love (23 page)

“Oh, yes, of course it did. You have decided I am lonely!” His eyes blazed.

“You are so irascible today! You stood alone at that ball, with no friends and gossips behind your back. It was horrid! Why would you resist my offer of friendship? You need me!”

He pointed at the couch. “Yes, I do need you—there. That is where we will go, and that has nothing to do with friendship. I hurt you once, and I am very close to not caring if I hurt you again.”

She trembled. “But you do care. Otherwise you would take me in your arms right now. I feel an impossible attraction, too. I know you know it. I don't think I could resist you for very long if you decided to seduce me—especially after last night.”

“Do you have to be so direct, so candid? I don't want to know how you feel, not about me!”

Her heart was thundering. She had never felt more tension coming from him, so potent and so male. She wet her lips. “But I
have
thought about it—about us—all night.”

He inhaled.

“We have begun a friendship, and that leads to all kinds of wonderful possibilities.” His eyes widened. “When I next share your bed, it will be when I am certain that the following morning will be filled with kindness and smiles, perhaps even affection and laughter.” She smiled but she trembled nervously. She had never meant her words more.

“The next time you share my bed,” he repeated.

She tensed. “I believe it inevitable.”

“You are aware, are you not, that you are waving a red flag at me?” He started toward her.

She backed up instinctively. “That is not my intention! At least, not consciously!”

“I am glad you realize the inevitability of our next encounter. I give in. I give up.” He paused as her back hit the bookcase.

“You do? What does that mean?” It had become difficult to think clearly.

His smile began. He looked at her mouth. “It means I am past all temptation. I want you as a lover. Not tomorrow or the day after that. And we both know that you want me, too.”

Her eyes widened and her heart thundered. He was right. The problem was, in spite of her best intentions, he was impossibly seductive and, after last night, she wasn't all that certain she wished to entirely resist him, even though she knew she should.

He laid one hand above her shoulder, on the bookcase. “I want to make love to you repeatedly. But I do not want to hurt you and I will not utter false declarations.”

“I do not want false declarations,” she said.

His face hardened. “I think you want some deep affection from me. I even wonder if, somehow, you are still in love with me, or believe that you are. You will be hurt by any lack of affection on my part, so I will be blunt. I want to take you to bed. But there will be nothing more—not even friendship,” he warned. “And I am
not
lonely.”

Ariella knew one thing—the last statement was a lie. He was the loneliest man she had ever met. Because of that, she had never been more resolved to be his friend through thick and thin. He was somehow hers, no matter what he said. He had hurt her terribly, but they were on new ground now. She wasn't all that convinced that he would be cold and indifferent the next morning if she did accept his offer.

She breathed hard, very, very tempted. “I am not insulted by your proposition.”

His face tensed. “I am not trying to insult you.”

“I know you're not. However, I do think we should allow our friendship to blossom. Therefore, as difficult as it is, I must decline.” She bit her lip, her pulse exploding. In truth, she almost regretted her determination.

His eyes flickered. “I thought you would.”

He had deliberately maneuvered her into a refusal. “You are so clever, Emilian,” she said. “But I am not giving up on our friendship.” She added, “I look forward to the day when you admit to some small affection for me.”

He flushed. “It is not affection, it is interest.”

Ariella smiled. “Very well. Today I can accept a declaration of interest.”

“Are you laughing at me?” And then his other hand came up on the bookcase on the other side of her head, trapping her.

She knew he was thinking about kissing her and she nodded at him. A kiss was acceptable. She would so enjoy a kiss…or two.

His mouth covered hers.

She gasped, thrilled. The onslaught was fierce and determined. He was as hungry for this kiss as she was. And then his mouth softened and stilled against hers. Her heart hammering, their lips pressed against each other, she waited desperately. And then his lips moved over hers again, brushing and gentle, seductive and sensual. She knew there was affection in his kiss. She could not be mistaken.

A tear of joy welled, but it was overshadowed now by the wet heat of desire. She opened and his tongue filled her instantly. She reached for his shoulders, desire exploding like fireworks in her breast. Briefly, he pulled back and looked at her, and in spite of the heat, there was something gentle in his searching gaze.

She cupped his rough jaw. “Emilian,” she whispered hoarsely.

His gray eyes blazed silver and he leaned his hard, stiff body against hers, claiming her mouth. More tears fell. She kissed him back frantically. His loins felt so full against her that she began to think of the obvious conclusion to their kiss. In spite of her resolve, she wanted to be in his arms, in his bed, his world. Nothing else would do; nothing else could be as right.

He tore his mouth away, panting. “You need to leave—or we need to find a bedroom.”

She stared, trembling. She knew what would happen if they left the library. He was going to make love to her. There would be tender looks and caresses and so much wild passion. But then he was going to push her away. It was all tangled up in his denial of any need for love and friendship. She was beginning to understand him now. She could
almost
manage such a rejection, but she would be hurt, even understanding how complicated he was. As tempted as she was, she had to deny their passion—for now.

She touched his cheek. “I care for you, Emilian, and I will fight for this friendship. I will fight for you, too, against all those hateful
gadjos.
”

His gray eyes were watchful, wary.

“And when we go to bed again, the next morning you are going to tell me that you care.” She wanted to smile but couldn't.

He pushed himself away from the bookcase. “I hope you are not counting on that.”

Ariella decided not to tell him that she was very hopeful. She smiled at him. His gaze narrowed.

A knock sounded on the door. Ariella turned as Hoode showed Emilian's uncle in.

“Stevan?” Emilian asked sharply. From his tone, she knew something was wrong at the Romany camp.

“I was hoping you had some laudanum, Emilian. We have none and there has been an accident.”

Ariella stepped forward as Emilian said, “Yes, I do have laudanum. What happened?”

“Nicu fell on a nail. I have to take it out, but he is in some pain and whiskey is not enough.”

Ariella seized Emilian's sleeve. “We should summon the surgeon.”

He gave her a dismissive look. “He won't come. I'd like to look at the wound. I'll get the laudanum.” He left the library with his uncle.

For one moment, Ariella stared after them, hoping the nail was not old and rusty. The accident did not sound life threatening itself, but an infection certainly was. Then she hurried into the hall. “Hoode?”

He appeared instantly. “Miss de Warenne?”

“Will you please send a reliable servant to Kenilworth in search of the surgeon? Use my carriage and tell him that Miss de Warenne has sent for him. And tell him he should rush—it might be an emergency.”

Hoode nodded and hurried off.

Ariella hoped that it was not serious. She didn't even know if there was a good surgeon in Kenilworth, and Manchester was several hours away. Then she lifted her skirts and hurried from the house to the Romany encampment.

 

A
RIELLA SAT
on the damp grass, her back against the wheel of one of the Romany wagons. She hugged her knees to her chest. The surgeon hadn't come.

She was disbelieving that the village surgeon had refused to attend the Romany boy. Nicu was inside a tent, sleeping off the laudanum. Stevan had removed a nail from his hand and sewn up the wound—Jaelle had told her that Stevan had been tending to his people as if a surgeon for most of his adult life. No one had expected the surgeon to come. No one had even thought to call for a surgeon, except for her.

She laid her face on her knees.

A shadow fell over her.

Ariella knew it was Emilian before she even looked up. “How is he?”

“He's comfortable now.”

She hugged her knees more tightly to her chest. Emilian's face was expressionless. Surely he was dismayed and enraged with the surgeon. Or was he so accustomed to such treatment that he no longer cared about the injustice?

“It must be close to five. You did not have to stay. You should go home now.” He held out his hand.

Ariella took it and stood. She didn't release his hand. “I would like a brandy,” she said unsteadily.

She had no desire to go home, not now. She wanted to talk about what had happened. She wanted Emilian to explain how he could live with such bigotry.

He headed for the house. Ariella let him go but walked beside him in a tense silence, acutely aware of him. “Do you know Nicu well?”

“Not at all.” He ushered her ahead of him and they stepped into the front hall. “But Jaelle is distraught. They are the same age, and they are more like brother and sister.”

“I am so sorry.”

His serious regard met hers. “I did not doubt it for a moment.”

A silence fell, huge and potent, and their stares remained locked.

Hoode materialized. “My lord, what may I serve you and Miss de Warenne?”

Emilian looked at her. Ariella shook her head. He said, “We are fine, Hoode. You may tell my chef I doubt I will be eating supper tonight.”

“I will have a tray left out, sir,” Hoode said.

Ariella hugged herself as she followed Emilian into the library. So he was upset, after all. She paused before the hearth, grateful someone had lit the fire, as she was chilled to her very soul. His back to her, Emilian poured two brandies.

“Hoode is a fine servant.”

“Yes, he is.” Emilian approached and handed her a glass. “Most ladies do not enjoy brandy.”

She smiled slightly. “I have been drinking brandy with my father for years.” His eyebrows lifted slightly. “We sometimes stay up late after supper, discussing the latest successes and failures of men like Owens, Shaftesbury and Place, or the characters of those who manage our government, or even the latest developments in India.” She paused. “I am so sorry that the surgeon did not come.”

He made a harsh sound. “I knew he wouldn't.” He turned away and she saw his body ripple with tension. “It doesn't matter. Stevan is probably far more skilled with a knife and needle than a village surgeon.”

She breathed hard, staring at his set back. “It matters.”

“It doesn't matter,” he said, and suddenly he threw his drink furiously at the wall. The glass shattered. Brandy streaked the fine green-and-gold fabric that covered the wall.

She closed her eyes, hurting for him—hurting for them all.

He kept his back to her. “I am sorry. Please go, Ariella. I cannot entertain tonight.”

He could claim he didn't care about the surgeon's hateful refusal to attend Nicu, but he did. How did he manage to live like this, with one foot in two disparate worlds? She didn't think twice. Putting her drink down, she walked up to stand behind him. She wrapped her arms around him and laid her cheek on his back.

He stiffened. “What are you doing?”

She hugged him for one more moment, allowing the tears to finally fall. Then she stepped back.

He turned, eyes wide, and his expression hardened. “You are making a mistake, Ariella,” he warned. “I am not feeling noble—or English—now.”

“No,” she shook her head. “I am not.” She took his hand. “I cannot leave you now, like this.”

His gray gaze blazed.

She said, “I have changed my mind, Emilian. I want to be your lover.”

H
E SHOOK HIS HEAD
. “I do not want your pity, Ariella.”

She touched his face again. “I do not pity you. I am filled with compassion.”

He breathed deeply. “Come back tomorrow, or the following day, when you have come to your senses—and when I have returned to mine. But you do not want my attentions now.”

She tensed but stood her ground. “I can comfort you,” she whispered. “I want to comfort you, Emilian.”

“I hardly need comfort!” he exclaimed. He turned and walked across the room. She stiffened, thinking he meant to leave, but at the door he paused, holding it wide for her. “Good night.”

She did not move. She would not leave him alone, not after what had happened.

And he slammed it closed, so hard the door shuddered. He faced her, eyes hard and hot. “You are one of them,” he warned. “And I do not feel particularly
friendly.
”

She almost cringed. “No! That is unfair. I am not a Romany woman, but I am as different from those
gadjos
as you are! I am on your side, Emilian.”

“Very well, you are different. But there will be no extra affection, and no damned friendship! Why would you even think to stay with me now?”

“Because I can't bear seeing you like this…because I have begun to understand your life.”

“You understand nothing!”

“I understand your anger. I am angry, too,” she said.

“Of course you are, because you are so damned kind!” Frustration erupted on his face. “You are too good for this.”

She recalled him standing in misery with his afternoon callers, just a few hours ago, his appearance that of an English gentleman. She remembered him at the ball last night in his tuxedo, standing within the crowd yet so apart from everyone. She saw Nicu lying in the tent, being attended by Stevan, Emilian hovering over them. She saw Jaelle as she fled the White Stag Inn, her face filled with fear. And she saw him as he had danced fiercely beneath the stars, so passionately Rom.

He was a man torn between two very different worlds. In spite of that, he had salvaged Woodland from ruin, had received the highest education, and chose to comport himself with dignity and honor in the face of bigotry. But he suffered every single day of his life, in one way or another. This day was just one of many filled with fear, hatred and scorn.

She started toward him. His eyes widened and he went still. She paused and laid her hands on his shoulders. “I am not too good for this,” she whispered. “I am not too good for you.”

Beneath her hands, she felt him shudder. “This is not a good idea,” he said roughly. “I am very angry. You will be badly hurt if we go forward now.”

She stood on tiptoe and leaned into him, feathering her mouth against his. “It will be all right,” she breathed.

Instantly he pressed her impossibly closer, holding her tightly. “You are not the one I wish to hurt,” he said hoarsely. “Yet you are the one in my path.”

“I know. I want to be in your path.”

“Do you really mean it?”

She nodded.

His thick lashes lowered. She thought she saw relief etched on the high planes of his face. His hands closed on her shoulders. “Then I accept
your
offer,” he said thickly. “Even though we will both regret it.”

Before she could protest, he brushed his cheek against hers, slowly, sensually, his big body trembling. Instantly her blood heated.

“Ariella.”
As if afraid to let her go, he lowered his face, his eyes closed, seeking her mouth. Ariella went still as he brushed his mouth across hers. Pleasure sparked deep within the core of her body and swelled her flesh as she gripped him. She allowed her eyes to close and he prodded her lips, asking her to admit him. She did.

He made a choked sound, harsh and almost soblike, and crushed her frantically in his arms. His mouth tore at hers, frenzied, and he whirled her closer to the couch. The explosion of desire blended with anger and frustration stunned her, but she wished to be trapped in that whirlwind of emotion with him. Before she could think further, he pushed her down, moving on top of her, fusing their mouths.

She kissed him wildly back, sliding her hands beneath his shirt, her nails scraping across his chest. He grunted, his rock-hard thighs pressing hers apart. He reached for her skirts, jerking them up, and Ariella cried out as he palmed her wet, throbbing flesh.

His kiss became deeper and more frantic. She clung, faint with her impending climax. He began a slow and heated entry.

Slick friction began, escalated. The pleasure ignited and she threw her arms around his neck to hold on tight while she sought a wonderful release. He broke the kiss, gasping with the same pleasure, and she felt him smile as he paused deep within her. He lifted his head.

She was about to implode. But she saw so much desire, and so much anguish, too.

His lashes fell and he moved. She could not withstand the growing pressure now.
“Emilian.”

He reached between them as he moved, a single, perfect caress. She gasped, spinning into a thousand rapturous pieces. He made a harsh sound, holding her legs tightly to his waist now. She wept.

He gasped and cried out, straining above her.

When it was over, she floated, dreamlike, in his arms.
Emilian had made love to her.
She opened her eyes, love filling her chest. He was staring closely at her. She touched his cheek and smiled at him.
They were lovers now.

He did not smile back. His lashes lowered again in that habitual way he had, a means of hiding his feelings from her. She so disliked it.

She became aware of their surroundings. They were on the uncomfortably small sofa in the library. A servant could interrupt them at any time. In fact, if someone had come in a moment ago, neither one of them would have even noticed. She entertained the terrible thought, but there was no denying how wonderful being with Emilian was. She stroked his back through his shirt. Now she felt as if she were resting on a cloud of love. There were no regrets. He tensed beneath her hand, and within her, he stirred.

And because she knew how insatiable he was and how much stamina he had, she expected him to begin making love to her all over again. But they should probably steal away to a bedroom. Discovery was too dangerous.

“Do you feel better now?” she murmured, teasing him, her fingers in the long hair that just reached his shoulders.

He shifted away from her and sat up. “Yes.”

Instantly, she reached for her skirts and curled her legs beneath them. She touched his arm, concerned. His tone had been remote.

He sent her a rather grim look. “It is half-past five.”

She was dismayed. What was she thinking? She could hardly linger with him this way in the late afternoon as if a courtesan. She was expected at home. There was no time for smiles, laughter and affection.

“If you leave immediately, you will be at Rose Hill in time for supper.”

Ariella started. Emilian was avoiding looking at her. She reminded herself that they were on a distinctly charted path now. They were not strangers, as they had been before. He hadn't used her. She had chosen to comfort him in a very timeless way.

“We are lovers now,” she said, but she heard the question in her tone.

He stood, turning away, and adjusted his clothing. “Do you wish to openly carry on?” he asked as if discussing the weather. He still refused to look at her.

She tensed. “Of course not. My family would be devastated. My father, Alexi, and numerous uncles and cousins would likely attempt to murder you.” She stood, truly alarmed. “Why would you suggest such a thing?”

“I was making a point. If you linger, we will be discovered. Discretion is the better part of valor, don't you think?”

She tried to comprehend his meaning.

He started for the door. “You need to repair your hair before you step out of this room. I will send a maid with a brush and mirror and give you a moment.”

He was withdrawing from her. There could not be any other possible explanation for his cool and distant behavior. “Wait,” she cried.

He hesitated but faced her.

“I hate it when you place a waxlike mask of absolute indifference on your face!” she exclaimed. “Please, don't do this.”

He folded his arms. “You have to go home. I am going to check on Nicu.”

She had almost forgotten the young man lying hurt in the encampment. “I'll wait. I want to know how he is faring.”

“You cannot wait,” he said calmly. “You are expected at home.”

She breathed. “Are you pushing me away?”

“Why would I do that?” he asked, his tone mocking and angry. “Why would I push away my beautiful
gadji
lover? Am I a fool? We have decided on an affair. An unusual one, but nevertheless, it is an affair. Affairs are rather sordid—not that you could know.”

Leaving like this, after a few moments on his couch, was beyond sordid. A small kindness would take some of the bitter aftermath away, but he had warned her that there would be no affection. She had wished to go forward anyway. Once again, she simply hadn't believed him. The man standing in the midst of the room—her lover—was not displaying one iota of affection. Didn't he care?

“You deserve far more than a brief coupling on my sofa,” he said flatly, “and we both know it.” He went to the door and paused. “I am staying below at the camp, but I'll send someone up with word of Nicu, if that will ease your mind.”

She hugged herself.

He glanced warily at her. “Will you come back?”

She hesitated.

“I thought so. You do not have the licentious nature requisite for a casual affair.”

There was nothing casual about the affair for her; how could it be casual for him?

“We should have left things the way they were last night,” he said. He reached for the door and added, “I don't hold your wish to end this against you.”

She stared as he walked out.

 

W
HAT HAD SHE BEEN THINKING
?

It was the day after Nicu's accident; the day after she had tried to comfort Emilian in Woodland's library. Ariella stared out of her carriage window, seated beside her cousin. A small sign hung in front of a barber shop: James Stone, Barber and Surgeon.

“Why are we stopping here?” Margery asked. “For that matter, why have we come to town if we are not shopping or taking tea?”

Ariella didn't move, only vaguely hearing her cousin. She felt ill, thinking not of Nicu or the surgeon but of Emilian, when he had left her alone in the library yesterday after their liaison. Being with him hadn't felt sordid at the time, but it felt sordid now, looking back, even if she loved him.

It was too late, but she realized he had been right again. They should have left things as they'd been the night of the Simmonses' ball. She should have stayed out of his arms, pursuing only a friendship with him. She was not the kind of woman to call on him at Woodland in order to spend an hour or so in his bed. She wasn't cut out for an unattached, sensual affair. She simply couldn't do so, not when she cared so much. She had assumed that the intimacy that had begun at the ball would continue and deepen, but he did not want intimacy. That had become so clear.

And she was hurt all over again.

“What do you want with the surgeon?” Margery touched her.

Ariella inhaled. “There was an accident yesterday at the Romany encampment.”

“It was all you spoke of when you came in late for supper yesterday. You were as distressed then as you are now. But I do not think you are grieving for a young Romany stranger.”

She tensed. “Did I mention that the surgeon refused to come?”

“A dozen times.” Margery's stare was searching. “And when your father offered to take you with him to London, you refused. We all know you love town and languish of boredom in the country. The Ariella of old would have jumped at the chance to leave Rose Hill for a few days. What is wrong with you? And what do you want with the surgeon?”

“I have a few choice words for him,” Ariella said, reaching for the door. She paused. “Does everyone think I am behaving oddly?”

“Yes, everyone does. When you retired early, you were the object of vast speculation.”

Ariella stared in dismay.

Margery seized her hand. “I do not think that you spent the afternoon with that girl, Jaelle, in their camp. I think you went to Woodland to see St Xavier.”

“Does everyone think that?”

“I don't know. But Dianna mentioned how handsome the two of you looked dancing and your father abruptly left the room. I think he went to brood on the matter.”