Anne Stuart (14 page)

It was probably the tears that did it. She’d looked at him with rage and fury, with despair, yet her warm brown eyes had never filled with tears. She’d been brave and defiant, no matter what she faced.

She cried tonight, when Orfeo sang about his lost Euridyce. The tenor was mediocre, his pitch uncertain, his habit of pausing for deep, painful breaths unnerving. Emma didn’t notice. She sat
there listening to the music, and she cried.

He didn’t want to remember a time when he was that innocent. That easily moved. It brought back a pain and a guilt so powerful, they threatened to crush him. He was willing to do anything,
anything,
to drive those feelings away.

It was Emma’s fault. She was making him remember. Painful memories, like the smell of the green earth, the warm untidiness of the horse farm where he’d been raised with his impractical, caring parents. There was a time, so long ago it seemed like a dream, when he’d been happy, and loved.

But then everything had changed. And he had no one to blame but himself.

His only defense had been to close everything off. All feeling, all decency. He’d buried his parents and left Ireland, never to return. For the past ten years he’d barely even thought of it.

But Emma was bringing it back. The memory, and the pain. He missed it. Missed the fire of passion, the noble cause, the idealism that was in reality a cruel trap for the unwary. He could see Emma glow with it, and he wanted to take her slim white shoulders and shake some sense into her. He wanted to take her mouth and see if he could drink some of that innocence. One last taste.

He didn’t move. He’d positioned himself so that although he remained in the shadows, no one could have any doubt that he was there, watching.

He waited until the most tedious part of the opera, for a time when most eyes would be directed at the upper box and not at the stage. Deliberately he leaned forward, resting his hand on her bare shoulder, splaying his fingers across her cool skin, and putting his mouth next to her cheek.

She jumped, but he held her still, with a gesture that would appear to be a caress. “We’ll leave now,” he murmured against her temple.

She kept her face forward, but he could feel the shiver that ran through her body. “It’s not over yet.”

“
We have another engagement.”

“
But…”

“
Come.” He tightened his fingers marginally, not enough to hurt her, just enough to compel her compliance. She rose, obediently enough, following him into the dark recesses of the box before flinging off his hand. By that time, he was ready to let her go.

“
Where’s Nathaniel?” she whispered, a ridiculous concession when the rest of the audience was talking loudly enough to drown out
most
of the music from the stage.

“
He doesn’t care for opera.” Killoran draped the black velvet cloak around her shoulders, covering her hair as well. Now that they were in private, there was no need for him to touch her. He resisted the impulse to push her hair back from her face. “He’ll meet us at the Darnleys. We’ve only just begun to introduce you to society.”

“
Isn’t it a little late for a party?” she asked.

He held out his arm, and she took it, though he could tell that she didn’t want to touch
him
.
“The evening, my love, is very young. We’ll go to the Darnleys’ ball and spend perhaps half an hour, depending on how things go. You’re not to dance,” he added.

“
I don’t know how.”

He paused at the door to the box, astonished by her mournful tone of voice. “Everyone dances.”

“
Not me.”

“
Where did you grow up, dear Emma? A convent?”

She glanced at him. The tears were gone, replaced by a sparkling hostility. “The workhouse,” she replied flatly.

“
Of course,” he said pleasantly. “Come along, dear one. It’s time to see who else we can horrify.”

Emma wasn’t sure what made her feel the most conspicuous, her unbound hair or the vast expanse of her chest that had never before been displayed to the world. The shackle of heavy diamonds around her neck, or the chain of Killoran’s imprisoning hand on her slender wrist.

Whatever caused it, the eyes followed her as Killoran led her through the maze of people, pausing occasionally to exchange a few murmured barbs, never once introducing her.

If she’d been able to shrink into the background, it would have suited Emma perfectly
well. But he kept her close, his hands possessive, and there was no way the vast crush of people could have ignored her presence.

For a short while she was distracted, by the light and the color and the music. Covertly, she watched the dancers; she watched Killoran. Mostly she kept her eyes lowered and her mouth closed, as Killoran settled her with deceptive concern on a settee near the dance floor. He sat beside her, and though he released her hand at last, his long, muscular thigh was too close to her full skirts.

There were layers and layers of clothing between them, hooped skirts and petticoats, underskirts and boning. Yet she could feel him, next to her, as if it were skin to skin, and she bit her lip in discomfort, casting a surreptitious glance at his cool, amused profile. For all her miserable awareness, he seemed to have forgotten her presence. Except that she already knew Killoran never forgot a thing.

“
This should prove entertaining,” he murmured suddenly, his dark green eyes focusing on an extraordinary figure heading in their direction.

No woman had spoken to him since his arrival. Indeed, the ladies kept their distance, if not their attention, from him, practically pulling their skirts out of his pathway as he moved by. The gentlemen, particularly the more raffish-looking, were the only ones who conversed with him, but they were nothing compared with the puce-clothed dandy who minced drunkenly toward them.

His clothes, satin and jewel-bedecked, were magnificent to the point of absurdity. Even with her limited experience, Emma could see that much, and she felt a momentary amusement. Until he drew close enough so that she could observe the real malice in those drunken blue eyes. He was no figure of fun, after all. There was something strange about him, unnerving.

“
Who’s the girl, Killoran?” Clearly the puce dandy had far more temerity than the majority of the guests, or else a great deal more to drink. Killoran glanced up at him lazily, and once more his hand captured Emma’s. Since her hands were resting in her lap, it meant that he’d placed his hand on her thigh. When she tried to pull away surreptitiously, his fingers tightened, and she knew it was useless.

“
Darnley,” Killoran greeted him with just the edge of malice. “I’m glad to see you’ve recovered.”

“
No thanks to you,” Darnley replied, and there was more than an edge to his voice. “They say she’s your mistress, but I can’t believe even a blackguard like you would dare bring your whore to my mother’s party.”

“
You underestimate me. There’s very little I wouldn’t dare,” Killoran said lazily. “And if you call my sister a whore again, you’ll find out just how far I’m willing to go.”

“
You’ll defend her honor?” Darnley demanded with mock astonishment. “I didn’t know you recognized the concept. And she’s not your sister.”

Killoran released her hand, and Emma breathed a sigh of relief. One that strangled in her throat as he deliberately slid his hand down her silk-covered thigh. “You can scarcely be aware of all the vagaries of my family, Darnley,” he said. “Emma, may I present to you my very dear friend and boon companion, Jasper Darnley? And, Darnley, this is my... distant cousin, Miss Emma Brown.”

If Darnley was a very dear friend and boon companion, Emma hated to think what Killoran’s enemies were like. The animosity was so intense, and yet so banked, that waves of it washed over her like a stoked fire, making her light-headed. Though, of course, that might have been caused by the long, beringed hand slowly caressing her thigh.

She glanced up and saw the myriad pairs of eyes, almost everyone in the huge ballroom, watching them through the candlelight, taking in each shocking detail: the veiled hatred between the two men; the affront of her unbound hair; the slow, deliberate caress of his hand on her thigh.

She rose abruptly, so suddenly that Killoran couldn’t stop her. “I feel unwell,” she announced, desperate.

The look in Killoran’s green eyes didn’t bode well for her. “Coward,” he murmured, rising with his usual grace. “I’ll take you home, my dear. We’ve accomplished what we need to. Good night, Darnley. I have little doubt we’ll be seeing you quite soon.”

“
Have no doubt of that at all, Killoran,” the puce dandy said in an icy, drunken voice.

Once more the women moved out of their path as they made their way toward the front of the house. Once more the gentlemen ogled, the women gossiped. “What did you need to accomplish?” Emma asked, glancing up at him, unwilling to meet anyone else’s gaze.

“
To let Darnley get a good look at you.”

“
Why?”

“
Because Darnley likes redheads. Craves them, as a matter of fact.”

“
But you don’t like Darnley.”

“
Very perspicacious of you, my pet. Most people don’t seem to realize that. They assume I feel the same, generalized contempt for him that I feel for everyone. They’ve forgotten old gossip, and they assume I have as well. But they’re wrong. I reserve a very special level of dislike for my lord Darnley.” He glanced at her. “It brightens my drab days.”

By that time they were out in the anteroom, alone. “I still don’t understand why you brought me here,” she said stubbornly.

“
Oh, any number of reasons,” he replied airily. “To see what the ton thinks of me flaunting my bastard sister under their noses. They have a difficult enough time dealing with a decadent Irish peer. Having a bastard thrust upon society only makes it worse. Particularly when I evince a little too much fondness for my own sister.” He paused. “And then, of course, there’s Darnley. I enjoy seeing him squirm.”

“
Why should he squirm?”

“
Because he wants you, my dear. You didn’t see him when you came in, but I did. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from you, and all the claret in the world couldn’t distract him. He lusts after you, and he can’t bear the thought that you share my bed and not his.”

“
I don’t share your bed,” she said, barely controlling her fury.

“
But Darnley doesn’t know that. And wouldn’t believe it if you swore it to be true. All of which simply adds to my enjoyment of the situation,” he concluded suavely.

“
What about your reputation? Won’t it harm you, people thinking you cherish unholy feelings for your own sister?”

“
You don’t understand the magnitude of the reputation I already possess. A rumor such as that will only enhance it.”

She stared at him silently for a moment. “Are you completely without a soul?” she asked.

For a moment the mockery left his face, and he stood there, cold, bleak, empty. “Yes,” he said.

“
Killoran!” A harassed-looking gentleman scuttled out of the ballroom and grasped Killoran’s black satin sleeve. “You’ve got to help me out, old friend. I’m in desperate need.”

“
What is it now, Sanderson?” Killoran asked wearily, carefully detaching his arm from the man’s clinging fingers.

Sanderson cast an embarrassed glance over at Emma’s waiting figure. “Could I have a moment’s privacy, old chap?”

Killoran sighed. “Wait for me here, Emma,” he ordered, turning his back on her and following the other man.

Emma watched him go, wondering quite frankly if she hated him. On the one hand, he was cynical, sarcastic, and manipulative, using her for his own mysterious ends. On the other, he’d saved her twice—no, three times, if she counted her abortive attempt to run off into the snowstorm. And he’d made no attempt to bed her. Surely she should be grateful.

And she
would
be grateful, if he ever managed to convey even a hint of gentleness. If he didn’t make her feel like a prisoner, even though she knew she could leave, anytime she wanted to. If only she had a place to go.

And if he weren’t so wickedly, dangerously handsome.

She wasn’t used to handsome men. If she had any sense at all, she’d be infatuated with Nathaniel, with his broad shoulders, his heroic manner, his charm, and his sincerity.

But apparently she didn’t have any sense. She was fascinated by Killoran. Obsessed with him, with the very danger of him. She, who prided herself on her calm levelheadedness, was being drawn to that which could do her the most harm. And no amount of mental harangues seemed able to deter her sudden willfulness.

She tossed her head, unused to the heavy curtain of hair that fell around her shoulders. She felt cold, exposed, standing alone in the hallway. Several people glanced out at her,
then quickly looked away, as if she were contaminated. It shouldn’t have bothered her, but it did.

She moved away from the doorway, toward a tall, leaded window that overlooked the street. The Darnleys’ ballroom was on the second floor of their town house, and it commanded a decent view of Kensington Park. Snow still lingered there, though it had long ago turned to black slush in the filthy streets. If she ran away now, would she find any place to hide? She had a fortune’s worth of diamonds around her neck—surely they would be enough to secure her a safe life, far away from London.

The problem was, she didn’t want to run away. Not now, not yet. Not until she found out what Killoran really wanted from her. Not until she understood him. He was like a puzzle, one that fascinated her, both drew and repelled her. If she ran now, he’d haunt her for the rest of her life.