As he walked along a first-floor hallway, Mrs. Knaggs passed with an armload of fresh linen. The housekeeper paused to nod respectfully. “Good evening, my lord.”
“Mrs. Knaggs, where is—”
“Upstairs, sir. With Emma, in the green sitting room.”
Luke frowned. “How did you know what I was going to ask?”
The housekeeper smiled smugly. “After all these years working for the Stokehursts? There's hardly anything that Seymour, Biddle, and I
don't
know, my lord.”
Luke gave her a warning glance, and she went on her way, unruffled as usual.
The sitting room was cozy and well-lit, a little more cluttered and fringed and cushioned than the other parlors in the house. He heard Emma's animated voice as she read aloud from a novel. Tasia was curled at the end of a brocade settee, one slender arm draped across its curving back. She changed position as she saw him, straightening a little and drawing her arm into her lap. The top two buttons of her gown were undone, showing a glimpse of her white throat. Lamplight cast a golden gleam over her skin and gilded her hair. Emma threw her father a quick grin and kept on reading.
Luke sat in a nearby chair and stared at Tasia. Beautiful, troubled, stubborn woman. He wanted her, every inch of her body, every secretive turn of her thoughts. He wanted to wake up in the morning and find her arms around him. He wanted to keep her safe, until she lost the haunted look in her eyes. She stared back at him, her forehead touched with a questioning frown.
You've never smiled at me
, he thought fiercely.
Not once
.
It seemed as if she read his mind. A curve touched her lips, sweet and wry, as if he had provoked it in spite of her wish to hold it back.
It felt strange to Luke, being forced to depend on someone for the first time. He couldn't break down her defenses; she would only resist him more. The only way to gain what he wanted was to let down his own defenses and encourage her to do the same. It would require more patience than he possessed. But somehow he would manage it, no matter what it cost. Nothing was too much to ask, no price too dear, if only she would love him.
W
ith the weekend party concluded, the last few guests departed on Mondy. Luke was free in the afternoon to go to Iris's London terrace. It was time to end their arrangement, and he knew Iris must be aware of it by now. There was only one woman he wanted, and everything he had to give was for her alone. Perhaps Iris would be disappointed at first, but she would recover quickly. In addition to a well-managed fortune, Iris had a circle of devoted friends—and there were at least a dozen men who were ready to flatter and console her. Luke had no doubt that she would do very well without him.
Iris welcomed him into her bedroom with a sensuous kiss, her body covered in only a few scraps of black silk. Before Luke was able to explain why he had come, she erupted into a prepared speech without allowing him a chance to break in.
“I'll give you a few weeks to amuse yourself with her,” Iris said briskly. “When you tire of her, you can come back to me. We need never mention her again. Didn't promise to give you all the freedom you wanted? I don't want you to feel one bit guilty. Men need variety. I understand that. There is nothing that needs to be forgiven. As long as I know you'll come back—”
“No,” Luke interrupted, his voice coming out too harshly. He checked it and took a deep breath.
Her hands moved in a helpless flutter. “What is it?” she asked plaintively. “There's a look on your face I've never seen before. What's wrong?”
“I don't want you to wait for me. I'm not coming back.”
Iris gave a frantic little laugh. “But why should we throw away everything for some temporary indulgence? Don't be fooled by appearances, darling. She's a pretty, waiflike thing who seems to need you…Well, just because I'm not all skin and bones doesn't mean I don't need you every bit as much! And when you tire of her—”
“I'm in love with her.”
An astonished silence settled over the room. Iris's throat worked frantically. She looked away to hide her expression. “That's not something you would say lightly,” she finally said. “I suppose Miss Billings is pleased with herself.”
“I haven't told her. She's not ready for it.”
Iris sneered with sudden outrage. “Dainty, frail creature that she is, she'd probably faint dead away. God, the irony of it—that a full-blooded man like you would fall for a pale little nothing like
her
—”
“She's not as frail as you seem to think.” In a flash Luke remembered Tasia in the garden, the sweet hunger of her mouth beneath his, the scratch of her nails over his shirt…His blood quickened in response, and he paced across the room like a caged wolf.
“Why her?” Iris demanded, following him. “Is it because Emma likes her? Is it her youth?”
“It doesn't matter why,” he said curtly.
“Of course it does!” Iris stopped in the center of the room and began to sniffle. “If she hadn't come along and bewitched you, we would still be together. I need to know why her and not me! I want to understand what I did wrong!”
Sighing, Luke reached out and drew her against him. He felt a pang of guilt mingled with affection. They had known each other for a long time, first as friends, then as lovers. She deserved far more than he'd been able to give her. “You did nothing wrong,” he said.
Iris rested her chin on his shoulder and sniffled more loudly. “Then why are you leaving me? How cruel you are!”
“I don't mean to be,” he said softly. “I'll always care about you.”
Iris jerked away with a wrathful glare. “The most useless words in the English language are ‘I care’! I'd rather you didn't care at all, and then I could hate you. But you care just a little…and not enough. Damn you! Why does she have to be beautiful and young? I can't even gossip about her with my friends. Anything I say will make me appear to be a jealous old hag.”
Luke smiled at the petulant droop of her lips. “Never.”
Iris strode to the gold-framed mirror and began to arrange her hair, fluffing the auburn tendrils around her face. “Are you going to marry her?”
Ruefully he wished that everything were that simple. “If she'll have me.”
Iris sniffed in disdain. “I don't think there's much doubt of that, darling. She'll never have another chance to snare a man like you.”
Luke walked up behind her, reaching over her shoulder to catch her agitated hand in his. Their eyes caught in the mirror. “Thank you,” he said quietly.
“For what?” There was a quaver in her voice.
“For being so generous, and beautiful. For taking away the loneliness so many nights. I don't regret a single one of them. I hope you don't.” He squeezed her fingers hard before letting go.
“Luke…” Iris turned to him with emotion-filled eyes. “Promise me if something goes wrong…if you decide you've made a mistake…then promise you'll come back to me.”
Luke leaned over and kissed her forehead gently. “Goodbye,” he whispered.
Iris nodded, a tear sliding down her cheek. As he left the room, she turned away, closing her eyes against the sight of him walking out of her life.
Luke reached the front entrance of Southgate Hall just as the sun was setting. He had ridden the black Arabian stallion hard from Iris's town house, finding respite in the rush of wind past his ears and the racing of the ground beneath them. He was streaked with dust and sweat, his muscles filled with the pleasant burn of exertion. Dismounting, he gave the reins to the waiting footman. “Make certain he's cooled off well,” he said as the servant led the horse toward the stables.
“My lord.” Seymour stood in the doorway, wearing an expression of mild concern that, coming from a butler, heralded disaster. “My lord, the Ashbournes—”
“Papa!” Emma appeared in a wild flurry, hurling herself down the front steps and into his arms. “Papa, I'm so glad you're here! Something's dreadfully wrong—Lord and Lady Ashbourne are here. They've been talking with Miss Billings in the library for at least an hour.”
Luke was stunned. The Ashbournes had left Southgate Hall only this morning. Something was definitely out of order if they had returned so quickly. “What did they say?”
“I haven't heard a word, but they looked very peculiar when they arrived, and it's been so quiet. Please, you must go in there and make certain Miss Billings is all right!”
Luke tightened his arms, crushing her briefly. “I'll take care of it. Go up to your room, and don't worry.” He pulled back and gave her a warning glance. “No listening at the keyhole, Emma.”
She laughed guiltily. “How else am I supposed to know what goes on around here?”
He put his arm around her shoulder, walking her into the entrance hall. “You should be too busy with your own interests to spend your time worrying over adults, sweet.”
“I am very busy. I have the horses, and Samson, and my books, and Miss Billings—Papa, you won't let anyone take Miss Billings away, will you?”
“No,” he murmured, kissing her head. “Go to bed, sweetheart.”
Dutifully Emma scampered away, and Luke went to the library. The heavy doors were closed, but the sound of quiet murmurs filtered through. His jaw hardened, and he shoved into the room without a hint of warning. The Ashbournes were seated in heavy leather chairs, while Tasia huddled in a corner of the low-backed settee.
Charles's face was wreathed in worry. “Stokehurst,” he said in dismay, “we thought you were—”
“Out for the evening?” Luke said pleasantly. “I had a change of plans. Tell me what brings you to visit.”
“Bad news from abroad, I'm afraid,” Charles said, striving for a light tone. “We've been convincing Miss Billings to come away with us. The month is almost over, Luke, and I always keep my promises.” Seeing Tasia's sudden wary confusion, he explained. “Lord Stokehurst agreed to take you on for precisely a month, during which time I would find you a new situation.”
“I've changed my mind,” Luke said, staring at Tasia. She was white and still, her hands resting in a little knot on her lap. “Miss Billings isn't leaving Southgate Hall.” He went to the built-in mahogany sideboard and reached for a crystal decanter. He poured a healthy splash of brandy into a snifter and brought it to Tasia.
Slowly her fingers unfolded, and she took the glass in her palms. Luke reached down and lifted her chin, forcing her to look into his eyes. She gave him a fixed stare, her thoughts hidden behind a mask.
“Tell me what's happened,” he said gently.
Charles was the one to reply. “It's best for all concerned if you don't know, Luke. Just let us leave with no questions asked—”
“You can leave,” Luke assured him. “But Miss Billings stays.”
Charles sighed in exasperation. “I've heard that tone many times before, Luke, and I know what it signifies—”
“It doesn't matter now,” Tasia interrupted. She drained the brandy, closing her eyes as the smooth fire slid down her throat. Her pale, bright gaze returned to Luke, and she gave him a shaky smile. “You won't want me to stay, after you know.”
Luke reached for the empty brandy snifter. “Another?” he asked brusquely, and she nodded.
He went to refill the glass. Tasia waited until his back was turned before she spoke in a strained voice. “I am Lady Anastasia Ivanovna Kaptereva. Last winter in St. Petersburg I was convicted of murdering my cousin, Prince Mikhail Angelovsky.” She paused as she saw him tense, the muscles of his back locking. “I escaped from prison, and came to England to avoid execution.”
Tasia hadn't intended to prolong the story, but she found herself describing her life in St. Petersburg after her father's death. Somehow she forgot that she was speaking and others were listening. The past rushed over her, and she saw it as if it were all happening again. She saw her mother, Marie Petrovna, swathed in lynx fur, her arms and throat adorned with jewels the size of robin's eggs. And the men who swarmed around her in eager hordes, at parties on the royal yacht, during visits to the opera and theater, at lengthy midnight suppers.
Tasia remembered her first
bal blanc
, where aristocratic girls were presented as the choicest offerings of the Russian nobility. She had worn a white silk gown, her waist cinched by a girdle of rubies and pink pearls. Men had pursued her, each of them with an eye on the fortune she would inherit someday. But of all the suitors who showed interest, the most notable was Prince Mikhail Angelovsky.
“Mikhail was an animal,” Tasia said with sudden intensity. “When he was sober, he was vicious. The only time he was tolerable was when he inhaled enough opium smoke to put himself in a stupor. He was seldom without his pipe. He also drank quite a lot.” She hesitated, and a blush spread over her face. “Mikhail didn't like women at all. Everyone knew how he was, but his family turned a blind eye to it. When I turned seventeen, the Angelovskys approached my mother. An agreement was made. They decided I would become Mikhail's wife. It was common knowledge that I didn't want the marriage. I begged my mother, my family, the priest, anyone who might listen, not to force me to marry him. But they all said it would be good for the family, keeping two large fortunes closely linked. And the Angelovskys hoped that marriage might reform Mikhail.”
“And your mother? What was her opinion?”
At the sound of Stokehurst's voice, Tasia looked at him for the first time. He was beside her on the settee, his face inscrutable. She held the empty brandy snifter in a tight grip, until the fragile glass threatened to splinter. Carefully Stokehurst pried it from her fingers and set it aside.
“My mother wanted me to be married,” Tasia said, staring into his alert blue eyes. “She didn't like it when the men who came to visit her began to show interest in me. I look very much the way she did in her youth—it made her uncomfortable. She told me that it was my duty to marry for the benefit of the family, and afterward I could fall in and out of love with whomever I wanted. She said I would be very happy as the wife of an Angelovsky, especially…one who preferred boys.”
Stokehurst snorted derisively. “Why?”
“She said that Mikhail wouldn't bother me with his attentions, and I would be free to do as I liked.” At Stokehurst's scathing glance, Tasia shrugged helplessly. “If you knew my mother, you would understand how she is.”
“I understand exactly,” he said, his mouth twisting. “Go on with the story.”
“As a last resort, I decided to visit Mikhail in secret, and beg him to help me. I thought I might be able to reason with him. There was a chance he would listen. So I…I went to see him.” Tasia stopped then. Words tumbled inside her, fragmenting, jamming in her throat until she couldn't speak at all. Feeling a trickle of cold sweat on her temple, she reached up and wiped her forehead with the back of her hand. It always happened when she tried to remember…She was filled with panic, suffocated with it.
“What happened?” Stokehurst asked softly.
She shook her head, breathing in uneven bursts, unable to get enough air.
“Tasia.” His hand covered hers in a hurtful grip. “Tell me the rest.”
Somehow she forced the words out through her chattering teeth. “I don't know. I went to him, I think…but I don't remember. I was found in the Angelovsky Palace with a knife in my hand…and Mikhail's body…The servants were screaming, and his throat…blood…Oh God, it was everywhere.” Tasia held on to his hand with both of hers, feeling as if a dark pit were opening beneath her, and he was the only thing that kept her from falling. She wanted to fling herself against him, and press deep into the smell of horses and sweat and brandy, and feel his arms around her. Instead she quenched the urge and stayed where she was, staring at him desperately while hot tears splashed from her eyes. He was strangely calm, as steady as a rock, watching her without any sign of shock or horror.
“There were no witnesses to the actual murder?” he asked.
“No, just the servants who found me afterward.”
“There was no proof, then. You can't be certain that you did it.” Luke turned to Charles with a quizzical glance. “There has to be more. They couldn't convict her solely on circumstantial evidence.”
Charles shook his head ruefully. “I'm afraid their system of justice is nothing like ours. The Russian authorities can define a crime any way they choose, withhold any case from the regular courts, imprison a man indefinitely on the mere suspicion that he's committed a crime. They don't require proof or even evidence to convict someone.”