Lady Midnight (25 page)

He watched in enraptured silence as she crossed the room, a candle in her hand casting a halo glow over her hair. She obviously did not see him there in his darkened corner, and she crossed the room to his Italian cases. Slowly, her light moved over the glass, the jumble of antiquities, the paintings.

His mother often told him he should move his Giorgione Venus out of the library and hide it in his own chamber, away from the eyes of "impressionable ladies." But he saw no reason to exile her. Amelia never came into the library, nor did his mother, except to quibble over the artwork and the arrangement of the furniture. And Christina didn't care two straws about paintings—she wanted only the books. So there Venus stayed. She would be lonely without her Italian companions.

Kate Brown did not gasp in shock at the nudity, or at Caravaggio's pickpocket. She simply gazed at them with her dark eyes, the light moving over them as her head tilted in examination. Finally, she smiled with admiration.

And he revealed his presence to her. At first they merely spoke of the art, of Italy, then somehow—well, somehow he lost his head. Perhaps it was the brandy, the nighttime, the intoxicating scent of her perfume. Or perhaps it was his own damnable loneliness. Whatever it was, he told her everything, all the secret guilt in his heart.

He confessed the truth of Caroline's death, and he would not have blamed Kate if she had run away in horror. If she left Thorn Hill immediately. Yet she did not. She held his hand in hers, her dark gaze never wavering from his face as he spoke. Her expression held only sympathy, sadness—and a deep understanding. As if she saw the truth of his words, his actions. As if she
knew.

When she spoke, her soft words were like balm to a raw and aching soul. There was no condemnation, no false cries of moral outrage. Only what she herself thought and saw—and she thought he was a good man, and had atoned for his youthful mistakes. Mistakes, not crimes.

He wished he could believe her, but those old mistakes—those sins—were not so easily vanquished. He had carried them around for so long now. But for the moment, it was enough that
she
believed her words. That she thought him a good man, worthy of the precious gift of her kiss, her touch.

Her magical touch.

Michael knew that Kate could not be his forever. She was too fine for a rustic life such as this one at Thorn Hill, for a man scarred in mind and body. She was obviously here to soothe some wound of her own—the death of her husband or her mother—to rest in the quiet of Yorkshire; then she would fly away. Yet for now, for as long as he could, he would revel in the joy of
her.

And that gave him more hope, more happiness, than he had known in years. Or perhaps ever.

Michael lifted his head and met the steady, violet blue gaze of Caroline's portrait. She seemed to smile at him gently, but also to be receding away from him. Fading. He pushed himself out of the chair and crossed the library to unhook the chain that held the painting to the picture rail.

As he lowered the canvas gently to the carpet, he thought that perhaps Amelia might like to have it in her own chamber. Then he extinguished the dying candles and left the room to seek his own bed—and dream of having Kate Brown in it.

It was very nearly the dawning of a new day.

Chapter 13

The morning light peeking from between the curtains pierced Kate's eyelids like hundreds of tiny pokers. Her head felt tight, as if a band were being steadily tightened around it. Surely it wasn't morning already? She had only just fallen asleep.

Kate rolled onto her side, away from the demonic bar of light, and buried her face in the pillow. She groaned, reaching out to try to pull delicious sleep back to her. She should be able to rest a little while longer. And where was Bianca with her morning chocolate, anyway? That maid was always late....

Suddenly, reality crashed down on her like a collapsing ceiling made of dreams and memories. She didn't
have
a maid anymore, and hadn't for a long time. Venice was far away. She was in Yorkshire, at Thorn Hill.

And she had spent last night drinking brandy in the library with Michael—her employer. Drinking, talking—kissing.

Oh, yes. Now she
especially
remembered the kissing. A soft smile tugged at her lips, and she could feel a giddy laugh bubbling up in her throat at the memory. His kiss had been just as she imagined it might. No, it was better. Sweet, heady, it answered a longing deep in her heart she had not even known was there. His embrace made her forget everything but that one moment, the feel of his hands against her body, the taste of his mouth, the hot rush of desire like a storm breaking over the earth.

It had been glorious. Just the way she always thought a kiss should be. Not the suffocating feelings of dread when Julian Kirkwood's lips met hers, or the opera buffa comedy that ensued when a fat
comte
cornered her at one of her mother's parties so long ago. Michael's kiss had been a dream—just as she had told him before she slipped away. There was no fear in it, only delight.

A sweet dream.

Kate's head gave another painful twinge as she moved against the pillow, reminding her that the dream was decidedly over. It was daylight, and she had to come fully awake. There was church today, and watching over Amelia and Christina. She was Mrs. Brown the governess again, and she had to remember that from now on. Playing the wanton in night-dark libraries could lead only to trouble.

If it hadn't already.

Kate pushed back the bedclothes and swung herself out of the cozy bed, holding her aching head between her hands. The fire had died out long ago and the air was chilly, but Kate welcomed its bracing effect. It cleared her thoughts, and hurried her footsteps across the floor to the pitcher of cold water.

Once her face was washed and her hair brushed and pinned up in a simple knot, she felt a bit more like her sensible self. When she glanced into the mirror, she halfway expected her features to be transformed, twisted into something dissipated to reflect her fast behavior, her wild desire for Michael Lindley. But no, she was utterly the same. The oval face she had always thought too thin, the nose too long. She was paler than usual, and dark purple smudges marred the delicate skin under her eyes. Hopefully, though, if anyone noticed, they would attribute it to her late night at the assembly.

She dressed quickly in her lavender muslin gown, wrapped her shawl around her shoulders, and hurried out of her chamber en route to the schoolroom. A light breakfast waited for her there, rolls and a pot of tea, but she barely had time to eat it before Christina came rushing in, Amelia trailing behind her. The elegant young lady of the evening before was nowhere to be seen. Her
La Belle Assemblee
coiffure had turned back into a tangled riot of curls, tied back carelessly with a ribbon, and she wore her dress with the blue green stain on her sleeve. She looked happy, though, as she snatched up one of Kate's rolls and sat down with a book in hand.

"The assembly last night wasn't all bad, was it, Mrs. Brown?" Christina asked.

Kate had to laugh. "Such a ringing endorsement, Christina! But no, it wasn't bad. The music was very lively."

"I wish I could have gone," Amelia said wistfully. "I would like to hear the music. Sometimes it seems to take so
long
to grow up!"

"I know,
bambina,
" Kate said, sitting down next to the child and straightening her pink hair ribbons. "But time goes so very fast. When you are a busy, grown-up lady, you will wish you had these days back again."

Amelia looked most doubtful. "Do
you
wish you were a child again, Mrs. Brown?"

Kate remembered her long voyage to England, her first days in London. She had been so overwhelmed by loneliness and uncertainty, so deeply unsure of the step she had just taken toward a new, strange life. In those weeks, she
had
thought longingly of her old home in Venice, a place filled with luxury and noise and people. But... "Not since I came to Thorn Hill. Here, I have just been happy to be myself."

She was startled to find how true those words were. In her short time here at Thorn Hill, so many things had changed in her heart. The old turmoil and strain fell away, leaving her with a newfound peace. A new, bright way of looking at life.

It was all so fragile, so precious. Like one of those tiny Murano glass flowers. She had to hold it to her very tightly, and guard it closely, for fear it could shatter.

"What was your childhood in Italy like, Mrs. Brown?" Christina asked, brushing the crumbs of her roll from her bodice. "Your home must have been very different from here."

"Indeed it was. Shall we find Venice on the globe, my dears? I think we have time before church."

They spent the next hour in a happily improvised lesson, finding different Italian cities on the globe while Kate told them of how everyone in her home traveled by water. How the whole city seemed to float above the lagoon like a shimmering golden jewel box. She told them of the glorious churches, the galleries filled with the art treasures of centuries, the shops on the Rialto, the cafes. Christina and Amelia listened with fascinated gazes, enthralled as she tried to paint word visions of a place so very different from their own home here in Yorkshire.

"Oh, Mrs. Brown," Amelia breathed. "Why did you leave it all?"

Kate gave her a gentle smile. She could hardly tell the child the true reason—that she had fled a life of rich degradation for an uncertain, but free, future. She could never tell anyone that. "I got married, and my husband was English. I came here to live with him." The story, rather than growing easier with each telling, grew ever harder. The lie felt dry and choking in her mouth.

Amelia gave a puzzled frown. "Then where is your husband?"

"He died," Kate answered quietly. "And I came here to be your governess."

"He died!" Amelia cried. "Like my mama. Do you miss him a lot, Mrs. Brown?"

Before Kate could answer, there was a knock at the schoolroom door. Probably the maid Sarah with their luncheon. "Come in," Kate called, with some measure of relief.

But it was not Sarah. It was Michael himself who appeared there in their doorway, handsome as the devil in a fine blue morning coat and buckskin breeches. His sun-touched brown hair was still damp from a recent washing, brushed back from his brow in shining waves. He would not have been out of place strolling down Bond Street.

And she looked like a ragpicker, Kate thought wryly, with her plain dress and sleep-deprived eyes. She had wanted so much to appear at her best when she saw him again, to show him that surely his desire for her was not born merely of brandy and moonlight. Before she could fall asleep last night, enveloped in her own haze of drink and heady desire, there had been a vague fantasy of candlelight and red silk, rubies in her perfectly dressed hair, a witty remark and throaty laugh.

The schoolroom, surrounded by books and the smell of ink, was a far cry from all that. Yet Kate found that when she gazed at him, she couldn't care less about the surroundings or her clothes. His smile made
her
want to smile, made her want to run into his arms and kiss him hello, to draw him by the hand to the settee and ask him how he felt this morning. Ask him if he felt as giddy as she was to see him, or if he felt only regret. He
had
tried to apologize to her last night, after all.

She searched his face carefully as she stood up, Amelia's hand still held in hers like a tiny lifeline. She saw nothing there, though, except that smile, a genial glow in his blue eyes. He seemed—happy.

Oh, please,
Kate prayed silently.
Let him be happy!

"Papa!" Amelia cried. She broke from Kate's clasp and dashed across the room to hug her father. He caught her up in his arms and kissed her cheek.

"Michael!" Christina said. "What are
you
doing here? Aren't you supposed to getting ready for church today?"

Michael laughed, the most glorious sound Kate had ever heard. "I rode out very early, and have just returned. I hope I'm not interrupting?"

"We were just having a geography lesson, Mr. Lindley," Kate answered. She looked away from his smiling face, as one had to turn from the sun after too long, and gazed down at the globe. She laid her hand gently over Italy.

"Mrs. Brown was telling what it's like to live in Venus," Amelia said.

"Venice,
Amelia," Christina gently corrected.