Spellbound (5 page)

Drawing her closer, he
continued, “‘Have not saints lips, and holy palmers
too?’”

“‘
Ay, pilgrim, lips that
they must use in prayer,’” she whispered, transfixed by his steady
gaze.

“‘
O, then, dear saint, let
lips do what hands do; / They pray, grant thou, lest faith turn to
despair.’”

“‘
Saints do not move,
though grant for prayers’ sake.’”

“‘
Then move not, while my
prayer’s effect I take,”’ he whispered, drawing her closer still.
She now stood within the circle of his arms. “‘Thus from my lips,
by yours, my sin is purged.’”

Mesmerized, Raven watched
his lips draw closer and closer. Her eyes drifted shut as she
waited for the touch of his firm lips.

It never came. Her eyes
snapped open. She looked up into pale green eyes that held an
expression she couldn’t name. She opened her mouth to
speak.

“Tris? Are you up
there?”

Raven’s mouth snapped shut.
She stared at Tristan, a look of question in her eyes. Tristan’s
face was taut with annoyance that they had been interrupted. Raven
wondered it he felt the same disappointment that she
did.

Tristan cleared his throat
and called, “One moment.” Then he turned his back on her, returning
the playbook to its proper shelf. She supposed he would put out the
candles next but she didn’t wait around to find out.

She walked out of the room
and saw the person looking for Tristan. Standing below the balcony
was a very handsome young gentleman whose resemblance to the duke
proclaimed him to be a member of the family. As she looked closer
at the familiar brown curls and pleasant features, she felt a
sudden fear clutch at her heart.

Tristan stepped out beside
her and gazed down at his brother. “Hello, Grey. When did you get
in?” he asked. Raven sensed more than saw the tinge of reserve in
the duke’s manner towards his younger sibling.

Lord Greyden Cramshaw
stared up at the pair above him. His eyes met Raven’s and he smiled
in that way gentleman did when they thought they had caught a
prize. “Well, hello, brother,” he said finally, glancing at the
duke. “Who is your friend?”

Tristan didn’t care for his
brother’s attitude. He seemed to think Raven was some available
female, ready to jump at any man’s bidding. And Grey had a habit of
seducing everything in skirts, whether she was a lady or a
tart.

A glance at the woman in
question showed the duke that something was wrong. Raven was very
still, like a marble statue. In fact, with her beauty, she could
have been exactly that at that moment.

He nudged her gently.
“Anything wrong, my lady?” he asked.

She smiled up at him. “Of
course not, my lord. Why would you think anything was
wrong?”

“You seem to have turned to
stone at the mere sight of my brother. Usually,” he said dryly,
“ladies melt when he deigns to look upon them with any sort of
favor.”

Her black, delicately
arched brows rose haughtily at this and Tristan thought in that
moment that she really could be Dunston’s lost daughter. She was
the right age; her features and skin tone matched those of his
family. She had a regal bearing that came naturally; it was not
something that could be learned. She even had the haughty
attitude.

“I assure you, Lord
Windhaven, I do not melt at the sight of just any man,” he realized
Raven was saying.

Her words were a warning
and he took them as such. Although, he very much wanted to test
that theory at least to the extent of himself.

Favoring her with one of
his rare smiles, he offered his arm, saying, “Allow me to escort
you to breakfast, my lady.”

Raven gave him a confused
look. “Breakfast, Tristan? Is it not past that time
yet?”

Consulting a watch that
hung from a chain attached to his waistcoat, the duke nodded
thoughtfully. “Too true,” he murmured. “I am, however, lord of this
manor and a duke to boot. If you would still like breakfast, I am
sure I can make that happen.”

“No, please, do not trouble
the servants, my lord duke, I can manage with something light, I
think.”

Tristan gave her a haughty
look. “They are servants, Rae. They are here to serve. If they do
not, they grow useless and must be let go. I am sure you do not
want that.”

Raven opened her mouth to
tell him a thing or two about misusing servants, but snapped it
shut, determined to maintain a civil silence throughout the rest of
the morning.

“Rachael Eliot, you cannot
possibly think I mistreat my servants,” the duke said, again
showing an uncanny ability to read her mind. “I think I will choose
to be deeply offended by that belief. And to regain my good
opinion, you must pay a forfeit.”

“What forfeit?” she asked
suspiciously.

“You must agree to marry
me,” he whispered, leaning closer. Then, quite before she knew what
he was about, he pressed his lips to hers in a fleeting kiss that
was over before it began.

“My dear?”

He was holding out his arm
expectantly, and Raven took it mechanically, too shaken by his
unexpected kiss to do otherwise. He gave her an odd look, which she
returned blankly.

“If this is how you act
every time I kiss you, perhaps I never shall again,” he remarked
with a half-smile and quirked eyebrow.

“Oh, no,” blurted Raven,
surprising them both. “I mean…well, you do not…oh, dear.” She
blushed furiously and placed one hand to her brow. “I can’t seem to
think straight. Perhaps I am sickening for something.” It was
totally unlike her to be so moved by a mere kiss, especially one
lacking in passion, desire, or any feeling whatsoever.

A gleam entered Tristan’s
green eyes but Raven was so preoccupied with her odd reaction to
him that she saw it too late. He clipped her around the waist,
pressing her full-length against him, and covered her mouth with
his in a kiss that had all the passion, desire, and feeling she
could have asked for. His other hand cradled her face as his kiss
deepened into something more personal, more intimate than anything
she’d ever experienced before. She felt tears come to her eyes and
was helpless to stop them from spilling down her cheeks.

“Well, isn’t this an
interesting sight,” inquired a lazy voice tinged with malicious
amusement.

Tristan drew away slowly,
but there was an angry glint in his eyes that Raven caught. She
wondered briefly if he was angry with her but saw almost instantly
that it was his brother for whom he held the animosity. She had her
back to the other gentleman and so could not see his answering
stare of hatred.

The duke looked down at
her, saw her tears, and swore softly. Then, louder, “If you want to
live to see tomorrow, Grey, you will leave now and await me in the
study.”

“And miss all the fun?” he
queried silkily. “I think not.”

Raven could hear him
approaching and cringed at the thought of coming face to face with
Lord Greyden Cramshaw again after all these years. He had been a
persistent admirer of hers when she’d first started acting and had
offered her whatever she could have wanted in exchange for her
favors. But something had always held her back from accepting the
handsome young man. She had sensed something wasn’t quite right
with him, something possibly dangerous. And now, here she was about
to face him again and pretending to be someone else and someone of
the peerage at that. If he should threaten to turn her over to a
magistrate, what could she possibly do to save herself?

“I will kill you, Grey,”
the duke bit out carefully. Raven looked up into his eyes and
shivered. She believed him.

Evidently, Grey did too. He
stopped advancing on them and said, “Very well, Tris. I will leave
if you want. But I recommend taking her to your bed. It is rather
uncomfortable to make love in this mausoleum.” He turned and walked
away from them.

Raven tightened her hand on
Tristan’s arm, as he would have lunged at his brother for that
crude comment. He looked down at her in annoyance. “Let me kill
him, Rae. I promise I’ll clean up the mess.”

“If you are serious, I am
leaving this instant,” she returned, drying her tears with the
handkerchief he handed to her. “But since I am sure you could never
do such a hateful, mean, horrid, immoral, illegal thing, I will
pretend I am amused and stay.”

“Why did you cry?” he asked
abruptly, effectively changing the subject.

“I don’t know,” she said,
only half-truthful. “Perhaps I really am sickening for
something.”

“That doesn’t do much for
my amore propre, you know,” he remarked dryly. “I apologize if I
frightened or offended you, with either the kiss or the scene with
my brother. It was not my intention, believe me.”

“And what, sir, was your
intention when you kissed me?”

“Merely to prove to myself
that I could,” he said, his face and eyes devoid of expression.
“And isn’t it the right of every man to kiss a beautiful woman? And
you, my dear Rae, are the most beautiful woman in
existence.”

“Looks are fleeting,” she
replied philosophically, “and too much value placed on them leads
to heartache and misery. I would prefer to be ugly, my lord, with a
squint and hunched-back and loved solely for my mind and spirit and
heart, believe me.”

“What would you say if I
told you I already love your mind and your spirit and your heart?
And now I would like to love your form and appearance?” he asked.
His face was intent and lacked all signs of jocularity or even the
slightest amusement.

“If you are asking me to
become your mistress,” she answered, trying to control her
disappointment and anger, “I thank you for the honor but I cannot
accept. I am done with selling my body just to satisfy my
lust.”

These words made his brows
arch in shock, she noticed with a certain amount of satisfaction.
Ladies were not supposed to have feelings of lust, that emotion
common only to the lower orders and members of the demimonde, of
which she was part. She knew this was not actually true. She had
enough friends among the upper reaches of society to know there was
not an ounce of truth in the belief, not to mention plain common
sense would tell one that women were women no matter what social
station they possessed. Any serious thoughts he may have harbored
about her being in actuality the missing Lady Rachael Eliot should
be firmly nipped in the bud now.

He seemed very thoughtful
but not necessarily disappointed. She supposed he could be as other
men of her acquaintance. Adam and Levi knew there was no truth to
the myth about a lady’s passion. Tristan wasn’t exactly an idiot.
She realized any hopes she may have had about his losing interest
in her were for naught. If anything, she’d increased
them.

Before he could act on what
he was obviously thinking, Raven spun around and practically ran
from the library.

That did not go well, he
thought as he followed Raven out at a more sedate pace. What was it
about the woman that practically made him lose his head every time
she was in the room? It made no sense to him.

He did think she was
probably the most beautiful woman in existence; she was most
definitely the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. But even that
didn’t account for his unpardonable behavior.

Tristan moved through the
vast halls of Windhaven and soon arrived at the part of the house
in which resided his study. He didn’t want to deal with Greyden now
but he knew he had no choice. The man was becoming quite a
nuisance, making the family name a byword in Society.

The duke entered the
somewhat small chamber and saw his brother rifling through one of
the drawers in his desk.

“May I help you?” he
inquired icily.

Greyden slammed the drawer
shut and gave his older sibling a mocking grin. “You could leave so
I could continue searching,” he suggested facetiously.

“What the devil are you
searching for?”

Greyden shrugged, his grin
firmly in place. “Nothing of any import, brother.”

“Indeed,” murmured Tristan
thoughtfully. “Would you mind very much vacating my chair, then?”
His tone held that hint of command that he knew his brother
detested.

Greyden’s grin faltered, a
look of malevolence passing briefly through his golden eyes. His
look became mocking again, however, as he rose to his feet. “By all
means, brother.” He gestured to the empty chair. “Please, sit,” he
invited with false sincerity.

“Grey, if you were not my
brother, I’d beat you where you stand and throw you out the
window.” He frowned. “You are not everyone’s brother. Why has it
not happened yet?”

“Stow it, Tris,” snapped
the younger man rudely. His grin returned easily enough making
Tristan frown heavily. “You know, brother,” mocked Greyden as he
came around the wide desk to stand on the same side as the duke, “I
could tell Grandmother who your little friend is. She always did
like me better, you know. She would love to have a reason to send
you away.”