Dancing on the Wind

  Feeling repelled, he broke away and said blearily, "A pity I didn't meet you earlier, Lola, before I used up all my energy." He gave a hiccup for good measure. "Sorry. Sh... should have drunk less."

  He was about to remove her from his lap when she ran a hand down his torso. The unprincipled brigand attached to his body began to harden under the expert manipulation of her fingers.

  She gave a crow of satisfaction. "Don't worry, mate, there's life in the old lad yet. Lola will take care of everything." From the flinty light in her eyes, he guessed that she secretly despised men and enjoyed seeing them helpless in the throes of lust. Most men would not notice or care about her private opinions, for her blatantly carnal behavior was the stuff of male fantasies. But not of his. Oh, God, not his. He wanted to walk out, yet he knew he should maintain his rakish role.

  While he teetered between duty and inclination, Lola pressed him back across the chaise. Then she lifted the hem of his monk's robe and attacked the buttons of his trousers. When her heated mouth closed over him, raw desire surged through his veins, paralyzing his judgment and will. It had been a long time, too long, since he had lain with a woman, and his body would no longer be denied.

  Lola's ministrations brought him to culmination in a matter of minutes, yet there was nothing satisfying about the physical release. No sooner had his ravening hunger been appeased then desolation overwhelmed him.

  What was he doing here with a vulgar tart? Why did he think his hidden schemes were necessary to his country? Britain had survived centuries without him and would endure long after he was gone. He was a fool to think his actions could ever make a difference; his life's work was as futile as cold ashes.

  He tried to counter his despair by invoking the memories of friends and family, but he instantly stopped, feeling too soiled to be worthy of the recollections. What would Jane think if she saw him now? His stomach churned at the thought, leaving the bitter taste of bile in his mouth.

  To continue such thoughts would lead to madness. Painfully, he clamped down on his emotions, forcing them back into the hidden chamber that had saved him time and time again.

  When a semblance of sanity had returned, he opened his eyes. Lola was sprawled on the chaise beside him, looking sleepy and pleased with herself. Though he couldn't bring himself to touch her, he made the sort of remarks a man was expected to make under such circumstances, thanking the woman who had served him and flattering her skill. Her report to Mace and Nunfield should be unexceptionable, and that was what mattered. Wasn't it?

  As soon as he decently could, he got the hell away from the tawdry woman and the sordid room. A pity that he could not escape his own tarnished spirit so easily.

  Chapter 16

  It was midafternoon by the time Lucien finally returned home, and he was sick to death of pretending to be a libertine. His first action was to take a long, hot bath, as if he could scrub away the spiritual pollution of the Hellion orgy.

  Though he would have preferred a quiet evening at home, tinkering with some new mechanical device, it was the night of Lady Graham's salon, so he must venture forth. He consoled himself with the thought that a dose of witty conversation would dispel his depression even if he didn't find any clues to the whereabouts of Cassie James.

  When he entered Lady Graham's substantial town house, his hostess greeted him with a fond smile. "Lucien, what a pleasant surprise. I've missed your wicked sense of humor."

  He gave her a light kiss. "It's been too long. I can't imagine what I was doing that seemed so important that it left no time for enjoyment."

  Lady Graham gave him a shrewd glance. "Very likely it really was important, and absolutely not the sort of thing you'll talk about. Come and meet some of my other guests. There's a good turnout tonight. You're acquainted with many of the people here, but I guarantee you'll see some interesting new faces. My bluestocking friend Lady Jane Travers, for example, I've known her since my come-out thirty years ago. She doesn't choose to move in fashionable circles so you've probably never met her. She has a very droll sense of humor and strong opinions about how the government should be run. Look for a redheaded woman who is six feet tall."

  "She sounds like a veritable Amazon. No doubt she is a proponent of the theories of Mary Wollstonecraft Godwin?"

  Lady Graham's brows arched. "Of course, any intelligent woman is. And you agree, you radical in dandy's clothing. You once spent a whole evening arguing for female rights against some dreadful Tory, so don't try to pull the wool over my eyes."

  He laughed. "I should have known you'd remember that." As his hostess guided him to the drawing room, he asked casually, "Does the actress Cassie James ever attend your salons?"

  "No, but I wouldn't mind if she did," Lady Graham replied. "I saw her at the Marlowe in some Gypsy piece—a very talented girl. We'll be hearing more of her." Noticing a young man who was at loose ends, she beckoned him over. "Mr. Haines, there's someone here I'd like you to meet."

  After introducing the two men, Lady Graham abandoned Lucien while she went to greet another guest. Mr. Haines proved to be an aspiring poet who was keen on discussing the merit of Byron's new epic poem, The Corsair. Since Lucien hadn't read it and had a low opinion of Byron's self-aggrandizing poetry, their conversation was a short one.

  Lucien spent the next hour working his way through the main drawing room, listening more than he talked. The topics of conversation were varied, ranging from heated discussions of Czar Alexander's politics to the imminent success of the peace negotiations and Miss Austen's latest satiric novel.

  He enjoyed the talk, but his oblique inquiries about Cassie James bore no fruit. Everyone had heard of the actress and a number of guests had seen her perform; however, no one claimed any personal acquaintance.

  Investigation was usually a tedious, unproductive business, so he accepted his lack of success philosophically and moved into the adjacent salon, which was smaller but equally crowded. As he did, Lady Graham materialized at his elbow. "Let me introduce you to Lady Jane, who's over there in the corner. She's interested in the theater, so she might be acquainted with that actress you asked about."

  Lucien easily picked out Lady Jane, for she stood half a head taller than the group clustered around her. Her red hair had faded to auburn and was streaked with silver, but she was still a handsome woman.

  Standing half-concealed at her side was a younger woman in a gray gown. She was easy to overlook, for her eyes were cast down and she had the colorless manner of a poor relation. Next to Lady Jane she appeared short, though she must be above average height. He would not have noticed her at all except that her stillness was noteworthy in a room full of animated people.

  The young woman stepped back and turned slightly to avoid being hit by an enthusiastically waved hand. She had a lovely profile, pure as a Greek coin....

  Lucien stopped dead in his tracks. No, it wasn't possible, not again. "That girl beside your friend," he said tightly. "I believe I've met her before. Who is she?"

  "What girl?" Lady Graham halted also and followed the direction of his glance. "Oh, you mean Lady Kathryn Travers, Jane's niece. Not really a girl, of course. She must be all of twenty-four and quite on the shelf. A pleasant young woman, though she never has anything to say for herself. Her parents are dead, so she lives with Jane now."

  Pure, scalding rage burned through his veins. He had thought he was beyond surprise where she was concerned, but once again the little witch had caught him off guard. Her new role surpassed even her own deceitful standards. It was the ultimate effrontery: a shameless actress masquerading as a proper young lady. Not only that, but as a member of the aristocracy!

  As always, her acting was pitch perfect. If he hadn't known her so well—hadn't held her in his arms and kissed her lying lips—he might have been fooled, for her present demeanor was so reserved that she seemed like a stranger. Yet her face was undeniably that of Emmie and Sally and Jane and Cassie James.

  He had a fleeting image of her lying besi
de him, half-naked and with passion-hazed eyes. He had believed in her then, but no longer. This time he would not be gullible.

  In a voice showing only mild interest, he said, "Of course, Lady Kathryn Travers. I wasn't sure I recognized her at first. Such a quiet young woman. But a fine mind under her shyness."

  "I'm surprised you ever had the opportunity to meet her," Lady Graham commented. "As I'm sure you know, the family is an old one, but the male Traverses have always been known for wildness, and none of them ever had a penny to bless himself with. There was no money to give Lady Kathryn a London come-out, and her present life with Jane is very quiet."

  "Nonetheless, I have had the pleasure of making her acquaintance." With a glittering, dangerous smile, he started cutting through the crowd. "And I can't tell you how much I look forward to renewing it."

  When they reached the group in the corner, Lady Graham said, "Jane, I'd like you to meet a friend of mine, Lord Strathmore. Lucien, Lady Jane Travers."

  When Lucien's name was pronounced, Lady Kathryn's head swung around and her slim body stiffened. Only someone watching as closely as he would have noticed, for her face was without expression.

  Lucien bowed over Lady Jane's hand and said all that was proper. She was almost as tall as he, and her gray eyes were shrewdly capable. "A pleasure, Lord Strathmore," she said. "You've given some noteworthy speeches in the Lords. Have you ever considered taking a government office?"

  "Never," he said promptly. "It's much easier to point out what is wrong than to make it right."

  Lady Graham laughed, then continued, "Of course you already know Lady Kathryn Travers."

  Genially he said, "It's been too long, Lady Kathryn."

  Her brow furrowed. "Have we met, Lord Strathmore?"

  Resisting the temptation to compliment her on an artful display of perplexity, he gave an elaborate sigh of regret. "How lowering to discover that you don't remember an occasion that is graven on my memory. We were having such a fascinating discussion when we were interrupted."

  She made the mistake of looking directly at him. Though she had been able to school her face, she could not quite conceal the tension in her eyes, or the rapid pulse beating in her throat. A lesser woman would have taken flight.

  Glancing at the older women, he said smoothly, "I was much taken by Lady Kathryn's exposition of Mary Wollstonecraft Godwin's theories. Her thoughts on the education of women were most intriguing. In fact, I'm considering introducing a bill in the Lords to address some of the inequities Lady Kathryn raised, so I must talk with her again. If you'll excuse us?"

  Not waiting for a reply, he caught Kathryn's elbow with an iron grip and drew her across the crowded room. If he recalled rightly, there was a study at the back of the house where he should be able to wring her neck in complete peace and privacy.

  As he marched his reluctant companion into the empty corridor, she tried to resist, saying, "Lord Strathmore, it's hardly proper for me to go off alone with a stranger."

  He gave her a hard stare. "I don't know what we are to each other, but we are definitely not strangers." When she looked like protesting again, he said in a dulcet tone, "Shall I raise my voice and tell the room how lovely your naked breasts are? Or the sound you made when I kissed the tattoo on the inside of your thigh?"

  She stopped dead and flushed violently. Then her face turned white and her resistance collapsed.

  He towed her into the dimly lit study and slammed the door behind them. When he let her go, Kathryn immediately retreated to the far side of the study, rubbing her elbow and watching him as warily as if he were a fugitive from a lunatic asylum.

  "Is Lady Jane your accomplice or another victim of your lies?" He lit a taper from the low-burning lamp and used it to ignite the branches of candles set about the room; he wanted to be able to see every nuance of expression on her deceitful face. "I wouldn't put it beyond your powers to convince an innocent woman that you are a relative she didn't know she had."

  He blew out the taper with a sharp puff of air. "You even appropriated her name. I've been thinking of you as Jane ever since you insisted that the name was genuine. However, I must admit that Kathryn suits you better than any of the other things you've been calling yourself."

  "I don't know what you're talking about," she said shakily.

  The tears trembling in her gray eyes were a masterly touch, but instead of being mollified, his anger erupted again. "What, no Gypsy dancing, no passionate quest for social justice? Not even a barmaid's suggestive quip?" He paced toward her purposefully. "I'm disappointed. Surely you can come up with a new story—probably half a dozen of them. Perhaps you're a Napoleonic spy who has fallen on hard times since the emperor abdicated. Or are you the persecuted ruler of a Balkan kingdom who is trying to regain her rightful throne?"

  She darted behind the sofa. "I think you're mad, Lord Strathmore. Or very, very drunk."

  He circled behind the sofa after her. "I assure you I am not drunk, and if I'm mad, it's you who have caused me to lose my wits."

  She retreated again. "Stay away from me!"

  "Don't be hen-hearted. The one thing I do expect from you is brazen courage."

  She dashed around the far end of the sofa before he could reach her. "I'm not who you think I am!"

  He paused and made an elaborate show of examining her. "Same face, same figure, same coloring." His mouth hardened. "And the same lying gray eyes. Only the name has changed, and that doesn't count since you've claimed a different identity each time we've met."

  She tried to slide away again, but the room was too small. In two swift steps he had cornered her. She flattened her back against the wall and quavered, "What are you going to do?"

  "The idea of murder is tempting." He reached for her. "But I'll settle for completing what was interrupted when you ran away the last time we were together."

  "Don't touch me!" she cried. "I'll... I'll scream for help."

  "The way everyone out there is chattering, you won't be heard." As soon as he touched her, he realized how much of his anger was frustrated desire. He wanted her—dear God, how he wanted her, even though he couldn't trust her an inch.

  He enfolded her in his embrace, needing to feel the slim length of her body against his. "Don't fight the inevitable," he said softly.

  She tried to wriggle free. "There is nothing inevitable about this!"

  "No?" Gentle but implacable, he held her captive in the circle of his arms. "Relax, my dear. I won't hurt you, because I can't stay angry with you, no matter how hard I try."

  She made a choked sound and hid her face against his shoulder. He stroked her back, patiently waiting for the intense mutual attraction to work its magic. Gradually, her rigid body began to soften, becoming all warm, carnation-scented femininity.

  He rested his cheek against her coiled hair, suspended in a curious state between peace and crackling desire. "A pity we can't be like this all the time," he murmured as he skimmed his hands over the familiar, supple curves of her back and waist.

  His words jarred her out of her compliant state. She planted her hands in the middle of his chest and shoved herself away. "We shouldn't be like this at all!"

  He braced his hands against the wall on both sides of her so that she could not escape. "Is the problem another man in your life? Tell me so at least I'll understand what I'm up against."

  "You don't really want me!" she said vehemently.

  "You're wrong. I want you very much." He brushed his fingertips over her cheek in a feathery caress. Her complexion had the smooth, fragile delicacy of a blossom. "And this time, I intend to have you."

  "No!" She bit her lip, as if wrestling with a decision.

  At length, she took a deep breath, then said unevenly, "I didn't want to tell you this."

  "Tell me what?" he said encouragingly. She gave a twisted smile. "I fear, Lord Strathmore, that you have confused me with my sister—my identical twin sister, Kristine."

  Chapter 17

  After a startl
ed moment, Lucien laughed out loud. "I'm glad to see your imagination hasn't failed yet, but surely you can come up with something better than a mythical twin sister. That's a plot device from a Gothic novel."

  "Kristine is not mythical—she is a comic actress who performs as Cassie James. You obviously know her, but you most assuredly don't know me." She swallowed hard. "So for pity's sake, don't blame me for whatever you think my sister has done."

  Lucien hesitated. Damnation, but the girl was convincing. He studied her earnest face. Every feature, line, and hollow was exactly as he remembered. The soft brown hair that glinted with gold and the slim, graceful figure were equally familiar. There was no sign of the bawdy vitality of Sally or Cassie James, but her demeanor was similar to that of "Jane" when she had claimed to be a young lady trying to help her brother.

  Based on her record. Lady Nemesis was quite capable of acting the role of shy Lady Kathryn Travers, poor relation. She had also, briefly, responded to his embrace as naturally as if it was familiar. Yet there was something in her voice that caused him to wonder if she might possibly be telling the truth.

  There was one way to find out, for even a consummate actress would have trouble concealing her identity in a kiss. He drew her close and bent his head.

  Before their lips could touch, she jerked back and hit him with a ringing slap across the cheek. "How dare you, sir!"

  Yes, she was strong. Yet what caused him to release her was not force, but the note of outraged virtue in her voice. It was hard to believe that even the most gifted of actresses could sound so much like an offended virgin.

  Cheek stinging, he scrutinized Kathryn's face once more. Yet even though he used all his trained powers of observation, she still looked exactly like the duplicitous minx who had brought chaos to his orderly life. Except, perhaps, there might be more vulnerability in the depths of those clear gray eyes than he had seen before. "No twins are truly identical," he said slowly. "There are always subtle differences, yet I see none in this case. And believe me, I speak as one who has studied you with great concentration."