“An old scoundrel, with an insatiable passion for women. God knows why he married someone like my mother. To her, any display of emotion—even laughter—is undignified. My father claims that she never let him into her bed except the few times it took to produce offspring. They had three children who died in infancy before my sister and I were born. As the years passed, my mother turned more and more to the church, leaving my father free to chase women to his heart's content.”
“Did they ever love each other?” Tasia asked absently.
His chest lifted with a thoughtful sigh. “I don't know. All I remember is a sort of polite tolerance they had for each other.”
“How sad.”
He shrugged. “They chose it for themselves. For their own reasons, neither of them approve of marrying for love—which is ironic, since both their children did.”
Tasia settled more comfortably against him, enjoying the feel of firm muscle at her back. “Your sister loves her husband?”
“Yes, Catherine married a stubborn Scot with a temper to match hers. They spend half the time shouting at each other and the rest in bed.”
The last few words seemed to hang in the air. Remembering the night before, the languorous hours in bed with him, Tasia felt her face burn. She took a shallow breath, and then another, and blindly sought her wineglass. “I'm thirsty—” She turned and half-collided with him, her balance precarious. He slid a steady arm behind her back. Suddenly Tasia gasped as she felt a splash of liquid on her shoulder. “You spilled it on me,” she exclaimed, fumbling at her peasant blouse.
“Did I?” he asked softly. “Here, let me see.” His head bent, and she felt his warm mouth on her skin, right where the wine had spilled.
Confused, Tasia thought that they must be sinking—the floor was coming closer—and then she realized that Luke was lowering her to the carpet. Before she could object, she felt another small splash, and tiny rivulets that chased down to her belly. “You did it again!”
With a contrite murmur, he set the glass aside and pulled gently at the drawstring of her blouse. The damp garment slipped from her shoulders. There was a tug at her waistband, and her skirt inched down her hips. Tasia stared at herself in confusion. “Oh, dear,” she said, perplexed by the way her clothes seemed to be falling off. But Stokehurst was smiling at her as if it were a perfectly natural thing. He leaned forward to her exposed chest and licked the side of her breast, and then the shallow curve beneath, picking up sweet drops of wine with his tongue. Tasia quivered in agitation, knowing she should make him stop. But his mouth felt so warm and tickling and nice. Her head wobbled on her neck, and she slid her arms around his shoulders to steady herself. “I must be drunk,” she said thickly. “I've never been drunk before, but I always thought it would feel like this. All that wine…Oh, I must be! Am I?”
“Just a little.” He dragged the skirt away from her body. She relaxed on the floor and kicked her legs to help him, sighing in relief as the cumbersome fabric was removed. With her legs free, she felt so light, unburdened…and then he was pulling off her other garments, one by one.
“You're taking advantage,” she said sternly, and rolled to her side with a giggle. He lay down and faced her. She couldn't stop herself from touching his lips with her fingers, tracing the smiling curve. “Are you seducing me?”
He nodded, stroking back a skein of hair that had dropped over her chin.
“I'm sure I shouldn't want you to. Oh, my head is spinning.” Tasia closed her eyes, and she felt his mouth on hers, warm and intense, making the blood dance in her veins. He was right above her, so handsome and tempting that she reached up for him.
“Help me with my shirt,” he muttered.
What a splendid idea…She wanted to feel his hard chest, and the shirt was in the way. Willingly she struggled with the line of tiny carved buttons, but they didn't want to let go. Grasping handfuls of fine linen, she yanked until there was a satisfying ripping, popping sound, and the shirt was hanging open. Pleased with her accomplishment, she stared at his long, bare torso and his candlelit face. His eyes were the color of the sea, pure, with no hint of green or gray. “How can your eyes be so blue?” Carefully she touched his face. “Beautiful blue…so beautiful.”
His thick lashes lowered. “God help me, Tasia. If you leave, you'll take my heart with you.”
Tasia wanted to reply, but he kissed her until the words went skittering far out of reach. Hazily she focused on the sight of his hand closed around the wineglass once more, tilting it to let the contents spill over the brim. She couldn't think why he would be pouring wine on her, but he told her not to move, and she lay still in dreamy bewilderment as there were more cool trickles, splashes of golden liquid flowing over her body and between her thighs. She couldn't help squirming at the odd sensation, and then she felt his mouth skimming along the wet trail down her middle, scooping up tiny puddles with his tongue. She giggled and trembled as he found the wine-filled hollow of her navel. Gently he absorbed every drop, nuzzling across her skin with his parted lips, pausing to make hot swirls with his tongue.
Tasia fell silent, transfixed by the peculiar game he was playing, and by the prickling pleasure that seemed to cover every inch of her body. He pushed her thighs apart with his hand, and she opened compliantly, her will replaced by submissiveness. Everything centered on the movement of his mouth, the tantalizing pressure that traveled lower, brushing over crisp wine-soaked curls. Lightly his fingers combed through the soft thatch, making way for the sliding touch of his tongue. An acute throbbing began in the place he kissed, and she felt her body twitch in reaction. His tongue arrowed to the most sensitive place of all and lingered, until she gave a plaintive sigh and lifted upward into the tickling stimulation, whispering feverishly, “Yes please yes right there…” and the pleasure came in an ever-rising tide, a force barely contained in flesh. With a high-pitched cry she reached down to his dark head, pulling him closer. The exquisite convulsions drew out and lengthened, gradually fading to warm ripples.
Drugged with the aftermath of pleasure, Tasia stretched contentedly as his body moved over hers. She wrapped herself around his muscled body and reached down to touch him, her fingers curving around his hard length. He groaned and pushed upward, sliding gently into her swollen depths, and she closed around him in welcome. Tasia whimpered and locked her arms around his hard back, wanting to bear more of him, trying to bring his body heavy and smothering over her.
He resisted, keeping his weight poised above her. “I don't want to crush you,” he murmured. “You're so small and light…as if your bones were hollow like a bird's.” Tenderly his fingers traced the lines of her ribs, and he kissed her breasts and the ivory smoothness between them. “But when I feel the passion in you…the way you fight to pull me nearer…I come close to losing control, and it's all I can do to keep from hurting you.”
“Don't hold back,” she urged breathlessly, arching upward into each long thrust. “I won't break.”
But nothing would alter his restraint, not the demanding clasp of her hands on his back and buttocks, not even the clench of her teeth on his shoulder. The sweet rush of forgetfulness came over them both, driving away coherent thought, making them one for a moment of rapture.
They spent the next few hours in a huge oak bed with massive carved bedposts and acres of blue curtains. Their exertions made Tasia hungry, and Luke obligingly joined her in a raid on the pantry. After they indulged in fruit, cheese, and cake, they crawled back into bed once more, Tasia hooked her toes at the edge of the mattress and stretched as long as possible, still coming a few feet short of reaching the other side. “It's too big,” she complained, rolling over on the white linen sheets to smile at Luke. “I keep getting lost.”
He laughed and scooped her into his arms. “I'll keep finding you.”
Curving her arms around his neck, Tasia sat up in his lap, bringing their faces close together. “I like being decadent,” she said artlessly. “No wonder so many women choose to be
mistresses.”
“Is that what you are now?” he asked, kissing the side of her throat.
Disconcerted, she looked at his dark face and blushed. “I-I wasn't presuming to take Lady Harcourt's place.”
“Iris and I aren't involved any longer. That's why I went to London yesterday, to break things off between us.”
Tasia's brows quirked in wary surprise. “Why?”
“Iris wanted more than I could give her, and I was selfish enough to keep her much longer than I should have. Now she's free to marry any one of several suitors who have been after her for years. I don't think it will take her long.”
“And what about you?” Tasia began to crawl from his lap. “Will you want a new mistress to replace her?”
Luke locked his arm around her waist, keeping her still. “I don't like to sleep alone,” he admitted frankly. “I suppose I could find another Iris and fall back into my usual fornicating ways.”
The thought caused a stab of jealousy. Tasia frowned and kept silent, knowing she had no right to make objections.
Luke grinned, reading her thoughts. “But then,” he said softly, “there's the question of what to do about you.”
“I can take care of myself.”
“I know that. But would you be willing to take care of someone else as well? And let them care for you in turn?”
Tasia shook her head, while her heart began to hammer. “I don't know what you mean.”
“It's time for us to talk.” His dark blue eyes were riveted on hers. He took a deep breath. “Tasia…I want you to be a part of my life, and Emma's. I want you to stay with me. But if you do, it can't be any other way than as my wife.”
Tasia struggled away from him and snatched up a sheet to cover herself. She kept her head bent, unable to look at him as he went on.
“I never thought I could be a good husband to anyone but Mary. I never wanted to try with anyone else, until you came along.” Luke touched the naked curve of her back, stroking her rigid spine with his knuckles. “I know you aren't certain of your feelings for me. If there were time, if things were different, I'd court you with all the patience I could wring from my soul. Instead I'm asking you to take a blind leap and trust in me.”
For one moment Tasia could imagine what it would be like, sharing his home, his life, waking beside him every morning…but the vision slipped away, leaving her with a hollow ache. “If I were a different person I would say yes,” she said miserably.
“If you were a different person, I wouldn't want you.”
“We don't even know each other.”
“I'd say the last twenty-four hours have been a fairly good start.”
“I can only explain the same things over and over again,” she said in a raw voice, “and you won't listen. I've done something even God can't forgive. Somehow, someday, I'll have to pay for it. Retribution is coming. Since I'm too much of a coward to face it, I'll keep running until it catches up with me.”
“So Nikolas Angelovsky is serving as some instrument of divine justice? I don't think so. I think God has better means of punishing sinners than sending half-crazed Russian princes to do His will. And until you remember something, or come up with some kind of proof, I won't accept that you killed anyone. I'd feel that way even if I weren't in love with you. What in hell has made you so eager to take the blame for a crime you may not have committed?”
“You love me?” Tasia repeated, pushing aside her tangled hair to stare at him in amazement.
Luke scowled, hardly presenting the image of a besotted lover. “What do you think I've been trying to say?”
She gave a dazed laugh. “You have quite a way of working up to it.”
His voice was gruff, as if he were embarrassed by his declaration. “Believe me, you weren't the most likely candidate. I've had women throwing themselves at me for years—some of them with damned fine prospects.”
“I had excellent prospects in Russia,” she informed him. “Land, a fortune, palaces—”
“So Madame Miracle wasn't far off the mark.”
“No, indeed.”
His mouth twisted. “I wouldn't care if you were a woodcutter's daughter. I'd prefer it, actually.”
“So would I,” she said after a moment.
They didn't look at each other. There was a bleak silence, a period of assessment during which they each considered the next step. Somewhere in the middle of their bickering, he had proposed, and she had refused. But it wasn't over yet.
Tasia felt like weeping. She didn't dare. He would comfort her then, and there was no point in clinging to each other when they would soon be parted forever. She gathered the sheet more tightly to her breasts.
“Luke,” she said softly. It was the first time she had ever used his name, and he gave a slight start. “If you are ready to love again, and take a wife, you can find someone far more appropriate than I. You would be best off with someone similar to Mary.”
She meant it as a benediction and well-intentioned advice, but instead he looked at her keenly. “Is that what this is about? If I'd wanted a substitute for Mary, I could have found one years ago. But I wouldn't expect my second marriage to be an imitation of the first. I wouldn't want that at all.”
Tasia shrugged in an offhand manner. “You might say that now, but if you married me, you would be disappointed. Not at first, perhaps, but after a while—”
“‘Disappointed,’” Luke repeated incredulously. “Why in hell…No, don't explain. Let me think for a minute.” As she tried to speak, he raised his hand in a gesture for silence. It was important that there should be no misunderstandings on this subject. He struggled for a way to make it all clear for her, but the task seemed impossible. She was still young enough to think of the world in terms of absolutes, unaware of the infinite ways time could change everything.
“I was still a boy when I married Mary,” he said, choosing his words with care. “I never knew what life was like without her. We went from being playmates to childhood sweethearts to friends, and finally to husband and wife. We never fell in love, we just…comfortably drifted into it. I won't belittle her memory by pretending it wasn't genuine. She and I cared about each other, and we had a hell of a good time…and she gave me a child whom I cherish. But when she died, I became a different man. I have different needs now. And you—” He reached for Tasia's hand and gripped it hard, staring at her downbent head. “You've given my life a kind of passion and magic I've never known before. I know that we belong together. How many people on earth ever find their soul mates? They spend their lifetimes looking, and it never happens. But somehow, by some God-given miracle, you and I are here together—” He paused, and his voice turned scratchy. “We have a chance. You know what I want. I can't force you to stay. The choice is yours.”
“I don't have a choice,” Tasia cried, her eyes blurring with tears. “It's because I care for you and Emma that I must leave.”
“You're lying to yourself. You'll use every excuse you can think of, rather than risk being hurt. You're afraid to love someone.”
“What if the reason has nothing to do with me?” she snapped. “What if it's you? Maybe you're such an arrogant, self-centered, deceitful man that I don't want your love!”
Luke colored with fury. “Is that the reason?”
Tasia gave him a half-pleading, half-enraged glance. He was making her say things that would hurt them both. If only he would accept her decision. If only he wouldn't be so stubborn. “Please don't make it so difficult.”
“Damn you…I'm going to make it impossible.” He dragged her beneath him, smothering her startled cry with a demanding kiss. He lifted his head and looked down at her. “I need you,” he said, breathing hard. His hand was unsteady as it moved tenderly over her small breast. “I need you in so many ways. I can't lose you, Tasia.”
Before she could answer, he kissed her again, until her thoughts vanished and her blood raced with exhilarating desire. She moved beneath him in eager invitation, brushing
her soft curls against his swollen length, making him tremble with passion.
He thrust easily into her slick passage, finding her wet and ready for his intrusion. She gasped and clenched all her muscles around him, her small hands gripping his shoulders with desperate strength. She breathed hotly against his skin, and pressed her face to his chest so hard that he felt the edge of her teeth. Luke held her tightly and groaned as he felt the spasms of her climax all around him, drawing him deeper, until he reached the same exquisite release.
As soon as Tasia regained her breath, she rolled away and left the bed. Her knees trembled beneath her. She scooped up a silk robe from the floor, a man's robe that was far too big for her. Wrapping it around herself, she glanced back at Luke. His expression was inscrutable.
“Did I hurt you?” he asked quietly.
She shook her head in confusion. “No, but…I want to be alone for a while. I need to think.”
“Tasia—”
“Please, don't follow me.”
She heard him curse softly as she left the room. Making her way outside, she picked up the hem of the robe to keep it from trailing in the dirt.
It was the middle of the night, the sky velvety black and scattered with stars. The pond was calm and glassy, reflecting the sky overhead until it seemed that the water too was filled with stars. Tasia wandered closer to the edge. A clump of rushes stirred as a pair of frogs hopped away, prudently deciding to change their location. Tasia stomped her bare feet to frighten away any other creatures. She hiked up the robe and sat on the damp ground, dangling her toes into the cool water. Only then did she let herself think.
A passionate man, the marquess of Stokehurst…and more at the mercy of his own emotions than he would have wanted anyone to know. He had been rough in his urgency, but he hadn't hurt her. Lifting her legs, Tasia hugged them to her chest and rested her chin on her knees. Desperately she wished there was someone to tell her what to do.
She went over the details of their conversation, word by word. Was it true, what he had said? Was she so afraid of being hurt that she would never be able to give her heart to anyone? She thought of the people she had loved in her life: her mother and father, Uncle Kirill, and her nanny Varka. She had lost them all. Yes, she was afraid. There was precious little left of her heart to lose.