Midnight Angel

  “I've let my mouth run away with me, haven't I? It hardly sets a good example for the others, to stand here with my tongue wagging.”

  There was an ache in Tasia's throat. It hardly seemed possible that the man Mrs. Knaggs had just described was the same cool, self-possessed aristocrat she had ridden with in the carriage yesterday. “Thank you for telling me about him,” she managed to say. “Emma is fortunate to have a father who loves her so much.”

  “I would say so.” Mrs. Knaggs stared at her curiously. “Miss Billings, if truth be known, you are not at all the kind of governess I expected His Lordship to hire. You're not from England, are you?”

  “No, ma'am.”

  “You're already the subject of speculation around here. No one at Southgate Hall has any secrets worth telling—and it's clear you have a great many.”

  Not knowing how to reply, Tasia shrugged and smiled.

  “Mrs. Plunkett is right,” the housekeeper mused. “She says there is something about you that invites people to talk. Maybe it's just that you're so quiet.”

  “It's not intentional, ma'am. I take after my father's side of the family. They're all quiet, and they tend to brood. My mother is very talkative and charming. I always wished to be more like her.”

  “You do well enough,” Mrs. Knaggs said with a smile. “I must be off now. Today is washday. There's no end of scrubbing, starching, and ironing to be done. Perhaps you would like to occupy yourself in the library or music room until Emma is ready.”

  “Yes, ma'am.”

  They parted company, and Tasia wandered through the mansion, searching for the music room. Her tour with Emma last night had been so brief, and she had been so tired, that she remembered nothing except the kitchen.

  Purely by chance she stumbled onto the music room. It was circular in shape, fitted with curving mullioned windows. The pale blue walls, stenciled with gold fleurs-de-lis, rose to a ceiling painted with cherubs playing musical instruments. Seating herself at the shining piano, Tasia lifted the cover and tried a few chords. As she expected, the instrument was perfectly tuned.

  Lightly her hands wandered over the keys, searching for something that would suit her mood. Like all St. Petersburg society, her family had a passion for everything French, especially music. She began to play a sprightly waltz. After a few bars, she stopped as another melody came into her mind, gently beckoning. She was thinking of a Chopin waltz, a haunting piece that seemed to ripple from the heart of the piano. Although she hadn't played it for a long time, she still remembered it fairly well. Closing her eyes, she went slowly at first, gaining confidence as the music overtook her, building in lush strains.

  All at once something prompted her to open her eyes. The music stopped abruptly, locked inside her frozen hands.

  Lord Stokehurst stood only a few yards away. There was a strange look on his face, as if he'd received a terrible shock.

  “Why are you playing that?” he barked.

  In her alarm, Tasia could barely find her voice. “I'm sorry if I've displeased you.” Hastily she stood up and skirted around the bench, keeping it between them. “I won't touch the piano again. I only meant to practice a little—”

  “Why that music?”

  “Sir?” she asked in confusion. He was upset by the piece she had been playing. It must have some special significance to him. Suddenly she understood. The frantic pace of her heart began to ease. “Oh,” she said softly. “It was her favorite, wasn't it?” She didn't mention Lady Stokehurst's name. There was no need. Stokehurst paled a few shades beneath his tan, and she knew she was right.

  The blue eyes flashed dangerously. “Who told you?”

  “No one.”

  “Then it was just a coincidence?” he sneered. “You just happened to sit there and play the one piece that—” He bit off the rest of the sentence. His cheek muscles flexed as he clenched his teeth. The force of his anger, held in such tenuous check, nearly caused her to back away.

  “I don't know why I chose that one,” she blurted out. “I…I just felt it.”

  “Felt it?”

  “I-in the piano.”

  Silence. Stokehurst seemed to be torn between fury and amazement as he stared at her. Tasia wanted to take the words back, or explain more, anything to ease the crushing stillness. But she was paralyzed, knowing that whatever she did or said would only make things worse.

  Finally Stokehurst turned and walked away with a muffled curse.

  “I'm sorry,” Tasia whispered. She continued to stare at the doorway, realizing the scene had not gone unobserved. In his fury, Stokehurst hadn't noticed that his daughter had hidden herself just outside the door. One of Emma's eyes was visible as she peeked around the edge of the frame.

  “Emma,” Tasia murmured. The girl vanished, as silently as a cat.

  Slowly Tasia eased herself back onto the piano seat. She thought of Stokehurst's face when she had been playing the waltz. He had watched her with a sort of agonized fascination. What memories had been stirred by the music? She didn't think many people had ever seen him that way. The marquess seemed like a man who prized his self-control. Perhaps he had convinced himself and everyone else that he had gone on with his life, but inside he was still grieving.

  It was very different from her mother's attitude about her father's death. “You know your dear papa would want me to be happy,” Marie had told her. “He is in heaven now, but I am still alive. Always remember the dead, but don't dwell on them. Your papa doesn't mind that I have gentlemen friends, and neither should you. Do you understand, Tasia?”

  Tasia hadn't understood. She had resented the way her mother had recovered from Ivan's death with such apparent ease. Now she was beginning to regret the harsh judgments she had made about Marie's behavior. Perhaps Marie should have stayed in mourning longer, perhaps she was self-indulgent and shallow, perhaps she had too many gentlemen friends…but she had no hidden wounds, no festering grief. It was better to live fully rather than be haunted by the memory of what was lost.

  Luke wasn't conscious of where he was going. He kept walking until he found himself in his bedroom. The massive bed, draped in ivory silk and poised on a rectangular platform, had never been shared by anyone except him and his wife. It was sacred territory. He would never allow another woman here. He and Mary had spent their first night together in that bed. A thousand nights together. He had held her when she was pregnant, had been at her side when she had given birth to Emma.

  His head was filled with the waltz. The melody pounded in his brain until he groaned and sat on the edge of the platform. He clasped the side of his skull as if that would keep the memories from coming.

  Difficult though it was, he had accepted Mary's death. He'd been out of mourning for a long time. He had family and friends, a daughter he loved, a beautiful mistress, a life that kept him too busy to dwell on the past. It was just the moments of loneliness he couldn't seem to conquer. He had been friends with Mary since childhood, long before they had fallen in love. He had always gone to her first, to share happiness or grief, to pour out his anger, to find comfort. When she died, he had lost his best friend as well as his wife. Only Mary had filled that place in his heart. Now it was painfully empty.

  Half in a dream, he saw Mary seated at the piano, her hair blazing in a pool of sunlight from the window. The waltz had poured from her fingertips…

  “Isn't it lovely?” Mary cooed, her hands dancing over the keys. “I'm getting much better at it.”

  “Yes, you are,” he agreed, smiling against her brilliant red curls. “But you've been practicing that waltz for months, Mary Elizabeth. Are you ever going to play another one? Just for the sake of variety?”

  “Not until this one is perfect.”

  “By now even the body has it memorized,” he complained. “And I'm beginning to hear it when I sleep at night.”

  “Poor man,” she said lightly, continuing to play. “Don't you realize how fortunate you are that I've chosen such a divine piece to
torment you with?”

  Sliding his hand under her chin, Luke bent her head back and kissed her upside-down. “I'll think up some torments of my own,” he warned.

  She laughed against his mouth. “I'm sure you will, darling. But in the meantime, run along and let me practice. Read a book, puff on your pipe, shoot something with your gun…whatever it is men usually do in their leisure hours.”

  Luke slid his hands over her full breasts. “They usually prefer to make love to their wives.”

  “How bourgeois,” she murmured, arching willingly against his palms. “You're supposed to go to your club and talk politics. Besides, it's the middle of the day.”

  He kissed the side of her neck. “I want to see you naked in the sunlight. Come to bed with me.” Ignoring her protests, he lifted her in his arms, and she gave a surprised laugh.

  “But my practicing—”

  “Later.”

  “I may never accomplish anything great in my life,” she said, “but after I go, they'll always be able to say ‘My, she played that waltz to perfection.’” She stared over his shoulder at the abandoned piano as he carried her upstairs…

  Remembering, Luke felt his mouth twist in a bittersweet smile. “Mary,” he whispered, “you did play it to perfection.”

  “My lord?” His valet's voice broke the spell. Luke started, and looked toward the mahogany bureau. Biddle was standing there with an armful of starched white shirts and cravats. A lean, small man in his forties, Biddle was never so happy as when he was putting things in order. “Did you say something, sir?” the valet asked.

  Luke stared down at the patterned carpet, taking a deep breath. The ghostly echoes faded from his ears. He made his voice crisp. “Pack a change of clothes for me, Biddle. I'll be staying overnight in London.”

  The valet didn't blink. It was a request he had obeyed hundreds of times before. Everyone knew what it meant. Tonight a visit would be paid to Iris, Lady Harcourt.

  Tasia was still sitting at the piano when Emma returned to the music room. The girl was dressed in a simple blue frock that matched her eyes. “I've had my breakfast,” Emma said in a subdued tone. “I'm ready for my lessons now.”

  Tasia nodded matter-of-factly. “Let's choose some books from the library, then.”

  Emma wandered to the piano and touched a key. The single note hovered in the air. “You were playing my mother's waltz. I always wondered what it sounded like.”

  “You don't remember her playing it?”

  “No, but Mrs. Knaggs told me that she was especially fond of one waltz. Papa never would tell me which one it was.”

  “I'm certain it is painful for him.”

  “Would you play it for me, Miss Billings?”

  “I don't believe Lord Stokehurst would allow it.”

  “After he leaves. I heard Biddle—that's his valet—telling one of the footmen that Papa will be visiting his mistress tonight.”

  Tasia was startled by the child's frankness. “You know everything that goes on in this house, don't you?”

  Her sympathetic tone caused Emma's eyes to fill with tears. “Yes, Miss Billings.”

  Tasia smiled, reaching for her hand and squeezing it. “I'll play it for you after he leaves. As many times as you want.”

  Emma sniffled, wiping her eyes with the back of her free hand. “I don't know why I cry so much. Papa doesn't like it.”

  “I know exactly why.” Exerting a gentle pressure on her hand, Tasia tugged the child onto the bench beside her. “Sometimes when you're growing up, it seems as if your emotions fill you up inside, and no matter how you try, you can't hold them back.”

  “Yes,” Emma said with a vigorous nod. “It's dreadful. They come spilling out at all the wrong times, and I feel like such a ninny-head.”

  “That's how everyone feels at your age.”

  “Even you? I can't imagine you crying, Miss Billings.”

  “Of course I did. In the years after my father died, I hardly did anything else. He was the most important person in the world to me. After he was gone, it seemed there was no one for me to talk to. I would burst into tears at the slightest provocation. Once I cried for an hour after stubbing my toe.” Tasia smiled. “But eventually it passed, as it will with you.”

  “I hope so,” Emma said, her tears drying. “Miss Billings…were you very young when your father died?”

  “I was about your age.”

  “Did they make you wear black crepe?”

  “Yes, I wore mourning for a year and one month.”

  “Papa said I must never wear it. He wouldn't even allow it when my cousin Letty died, because it makes him sad to see me draped in black.”

  “That is very wise of him. It's very wearisome, being in mourning for someone.” Tasia closed the piano and motioned for Emma to stand up with her. “The library,” she said briskly. “We have work to do, ma chère mademoiselle.”

  Iris, Lady Harcourt was standing in her bedroom before a full-length mirror. The glass had been placed there ostensibly so she could view herself after she was dressed, but had been used on occasion for more interesting purposes. She was dressed in a gold gown that flattered her peach-tinted skin and red hair. It had taken all day to prepare herself. She had soaked in a scented bath, dressed with the help of a lady's maid, and endured two hours of having her hair curled with heated tongs.

  Luke, who had walked into Iris's elegant Cornwall terrace unannounced, stood with his shoulder braced against the side of the doorjamb. A half-smile curved his mouth as he watched her. Iris was the kind of woman he had always liked, a beautiful redhead full of warmth and relaxed charm. Her voluptuous body was always tightly corseted, her long legs concealed by the draped layers of her skirts. Her bountiful breasts were modestly covered, for there was no need to make an impressive display. The lushness of her bosom spoke for itself.

  Suddenly realizing she was being observed, Iris turned with a start. Her ruddy brows inched up her forehead. “Darling. You were so quiet I didn't hear you. What are you doing here?”

  “Surprise visit.” Pushing off from the doorframe, Luke approached her lazily. “Hello,” he murmured, and kissed her.

  Iris pressed up against his mouth with a sigh of delight. Her arms climbed around his hard shoulders. “A surprise indeed,” she said when their lips parted. “As you can see, I'm dressed for the evening. I'm going out.” She shivered at the way his teeth closed gently on her neck. “Dinner party,” she managed to say.

  “Send your regrets.”

  “If I don't attend there'll be an odd number. And they're expecting me.” She laughed as she felt Luke unfasten the top button of her gown. “Darling, no. What if I promise to leave early and hurry back to you? Will that satisfy you?”

  “No.” The second button slipped free. “You're not going at all.”

  Iris frowned at him, even as her breath quickened. “You're the most arrogant man I know. And you have a definite problem with compromise. I'm not saying you don't have your good points, darling…but we must work on your temperament.”

  Luke tangled his fingers in her upswept hair, ruining the elaborate pile of curls. “It's taken centuries of selective breeding to achieve a specimen like me. You should have seen the early Stokehursts. Nothing to brag about, believe me.”

  “Oh, I do,” Iris purred. “I'll bet they were complete savages.” Her eyes widened as he jerked her against his aroused body. His mouth toyed gently with hers, then sealed over it. Iris groaned softly, all thoughts of the dinner party dissolving. She pushed herself against him, eager for his possession. Luke was an experienced and generous lover, knowing how to bring her to the edge of insanity. He liked to tease, to make her beg, to leave her sore and exhausted and satisfied. “At least let me take my corset off,” she whispered. “I nearly fainted the last time.”

  Luke smiled, a movement of bristle and warmth against her cheek. “That's because you stop breathing at the important moments.” He finished the row of buttons, and the dress fell to
a heavy heap on the floor. The sharp edge of his hook caught the tapes of her petticoats and the strings of her corset, until her sumptuous body burst from its tight bindings.

  “You should have to wait like other men,” Iris said with a shiver of excited laughter. “It isn't civilized to go around ripping off women's garments, like some ruthless pirate.”

  “You can rip mine off,” he said diplomatically.

  “Oh, how very generous. How very…very…” The rest of her words were smothered by his demanding kisses.

  Hours later they lay entwined in the darkened bedroom, while a few lit candles touched the air with a soft glow. Iris stretched in contentment as Luke traced the rich curve of her waist and hip. “Darling,” she murmured, rolling toward him. “I want to ask you something.”

  “Mm.” Luke kept his eyes closed, letting his fingers drift across her skin.

  “Why won't you marry me?”

  Luke turned his head, giving her a thoughtful glance. Through all the years of their acquaintance, he'd never considered marrying Iris. They had separate lives, never needing each other in more than a superficial way. There was friendship, and passion, just enough to make everything pleasant.