A Rose at Midnight (34 page)

She convulsed around him, her nails digging into his back, her body arching off the bed, and he had to still the cry that came from her mouth with his. A moment later he joined her, no longer able to hold back, pouring himself into her, body and soul.

He collapsed against her, knowing he was too big a man to make her support his full weight, too exhausted to be gentlemanly. When he recovered enough to try to pull away, she simply clung more tightly, her tear-damp face hidden against his shoulder. “Don’t leave,” she whispered in a very shy voice. He never would have thought his Ellen would be shy.

He tried to take some of the weight off her, but she was big woman, made for a man like him. He lifted his head to look at her, and she tried to turn her head, obviously embarrassed.

“We can’t have this,” he murmured softly, and began kissing her eyelid, her cheekbone, her nose, the tear streaks that marked her pale skin. He kissed the side of her mouth, gently, teasingly, until she had no choice but to turn her head and kiss him back, fully, her arms tight around him. This time when he lifted his head to look down at her, she didn’t look away.

“That’s better,” he murmured, threading his fingers through her hair. “Have I convinced you?”

“Convinced me of what?” Her voice sounded weak, shy, and tremulous, and he wondered how long he’d have to wait before he could have her again.

“That you have to marry me.”

She was a fighter, he had to give her that. A frown creased her brow beneath the tangled blond hair. “Just because…”

“Among other reasons. I’ve just given you my best demonstration of one major reason why I want to marry you, and if it wasn’t sufficient, I’d be more than happy to show you again.”

“Again?” she asked weakly. “I’m not sure if I could stand it.”

“We’ll give you time to recover,” he said, dropping a light kiss on her sweat-damp shoulder. “Don’t be silly, Ellen. If you don’t marry me, Carmichael will have to call me out, and I don’t fancy fighting a duel with my best friend.”

“Is that why you want to marry me?” she asked naively. “Along with”—she made a weak, shy gesture toward the bed they still shared—“that?”

“That, my pet, is called making love. There are a great many other terms for it, some not so nice, some quite stimulating, but when you and I do it, it’s indisputably making love. And that’s why we’re getting married. Not because Carmichael will cut my liver out. Not because the Lady Arbuthnots of this world will blacken our reputations. And not because what we do in bed is incredibly delightful. We’re not getting married because I just deflowered you, or because you graciously bestowed your favors on me.”

He’d managed to coax a smile from her. “Then why are we getting married?”

He wanted to shout his triumph to the sky at her first admission that that was what they’d be doing. “Because I’m in love with you, my sweet. Have been since before you were idiotic enough to get yourself engaged to that prosy little bore. It just takes me a little while to get to the point.”

“I should kill you,” she said flatly, not at all overjoyed by his declaration. “Do you know how much trouble you would have saved if you’d said something sooner?”

“True,” he admitted. “But once I bestir myself, you’ll have to admit I’m exceedingly efficient.”

She smiled then, a slow, sweet smile that was the most erotic thing he’d ever seen in his life. He groaned, climbing off her, and it was with great reluctance that she released him.

“I’ve made tentative arrangements for an English cleric to marry us,” he said, gathering his clothes. “I’m sorry we couldn’t wait for St. Paul’s, with your brother in attendance, but I’m afraid once we took off on our own, that was out of the question.”

She sat up, wrapping the cover around her body, watching him with unabashed curiosity, and he knew a sudden, unprecedented moment of doubt. He turned back to her. “You will marry me, won’t you? You haven’t really recovered from your infatuation eight years ago, have you?”

“Of course I have,” she said, and he knew a sudden sinking feeling. “My schoolgirl crush matured into a full-blown, unrequited passion.”

He grinned at her, then crossed back and leaned over the bed to kiss her; a brief, possessive kiss. “Not unrequited,” he said. “Do you want me to see if I can get Miss Binnerston back?”

“But she’s with her sister.”

“Not exactly. I… er… had my man detain her. I’d hoped to contrive a sprained ankle for her, but I decided she might end up breaking her neck, so I had Higgins lock her in the room when we took off.”

“You had my companion kidnapped?” she said.

“I’m afraid so,” he admitted, wondering whether he was calling down her wrath upon his head.

“I think you really do love me,” she said in a wondering tone, reaching out to touch his face. It was her first caress, and he almost flattened her back against the bed there and then.

The cleric, he reminded himself. “We’ll recompense her,” he said gruffly, controlling himself.

“You really are a wicked man,” she said in a pleased tone of voice.

“Obviously you’ll have to reform me,” he said, eyes meekly downcast.

“I’ll take it as my life’s work,” she murmured, sliding down in the bed. “Find the cleric.”

Venice. A city built on poles in the midst of a lagoon, and the only way to reach it was by boat. Ghislaine would have almost preferred the remembered horrors of Paris to another bout of seasickness. This journey was mercifully short, the waters blessedly still, and when they disembarked at a wide square she managed to keep her riotous stomach under control.

She glanced up at the tall man beside her. The trip across the continent, down to Italy, had been comparatively swift as they traveled through Hanover, Bavaria, and the Austrian Empire, assiduously avoiding France. They’d never traveled at a decorous speed, but in the last week or so he’d ordered a pace that was downright murderous. It was a wonder the coach hadn’t overturned a dozen times.

He’d come to her room the next night, in the darkness. She lay in the bed, still, silent, awaiting him, dreading him, longing for him.

She knew what she would do. She would master her body. If she couldn’t escape into the darkness of her heart, she could at least hide her responses from him. She could lie still beneath him, force her breathing to stay even, keep her heart from racing, clench her hands to keep from pulling him more closely against her. She could turn her head away from his mouth, and he wouldn’t force her. She could fool him into thinking she was untouched by what he did to her body. She could almost fool herself.

He’d stared at her in the dimly lit room, his face dark and haunted. “A charming virgin sacrifice,” he said, his voice cool and mocking. “You don’t look as if you were longing for my return to your bed. Trust me, I can bring you much greater pleasure than I offered you last night.”

She kept her face still. The thought of pleasure at his hands was perhaps the most terrifying threat of all.

“You have nothing to say, my love?” he taunted, moving to the side of the bed and touching her chin, tilting her face up to his. He leaned down and brushed his lips against hers, softly, tenderly, and Ghislaine could feel her heart twist inside her. Twist and shatter. He drew back, and his eyes were dark and tormented. “It’s up to you, Ghislaine. All you have to do is tell me to go.”

Her mouth was damp from his. Her skin felt hot, unbearably sensitive; her heart was pounding; and she wanted to reach up, thread her fingers through his long dark hair, and pull him down to her.

“Go,” she said, her voice clear and calm.

And he turned and left, without another word.

She sat motionless in the bed, shock and despair fighting with her relief. He was a man without honor. Why did he suddenly abide by his word?

He didn’t come to her room again. Didn’t touch her. But there was no truce this time. It was an armed battle, ready to explode into passion at any moment.

And Ghislaine didn’t know if she dreaded that moment or longed for it.

Nicholas strode ahead of her on the cobblestone walkway of Venice, glancing about him with weary disdain. She remained by the baggage, determined not to race after him, and he turned back to glance at her with a cool disinterest that was almost convincing. “You desire to stay outside all day, Mamzelle?” he inquired in that icy, mocking voice. “I would think you were weary of traveling.”

The very thought of staying put, even for a day, was too seductive for Ghislaine to fight. “Aren’t you going to call a hack?” she asked faintly.

His smile was mocking. “There are no horses in Venice,
ma mie.
No wheeled vehicles. If you wish to be transported to the Palazzo Verdi, then it will have to be by boat.”

“No boat,” she gasped as her stomach rioted once more. “You mean that is the only form of transportation in this city?”

“By water, my love. Or by foot.”

“I will need new shoes.”

“You will learn to ride the canals without casting up your accounts.”

“There are some things, my lord, that are beyond even your control,” she said smartly. “What is the Palazzo Verdi?”

“The palace of a friend of mine whose pockets are sufficiently empty to let that he’ll trust my dubious credit.”

“A palace?” She gasped.

“Venetian palaces are a great deal more seedy than the English or French sort,” he said negligently. “Anyway, I’m an English gentleman. I needs must keep up appearances.”

Tavvy came up behind them, snorting. “You’re going to need to come up with a bit more blunt,” he said. “This racketing across Europe hasn’t been any too kind to our pockets. Better we’d headed straight to Paris.”

As usual Nicholas didn’t seem offended by his valet’s plain speaking. “The lady preferred not to.”

Tavvy cast an odd glance in her direction. Since their first night on the continent, when Nicholas had come to her room, Tavvy’s attitude had changed. He didn’t look at her, speak to her unless absolutely necessary, or allow himself to be anywhere near her. She wasn’t sure why. Either he was jealous—an odd thought to be sure, but she knew servants could be possessive—or he felt guilty.

The guilt was Nicholas’s, even if that word was not part of his vocabulary. She glanced up at him in the brightness of the Italian sunshine, at his beautiful, decadent face; his thin, mocking mouth; his undeniably powerful body. And she wondered how much more she could bear.

He was right, the Palazzo Verdi was most definitely seedy. And damp, and decaying, and in far worse shape than the servants’ quarters at Ainsley Hall, or even the bourgeoisie comfort of the Red Hen. There were a handful of servants, speaking only Italian, ill-dressed and slovenly, and the filth of the place was unbearable. Ghislaine hadn’t been surrounded by such squalor since she’d lived on the streets in Paris.

She followed Nicholas into the salon, where he stood staring about him at the dust and clutter with a bland expression. “Apparently de Bruny doesn’t keep a tidy household,” he said unnecessarily. He turned to Ghislaine. “I’m going out.”

She was shocked enough that he would volunteer that information to counter with a surprising question of her own. “Will you be back tonight?”

“Dare I honor myself with the hope that you might have changed your mind about sharing my bed?” he asked with an ironic smile.

“No,” she said calmly.

His smile was chillingly correct. “I imagine I’ll be otherwise occupied tonight. I’ve a need to replenish our dwindling supply of money, as Tavvy has pointed out, and the surest way to do that is to visit the gaming houses.”

“What if you lose?”

“My dear, I never lose.”

“Do you cheat?” She asked it deliberately, hoping to goad him into a fury.

His eyes narrowed, but he didn’t give her the satisfaction of showing any emotion. “No,” he said calmly. “I’m just very, very good.” He glanced around the room in patent disgust. “Do what you need to make yourself comfortable. Tavvy will see to your needs, since these servants seem unable to understand rudimentary English directions.” He crossed the room to her, taking her willful chin in one strong hand. “And don’t even think of leaving,
ma mie.
I’m not quite ready to let you go.”

It came as an unpleasant surprise to her that she actually hadn’t been busy planning her escape. She told herself it only made sense to lull his suspicions. Here in Venice, with a myriad of entertainments at hand, he would probably keep away from her. She would have time to plan her escape so carefully he would never be able to capture her. Assuming he still wanted to.

“I’ll be here when you return,” she said calmly, wishing he’d release her. Wishing he’d put his hard, mocking mouth against hers.

He hadn’t touched her, kissed her since she’d sent him away. To be sure, she’d told him to go. But Nicholas Blackthorne was not a man who let someone else dictate his behavior. If he’d wanted to kiss her, he would have.

For a moment it seemed as if his long fingers caressed her chin. For a moment it seemed as if regret and an unfathomable longing gleamed in his dark eyes. And then he released her, and was gone.

She stood alone in the room, trying to pull together her shaken sense of control. The place smelled of mildew and old fish, and she would not live like that again. Stiffening her shoulders, she walked back out into the hallway in time to see Tavvy shouting at the servants.

“Clean,” he said in a loud, slow voice. “You must clean.”

“They’re neither slow-witted nor deaf,” Ghislaine said with commendable calm, surveying the three women and two men who made up de Bruny’s staff. They were ill-dressed; slovenly; resentful of the foreign intrusion, no doubt; and frankly contemptuous of Tavvy’s attempts to communicate. “They simply don’t speak English.”

“Damned foreigners,” Tavvy fumed.

“I rather think we’re the foreigners here,” Ghislaine said. She turned to the oldest woman, obviously some sort of housekeeper, judging from her bearing and apparel. “You there,” she said in the calm, clear Italian her governess had taught her. “This house is a disgrace to all of you, and to the Venetian people. Do you want his lordship to return to England saying that the city is populated by pigs who wallow in their own filth?”