Bewitching (18 page)

She hid her smile behind the fine linen napkin. Now she could see Alec instead of the candles. He raised a forkful of something to his mouth, but before he reached it he looked up, and his eyes locked with hers. There was something akin to magic whenever their eyes met. Even across a distance she could feel the spark deep inside her, almost as if she had swallowed a star.

The frightening and thrilling sensation seemed to glow within her. It grew stronger and stronger and was somehow so compelling that she could not have even used magic to break the spell, nor would she have wanted to. It was more powerful than witchcraft, more pulling than the sea tide, and held more warmth than the heat of the summer sun.

His lips closed over the fork and he slid it from his mouth, chewing slowly. His eyes were still on her, and she had the distinct feeling that the intensity he exuded had nothing to do with the quality of the food or his enjoyment of it. This was more than mere sustenance. His gaze moved to her mouth.

Slowly she lifted the water goblet, needing to feel the wet coolness of its contents. She sipped, never breaking eye contact. The water soothed her throat. Her lips parted, and her eyes locked on his mouth, the same mouth that had kissed her so intimately, had made her forget everything but the feel and taste of him.

Her breath and heartbeat sped up as if she had run for hours along the beach on
Mull
. He lowered his fork and lifted his wine goblet, then sipped at it as he had sipped at her mouth and neck. Time seemed to stop and become nothing but memories—his kiss, his taste, the fluttering of his breath in her hair.

An instant later the butler, Townsend, blocked her view by reaching across the table to move the candelabrum back into its proper place. Jarred into the present, she frowned at his back and waited until he had served her the next course. Then, while he served Alec, she twiddled her fingers again, grinning with happy satisfaction as the candles slid back to the edge of the table. Her magic was going well tonight.

Townsend turned around, his shoulders back, his eyes staring straight ahead. He took a few steps and paused, his attention suddenly back on the candelabrum. With a frown and an almost imperceptible shake of his head, he set the serving dish down and moved the candles back into her line of vision.

She started to twiddle again, but saw four footmen were removing dishes from the table. Figuring that patience was a virtue, she waited and waited and finally tried to catch a peek at her husband by bending down just a tad and leaning way over on the left arm of her chair. If she stretched her neck just so, she could see his dark hand on a fine crystal wine goblet . . . .

"Syllabub?"

She about jumped from her chair at the sound of Henson's voice. Flustered, she stared at her plate, waiting for Henson to point out which utensil.

"Syllabub?"

"God bless you," she whispered.

His throat cleared loudly.

"Syllabub,
Your Grace?" He held out for her inspection a tiered glass dish with individual fruit- and cream-topped puddings.

"Oh. Aye."

He set a stemmed glass of pudding on the small plate in front of her, then handed her the spoon with the crest for a handle.

"Thank you," she whispered, and ate two bites before the coast was clear. She tried to look as if she held the stem of the pudding glass in her right hand, but she twiddled her fingers instead.

The candles slid smoothly to the table edge, and she had a perfect view once again. But it took Townsend only about a minute to move the thing back.

She twiddled again before he had taken a step. He turned back, shook his white head and put the candelabrum back. She waited until his back was turned, then moved it again. He spun around and moved it back, pulling a bit on the linen tablecloth as if he thought it was slipping.

Time to outsmart him, she decided and waited, anticipation building, until Townsend was by the buffet, supervising the removal of the courses. Every so often he'd look over his shoulder. Finally, his suspicion waned and he was busy with his duties.

Biting back a gleeful smile, she twiddled her fingers, excitedly anticipating her view.

The candelabrum moved with the speed of a lightning bolt—right off the edge of the table.

Her hands went to her mouth to catch her gasp. It was truly amazing how flammable that Aubusson carpet was. It was also amazing how quickly smoke could fill a huge room with a thirty-foot ceiling, how fast fifteen footmen could douse a fire, and how quickly Alec could move. He was by her side before she could rise from her chair, and he pulled her to the doors while the footmen poured pails of water on the smoldering rug.

Despite all the smoke, the fire was out in a matter of minutes, and both of them stood in the doorway silent. She watched the smoke settle around the table like English fog. Now, staring at the black holes in the thick red carpet, she felt horribly guilty. She wondered what Alec was feeling. First she had violated Belmore tradition by arriving late, and then she'd destroyed a Belmore carpet. One tentative glance at his hard-angled face and it was obvious he felt little.

I'm sorry,
she told him silently.
I didn't mean to damage anything or to anger you.

He turned that emotionless face to look down at her. "You had best go on up to your room. Henson will show you the way. I shall be up shortly."

Her gaze lingered on his dark eyes, searching for something to dream of. She caught a flash of want, a need.

What is it?

He reached out and traced her mouth with a finger.
This and more.

Her mouth went dry, and she quickly turned and left, her hands clammy, the skin beneath her breasts suddenly damp. He had given her a look that told her exactly what he wanted. Joy quietly followed

Henson up the stairs, wondering what Alec would say when he found out what he had actually gotten.

***

What Alec was getting was a shave.

He sat in the shaving chair in his bath while Roberts, his valet, wiped the soap from his face. The clock in his bedchamber chimed the hour. A few minutes later the clock in the sitting room chimed the half hour. After that the clock in the dressing room chimed a quarter hour. Alec picked up his pocket watch and saw it read three-quarters past the hour.

"What the hell time is it?"

Roberts checked his own watch. "Eleven-forty, Your Grace."

"Have someone reset all the clocks."

The valet nodded and held up a floor-length green velvet robe piped in gold with the ducal crest embroidered in gold on the chest pocket. Alec slid into it, tied the belt, and left the dressing room, heading for the pipe tray and rosewood tobacco jar that sat on the deep green marble mantel in the sitting room. Alec packed his pipe, lit it, and stood near the fire, watching it burn as he smoked.

He was tense. The muscles in his shoulders and back were tight. He walked over to a walnut liquor cabinet and poured a brandy, then he sat down with his pipe and brandy before the fire. He could hear the Bramah in his bride's room, over and over.

After the fifth time he turned and stared at their common wall, frowning. Then he remembered that every time he'd looked at her during dinner she'd had the water goblet to her mouth, a mouth he found in his thoughts more often than he liked and a face that had played havoc with his digestion and had not left his mind for more than a few minutes that entire day. He couldn't remember ever having any woman remain on his mind once he'd left her presence, but she did.

He'd had a devil of a time concentrating all evening and was sure his estate manager thought he had lost his mind. In fact, he wondered if he had. He had never behaved rashly. He'd never done anything without forethought and purpose, until today. He took a long drink of the brandy.

He did not believe one word of that idiotic drivel
Seymour
spouted about predestination, but he still found the day's events unsettling. He had rationalized that marrying the girl was the easiest, least bothersome way to acquire a wife. After all, he had spent long months playing to the whims of society and courting Juliet, so she could lead him a merry dance and then run off with a soldier. But Scottish hadn't been given time to bolt. His hand tightened around the brandy glass.

Try as he might, he could barely call Juliet to mind. He kept seeing Scottish at the inn with all that long wavy brown hair. It had nearly swept the floor when she'd sat at the mirror. Of all the women he had known—and he'd had his share of mistresses, that being an expected part of a gentleman's life—he had never had a woman with hair that could literally be wrapped around them. In bed.

He took another drink and stared into the fire, which suddenly held the image of a pert little face with emerald green eyes, white skin, and full lips. . . .

"Does Your Grace need anything?"

"A mole."

"Beg pardon?"

"Hmm?"

"Your Grace?"

Alec looked at Roberts, then shook some sense into his usually rational head. "No. That will be all."

The bedchamber door closed with a click and at that same moment his wife's Bramah again echoed through the walls. His wife. He stared at the wall, then dismissed her actions to wedding night nerves and the fact that she was part Scot. But she was also English—prime English. The Locksleys were one of the oldest and finest families in
England
, equal in stature to the Spencers. In fact, their title, like that of the Belmores, dated back to the twelfth century.

He set the pipe down, thinking about her family name. He told himself he had done suitably. He polished off the brandy and remembered her hair. He told himself he had done splendidly. He stood up and thought about her mouth. And he did not tell himself anything. He headed for the connecting door.

***

"I'm a witch."

No, that wasn't right. Joy locked her hands behind her back and paced the circumference of the small rug near the fireplace, pausing every so often to step over Beezle, who was asleep by the fire.

A pensive moment later she stopped, waving a hand in the air as if she were tossing off a line from Robert Burns. "I have a little secret."

Frowning, she shook her head. That wasn't right either.

More than likely her husband would think being a witch was a little bit bigger than a little secret. Drumming her fingers on the mantel, she stared into the tall mirror above it as if it could give her the answer. After a second or two she tightened the belt on her rose silk dressing gown with a determined tug and stepped back, placing her hands on her hips. She cocked her head and said to the mirror, "Alec, there's something you need to know about me."

She wrinkled her nose at her reflection. Too foreboding.

She spun around and paced some more, thoughtful and ending each stride with a dramatic turn. Finally she stopped in front of a wing chair. Perhaps she should be direct: "Alec, did you know that on a good day I can turn you into a toad?"

She sank down into the chair with a defeated sigh, muttering, "That would only work if he had a sense of humor."

Propping her chin on her hand, she hung over the arm of the chair and stared at Beezle. He snored just as the clock chimed
two o'clock
. She glanced up, thinking it should only have been about
midnight
. The delicate brass clock hands began to spin like weathercocks in a gale.

"Oh, stop it!" she said, her voice deep with disgust. The mainspring shot through the clock face with a dissonant clunk.