Lady Midnight (11 page)

Kate hummed a soft tune as she made her way along the twists and turns of the garden path. It was a song she had heard so many times, soaring to the frescoed ceiling of La Fenice, a lament on lost love, tragic longing, physical desire.

She
had
no lost love, of course. Yet somehow the song echoed to something in her heart this night—some longing, some emptiness she couldn't explain. She didn't want her old life, her old ways back. That was finished. But what would replace those familiar plans? She was adrift here in this strange place. She was neither Katerina Bruni nor Kate Brown.

She paused at the turning of the pathway, next to a stone goddess, and gave a deep sigh as she looked around her. It
was
a lovely place to be lost, though, a beautiful, clear night with a shimmering moon. And she liked this garden at Thorn Hill. The gardens in Italy were beautiful but so very different, carefully manicured, not a stone or a blade of grass out of place. Here, flowers tumbled together, clustered around statues and sundials and spilling over their borders onto the paths. They smelled sweet in the night air, like fresh-turned earth and rainy new greenery. Real and honest and true.

As
she
wanted so much to be herself. "Nothing about me is honest or true," she whispered, running her fingertips over a tangled shrub.

She turned around to stare up at the darkened house. It was not a pretty place. Like the garden, it had a comfortable wildness, a welcoming laziness, that was so unlike anything she had seen before. But Kate liked it, more than she could say. She liked the comfort of the rambling old dwelling, the reality of it. There was no artifice there. And she liked pretty little Miss Amelia and forthright Lady Christina. She liked their sense of family.

No, she didn't just
like
the people or their house. She
lusted
for them, for what they represented. Her whole life had been built on artifice, on deceit. On a glittering glamour that was as deceptive as the pylons Venice was built on.

Thorn Hill was real. It was a place where she could be herself—if only she knew what that was.

And only if they
never
found out about Katerina Bruni. Especially Michael Lindley himself.

Kate frowned as she thought of him, her fingers closing on the shrub leaves until the sharp edges pricked at her tender skin. He had smiled at her so often during that dinner, treated her with politeness and respect, asking her questions about her journey from London, her plans for the schoolroom and lessons. He deftly kept his mother from grilling her. His glances
were
admiring as he looked at her—as hers probably were to him. But they were not lascivious or speculative. He didn't grab at her when she walked by or grope at her beneath the table.

It was the first time since she was thirteen years old that a man had looked at her without obviously gauging her price, and she treasured that. Her heart soaked it in like a rosy balm.

That didn't negate the fact that when she studied him so secretly over the dinner table she longed to know what his sensual lips tasted like. Or what the waves of his light brown hair would feel like beneath her searching fingers. Would he be passionate and fiery as a lover, or gentle and tender?

Kate laughed aloud now as she thought of it.
That
was the Katerina Bruni part of her, but here at Thorn Hill even that section of her soul was different. She fantasized these things because Michael was handsome and charming and she rather liked him, not because he was rich and could "help" her obtain silks and emeralds. Her thoughts were secret, all for her.

A schoolgirl infatuation, for a woman who never could be an innocent schoolgirl.

It was unexpectedly sweet, and made her laugh again. "Please," she prayed in a whisper. "Please let me stay here at Thorn Hill. Just for a while."

Then, because her heart was suddenly full of the giddiness of her new life, she spun about in a circle, her somber blue skirts sweeping the flowers.
"Tra le braccia lo serra,"
she sang out, the song now shed of its sadness and leaving only the love.

Her little aria ended on an ungraceful squawk as applause suddenly filled the moonlit air. She lurched to a halt, staring appalled at Michael Lindley.

He had appeared seemingly out of nowhere, materializing from the garden shadows into a patch of starlight. He clapped on, a smile spreading across those lips she sang about. That grin brought out a small, enticing dimple set deep in his unscarred cheek.

"Oh!" Kate gasped, falling back a step. Her heart skipped a beat in shock, and even a quick jolt of fright. She was here all alone in the nighttime, and she had been cornered in dark corridors by gentlemen more than once. A jaunty word and a quick shove had gotten her out of those situations in the past, but it was not a circumstance she cared to repeat.

Especially not with a man she had just been so innocently giggling about.

Kate backed up until she felt the sharp marble edge of the sundial against her hips. She reached behind her to feel the cold security of the stone under her grip.

But Michael made no move to grab her or even touch her. "That is a beautiful song, Mrs. Brown," he said softly. "What are the words?"

Kate felt her cheeks prickle with a blush at the question. "Er—
tra le braccia, lo serra e lungamente, lo bacia in bocca."

"And what does it mean? My Italian is so sketchy."

It truly meant "Thereat she takes him by the chin and slowly kisses him on the mouth." But Kate would not say that aloud. "It means a kiss for the loved one—or something like that."

He nodded, seemingly satisfied, yet he still watched her closely. Did her silly blush show? Surely not—it was too dark. Perhaps she was doing something improper in being out here alone so late.

She tugged her shawl closer about her shoulders. "I am sorry to be wandering around your garden at such a late hour, Mr. Lindley. I just could not sleep, and needed some air...."

He waved away her halting apology. "Please, Mrs. Brown, you may walk in the gardens anytime you feel the inclination. I hope you come to consider Thorn Hill your home."

Her
home?
Kate glanced at the quiet house. If only she could. But homes could so swiftly be snatched away, in the crash of a wave.

"Thank you, Mr. Lindley," she answered. "I am glad to be here. Your daughter is a joy, and I enjoy talking with your sister. They will be very easy to teach, I'm sure," He gave a wry laugh, deepening that dimple. "I hope you won't live to rue those words, Mrs. Brown. Christina has a mind of her own, and Amelia may
look
like a tiny cherub, but I fear she inherited a measure of her father's stubbornness along with her mother's sweetness and beauty."

Her mother? It was strange, Kate thought, how she had never considered the reality of his late wife before. As if Miss Amelia sprang from the sea, a tiny Aphrodite born of waves and foam. But his wife
had
been a real woman, a flesh and blood creature who shared this man's life and bed, bore him a perfect fairy-child.

She must have been beautiful indeed. Beautiful and—what had he said?—
sweet.
A strange jealousy twisted at Kate's heart.

It was so absurd to envy a dead woman.

"I am sure Lady Christina, Miss Amelia, and I will rub along well, Mr. Lindley," she answered.

"I very much hope so. I wouldn't relish another governess search." He shifted on his feet, casting a long, rippling shadow on the gravel. "May I join you on the rest of your walk, Mrs. Brown? I, too, appreciate a turn in the fresh air before I retire."

"Of course," Kate said readily, though in truth she wanted to flee. Only in solitude was there true safety.

She turned back onto the path, and only as he came up to her side did she notice he used a walking stick tonight. The large piece of amber set in its head glinted in the moonlight.

She stifled a start of surprise, but he must have noticed it anyway, for his smile faded and his gaze shifted away from her. "I was in a carriage accident many years ago," he said briefly.

"Oh!" Kate cried, a crest of quick sympathy rising in her. "Does it still pain you?"

"Not at all, Mrs. Brown. I just have some small aches once in a while, especially in the evenings."

She nodded. "I was also in an accident, a boating accident. In Italy."

They fell into a heavy silence as they walked, the only sound the light crunch of their footsteps on the gravel, the tap of his stick. Kate wasn't sure what to say. She could never reveal the sordid details of that terrible day, and she sensed that he did not wish to talk of his own troubles. But still she ached for him, and for herself. Such memories could never be entirely in the past.

Only as they turned onto a new path, toward the house, did he speak.

"Has it been many years since you left Italy?" he asked, his tone very casual.

Kate tore herself away from the painful musings on loss and injury, and tried to recall the story she had so carefully concocted in her London room. "Yes, a long time. Mr. Brown was a soldier. I met him when he came to Italy after the war. When we married, I came to England with him." She was amazed at how easily the tale fell from her lips now. Amazed, and a bit scared.

"And when he died you did not care to go back to Italy?"

"No. I have no family there now. I would rather make my life here."

"Where did you live in Italy? Your accent is not of the countryside there."

Her accent? Kate glanced at him sharply, but he just gave her a bland smile. Obviously, he was not as ignorant of foreign lands as most of his countrymen. No doubt he even knew perfectly well what the words of her song had meant. She would have to increase her guard with him, not be beguiled by dark hair and dimples. "I am from Venice."

"Indeed? I have a friend who owns a house in Venice. His wife is an artist and prefers the light of Italy to the gloom of England. Sir Nicholas Hollingsworth is his name."

"Hollingsworth? Elizabeth Hollingsworth?" Kate said, startled into indiscretion after she had just resolved to be careful.

"Why, yes. Do you know them?"

Know them? Their palazzo was not far from her mother's; Elizabeth Hollingsworth had painted the portrait of Lucrezia Bruni. Kate's hands shook where they clutched at her shawl. "I—no, not personally. I have heard of her. I enjoy art, and she is quite well-known."

"Indeed she is," he agreed. "You must meet her one day, Mrs. Brown."

"Meet? Do they come often to Thorn Hill, Mr. Lindley?"

"I don't think they have
ever
been here," he said, and Kate's nerves abated just a tiny bit. "But perhaps I could lure them with the news that an appreciator of art is now in residence."

"Oh, no, Mr. Lindley," Kate said quickly. "Please do not trouble them on my account. I'm sure their lives must be very busy."

"I'm sure you're right. Yorkshire would be too quiet for Nick and Lizzie," he answered. They had reached the house, the foot of the stone steps leading up to the terrace. "But not, I hope, for you, Mrs. Brown."

"No. I love the quiet." Kate studied him, his face half in shadows. A little half smile lingered, but his expression was unreadable. "Thank you for our walk, Mr. Lindley. Good night."

"Thank
you,
Mrs. Brown. I enjoyed our discussion." Had he believed all her answers during that "discussion"? She couldn't tell—his tone was all politeness. "My mother will help you set up your schoolroom tomorrow. Just let her know if there is anything you need."

"I will. Thank you."

"Then good night, Mrs. Brown."

Kate hurried up the steps and through the partially open glass doors into the house. She tried her hardest not to run, even though her feet told her to do so. Only when she was in the corridor leading to her chamber did she give them free flight.

Please,
she thought, repeating her earlier plea.
Please let me stay here.

* * *

She was hiding something.

Michael watched Kate Brown as she hurried along the terrace until her slim figure slipped through the doors and disappeared from view. Only the faintest hint of her rose perfume still hung in the crisp air, proving that she had been there at all.

Her words, her demeanor, were all that was proper. Her poise was admirable, something he was sure his mother hoped could be passed to Christina. But Mrs. Brown obviously did not care to answer questions about herself, her own life, her past.

It could just be modesty, of course. Yet in Michael's London life, where he had wide acquaintance with the fairer sex, he seldom met a female who did not care to speak of herself at great length.

Michael enjoyed mysteries, puzzles, especially when they were connected with a beautiful lady. But his old life, where he could indulge such intrigues, was long gone. He had his family's well-being to think of now.

He would just have to keep a close watch on Mrs. Brown, he thought as he slowly climbed the terrace steps to find the house and his rest. And
that
was a task he could look forward to with a great deal of anticipation.

He grinned at that thought. Life at Thorn Hill had not held such intrigue in a very long time indeed.

Chapter 6