Lady Midnight (24 page)

"Yes." Kate's eyes drifted sideways from Caravaggio's pickpocket to another painting she had not noticed before. It was a portrait, not in the Italian style and not old. Indeed, she would have guessed the artist was Elizabeth Hollingsworth, for it had a similar style to that lady's portrait of Kate's own mother.

This painted lady was not dark like Lucrezia Bruni, but fair as a spring day. Long golden curls fell loose over the shoulders of the white gown, and her laughing eyes were as blue as the painted sky above her. A red satin sash encircled her waist, the color echoed in the flower she held in one hand. The other hand rested on her lap, displaying a gold wedding ring. She looked so sweet and girlish, so perfect and guileless.

In fifteen years or so, this is what Amelia would look like. It had to be her mother, Michael's wife.

Kate sat up straight, her fingers trailing away from Michael's.

He followed her gaze, his half smile fading. "Ah. I see you have met my wife. Mrs. Caroline Lindley."

"She was very beautiful," Kate whispered.

"Yes, she was. The Diamond of the Season when I met her." Michael drained his glass and reached for the decanter to pour out more. "Everyone sought her out. But she made the dreadful mistake of marrying me."

Kate had never heard that bitter note in his voice before, and she did not like it. She reached over and clasped his wrist before he could take another drink. "A mistake? But did you not love each other?"

"Oh, yes. We loved each other. But you see, bonny Kate, I was not then the man you see before you now. I did not yet see the value of family and respectability. I cared only for the London life—gaming, drinking. Having a good time."

Kate relaxed a bit, but she still held his wrist. It was warm and smooth under her touch. "Everyone is young once, and everyone does foolish things then. There is no sin in that."

"No sin in murder?"

Kate felt her skin turn cold under the lash of those words. Surely she could not have heard him right! Her hand flinched away from him. "M-murder? Did you kill someone? In a duel, or something like that?"

Michael shook his head. "I did not run anyone through with a sword or shoot them with a pistol. But I
was
responsible for my wife's death."

Kate felt caught in a strange, hazy nightmare. The brandy made her mind slow, her thoughts sluggish. She glanced over at the portrait, but Caroline Lindley just went on smiling her serene, eternal smile. "What happened?"

"It was not very long after Amelia was born. I know Caroline—and my mother—hoped that fatherhood would help settle me, would separate me from the wild friends of my youth. But I felt so happy when I saw that tiny girl, so exuberant. I agreed that I would go to the country with Caroline and the baby, but first I wanted one more adventure. A celebration of sorts. I was going to race some friends to Brighton in my phaeton, and Caroline insisted on going along, even though it was not the sort of thing she fancied."

Kate did not want to hear any more. She was sure she knew all too well what was coming—merriment turned to tragedy in the blink of an eye. Lifelong scars. Hadn't Christina said her sister-in-law died in an accident? "Your leg..."

"Yes. We crashed. Something darted into the road, and I swerved to avoid it, but we were going too fast. I broke my leg, crushed it, along with my collarbone. But Caroline—she died instantly. Her neck broken."

He, too, looked to the portrait, the beautiful image that held no essence of his lost wife. "Now you know my deep, dark secret, Kate. I give it into your hands."

Yet she still held on to her secrets—and would forever. She took his hand again in both of hers, as if she would literally hold his secrets safe for him. "It was certainly a tragedy. But never a murder, Michael. An accident."

"It was my carelessness that killed her. If I had listened to her pleas..."

"Perhaps. We humans are prone to careless mistakes. It is one of our terrible flaws. I have watched you since I came to Thorn Hill—there is no evil in your soul, no will to hurt others or possess them against their wills, as some people have. You love your family, your home, the life you have made here. I am sure you loved your wife. You were young and foolish. You made a dreadful mistake. You were never a bad person. You never
murdered
her, and she knows that. Did she not choose you out of all her suitors? I'm sure she could see what I see."

Michael stared at her, his gaze unreadable. Yet she thought perhaps she saw the beginnings, the flickerings, of hope there, buried under the old guilt, struggling to shine through.

"Where did you learn such things, Kate?" he asked quietly. "From Shakespeare?"

She smiled at him. "Of course. And from my own mistakes, of which there are many."

"I think you are too wise for that. Too kind to make such mistakes."

"Ah, no. You see, I, too, am young and foolish. But I am trying to be better. I try every day. It is all any of us can do. We can't erase the past, but we can build a finer future." She reached up, compelled to touch Michael's face, to ease the tense lines on his brow with her fingertips. His skin was smooth under her touch, taut satin over high cheekbones, rough along his jaw. He was close, so close she could drown in the blue of his eyes.
Full fathom five...

He, too, seemed enchanted by this moment out of time, woven of confidences and brandy. He caught her hand and kissed the tips of her fingers. His lips were soft and firm, so gentle where they touched her skin and left stardust behind. "I am a foolish man still, Katerina," he murmured, his hoarse voice echoing against her fingers. "Because I must do this..."

His other hand reached behind her head, weaving through the loose strands of her hair, drawing her closer. Ever closer.

He was going to kiss her!
Kate knew she should pull back, that this should not be happening. But she could no more draw away from him than she could cease to breathe. She craved that kiss—she
needed
it. It was unlike any other kiss she had ever received.

His movements were slow, easy, giving her time to draw back if she wanted. As her eyes drifted closed, she felt the brandy coolness of his breath on her cheeks, the heat of his skin, the clean scent of him. She reached up to twine her arms about his neck, to bring him even closer. The silk of his hair tumbled over her hands, clinging to her fingers, linking them together.

Their lips met softly, gently, once, twice, slowly finding their way to each other. Then the temptation, the heat, was too great to be resisted one more second. Their kisses melded, his tongue seeking hers, parting the soft seam of her lips.

"Mmm," Kate murmured at the taste of him, so dark and rich and perfect, the smoothness of brandy overlaying something more enticing, more dangerous. Tentatively, unsure of what he might like (for different men preferred different actions), she touched the tip of her own tongue to his.

Obviously, that was the right movement to make. Michael groaned, and his arms tightened around her. He pulled her across the chair onto his lap, until they were as close as their layers of silk and wool and linen allowed them to be.

Yet Kate wanted to be closer, ever closer. She slid one hand down his throat, along the bare skin of his chest where his shirt parted. It was hot satin under her touch, alive and vital, roughened by the crisp curls that lowered along his torso in an enticing arrow. His heart leaped beneath her palm, and she reveled in the feel of its rhythm, in the way it responded to her own heartbeat, her own desire.

Then everything around her went soft and blurry, and she was utterly lost. Their kiss, their embrace, was the beginning and ending of her whole world, and she wanted nothing else.

His lips left hers, trailing along her cheekbone, her jaw, the tender spot behind her ear. She shivered at the close sound of his breath.
"Dolce, dolce amore,"
she whispered, clinging to him as if he was her only shelter in a shifting world.

"Say that again," he muttered, his hand softly caressing the underside of her breast. "Again."

"Caro
—" she began.

But her whispers were cut off by the sound of a door slamming somewhere in the house, the rush of footsteps in the foyer.

No doubt it was only servants, a footman locking the doors for the night, but the sensual haze she floated in was coldly ripped apart. Kate opened her eyes, and was strangely shocked to see that the library around them was entirely unchanged. They had
not
been transported to some sunny, sensual island of their own making, to some red-curtained bed surrounded by flickering candles. They were still here, at Thorn Hill, with the lights sputtering low and reality rushing in on them.

Bitter disappointment flooded coldly through her veins, drowning out all the heated delight, the joy of discovery.

Michael's head dropped against her shoulder, his breathing as ragged as her own. His hand fell away from her breast to clasp the arm of the chair until his knuckles turned chalky white.

The loss of his touch left a hollow coldness in her heart. Kate reached up to smooth his tousled hair. Hair she had only just mussed herself, with her seeking fingers. "Michael," she whispered tentatively.

"Sh," he growled. "Kate, my bonny Kate, please. Just—be—still. For a moment."

Kate let her head fall back against the chair cushions, and concentrated on breathing carefully in and out until her wild heartbeat had slowed, and the hazy edges of her vision cleared. She felt Michael's breathing slow against her shoulder.

Perhaps she was still tipsy on the brandy. Perhaps she would have bitter regrets in the light of morning. No—she was
sure
she would have bitter regrets! Daylight made all things dangerously clear—it ripped away the masks of night. Tomorrow, she would still be the governess—he would still be her employer. The past would still be with them.

But tonight—ah, tonight was so very sweet. She had been kissed before, yet never like that. Never until all the world faded away and the only important thing was the next mingled breath, the next press of skin against skin. She had trusted Michael as she had never before trusted a man, and he had led her into such delight.

Delight she wanted more of. That could not be denied, not with her mind reeling and her flesh tingling. Yet even if they never came together like this again—and they could not—she would always have this one precious gift.

Slowly, carefully, on legs that felt turned to water, she eased herself up off his lap. As she gazed down at him, she saw just how achingly handsome he was, all rumpled hair and sharp edges. His eyes, those glorious eyes, stared up at her, full of all the things she feared—regret, sorrow, loss. But there was also a gratifying amount of sheer desire.

"Kate," he said roughly. "I don't know what came over me; I must have been foxed, yet that is no excuse. I am sorry—"

"Hush." Kate cut him off, pressing her fingers to his lips. Those delicious lips she had just tasted, and which felt damp and enticing under her touch. "There is nothing to be sorry about, Michael,
caro.
Tonight was only a dream. Yes? A sweet dream which will vanish in the morning."

He appeared very much as if he wanted to say something more, to argue, to apologize again. Kate would have none of it. She knew her heart would surely break if he was sorry for their lovely kiss. Their time together. The kiss had been meant to help heal his soul just a tiny bit, to show him that he could not be the monster he thought himself if a woman could so desire him, so care about him.

She wanted only that to linger, the pleasure and healing, and nothing else.

"Just a dream," she repeated. With a farewell smile, she slid her finger from his lips and hurried from the library as quickly as her unsteady legs could carry her. She did not look back, and she didn't stop until she shut the door of her chamber behind her. Alone again—alone with the past.

* * *

Just a dream.
Kate's words echoed in Michael's head, sweet and alluring. Indeed, it felt like a dream now that he was all alone again in the flickering shadows of the library. It was like any other night, when the household was all asleep yet he could not find his own slumber. When he was left with brandy, moonlight, and memories.

Yet it was like no other night had ever been. Kate's rose perfume lingered in the air; her touch glowed on his flesh. And he could taste the sweetness of her lips, her soft skin, could feel the glory of her hair as it flowed through his fingers.

Yes—she had been very real. And unlike anything he had felt before. Her sorcery was complete, and her kiss wove a wondrous spell around him until he never wanted to be free. Never wanted to let her go. But then she vanished, slipping away from him like an elusive curl of silvery incense, a morning mist that disappeared in the light.

Just a dream.

Michael threw his head back against the cushions of the chair and closed his eyes, trying to hold on to the vestiges of her magic.

He had not thought he was overimbibing the fine brandy. Just one glass, perhaps two—certainly not a drop to the great quantities he could consume in his youth. He had been feeling only a pleasant mellowness, a slow unwinding after the crowds of the assembly, and was beginning to think he should retire. Then the library door opened.

At first he thought he
was
dreaming, for she was such a vision. Her glossy black hair was loose, falling over her shoulders in a shining river of waves. A paisley shawl was thrown over her evening gown, surrounding her in shimmering silvers, grays, and blues. She didn't seem to be of the modern age, more like a medieval lady surveying her keep, a dark witch in search of midnight spells.