Moonglow (16 page)

After a quick return to Northrup’s home to ready a small and light cabriolet, they set out for Highgate. Now, on the coach seat next her, he sat in that proper yet languid way of his as he drove the cab, apparently unaffected by the heated kisses they’d shared earlier. On a public street no less. His mouth had tasted of caramels. Rich, decadent, and so delicious it made her teeth ache. Daisy always had a weakness for caramels and could most likely thank them for maintaining the fullness of her curves. In her indulgence, she’d slip one soft, sticky candy into her mouth and let it melt, savoring the flavor on her tongue, the way it tasted sweet yet salty at the sides of her mouth. A shiver lit over her skin. She wanted to dip her tongue in Northrup’s salty-sweet mouth and let his flavor wash over her again.

Northrup’s collar was slightly askew, the only sign of their exchange, and her gaze moved over the exposed bit of flesh just below the sharp curve of his jaw. A tender area, that bit of throat on a man. Did his skin taste of caramels as well? She swallowed hard, for she could imagine it did, of caramel and salt. God, she wanted to suck that spot. Heated desire tightened her skin, making her breasts heavy and her thighs ache.

She took a steadying breath and thought of benign things such as new hats, fine kid gloves, and, no, not caramels, but perhaps that new striped parasol she coveted.
Unfortunately, her gaze returned to him like a magnet drawn to its opposite.

His dark hair flowed from beneath his top hat in glossy, uncivilized waves that brushed the tops of his shoulders and glinted auburn in the coach’s lamplight. He had said he grew it long out of mourning.

“Was it your father you thought of before, on the street?” Her voice sounded thick and unsteady, as much a surprise to her as the question that had popped out of her mouth.

Northrup’s shoulders twitched just enough for her to know he’d been surprised as well, as if he’d forgotten about her presence, she thought irritably. He took a moment to address her. “No. Not just then.” His voice was thicker as well. The corners of his lush mouth turned down as he glowered at some unseen thing.

He sat straighter as he turned up the long drive to Holly Lodge, a grand estate owned by the esteemed Baroness Burdett-Coutts. “My father was a bastard most of the time. But I do miss him.” The corners of his eyes crinkled faintly. “Some of the time.”

She thought of her own father. Northrup might just as well have been describing her feelings. “And your mother?” she asked. “Did you lose her as well?” She ought not to have asked. It felt cruel, especially when seeing his wistful expression, but she’d been thinking of her own familial losses.

“She’s been gone for ninety years,” he said quietly.

If he noticed her squeak of shock, he didn’t show it. Sweet God, how must it feel to live so long? Daisy suddenly felt her own mortality as if it had reached out and tapped her shoulder. With cold horror, she realized that one far-off day, she might run into this man and find him unchanged, while she would be old and gray.

“She was human, you see.” Northrup shifted in his seat, yet his hands remained easy on the reins. “Call it nature’s way of culling an aberration, or sheer dumb luck, but a female lycan is a rare thing. Maybe one is born every hundred years. In truth, it is very rare for us to impregnate a woman at all.” The corners of his wide mouth curled, but his eyes held a painful hint of hopelessness as his gaze turned inward. “So rare that a man might outlive many human wives without—”

He sucked in a sharp breath, and his face went ashen. Daisy’s hand moved to take his but Northrup’s arm lifted to drive the horse around a sharp bend. His expression was easy now, back to the same teasing manner of his usual employ. “Let us simply say that you won’t find many bastard lycans.” The coach stopped at the grand entrance to Holly Lodge, and Northrup inclined his head. “We are here.”

The air was cold and wet, beading in the wolf’s fur. Fog clouded his sight, confusing him. He relied on scent to take him to her. The woman. Sweet, thick, sticky. Pollen in flowers, the smell of human female mixed with spring. He moved quickly, weaving past piles of rubbish that clogged his nose and threatened to overwhelm the scent of her.

But the woman was dead. Wasn’t she?
No. No. No.
Panic set in and made the wolf cower. He growled. No, it was she. Her scent. He could taste it on his tongue. He wanted to taste her in his mouth.

Beyond the press of fog, the moon was full and strong, sending power through his flesh, making his bones hum. Closer. She was closer now. His fur stood on end. She was with a man. He could scent him. Man mixed with wolf. Lycan. The human voice inside him screamed in rage, and he howled in response. The lycan could not have her.

T
hough they hadn’t an invitation, no one tried to stop Daisy and Northrup from entering the Baroness’s garden party. Indeed, many gave Northrup a diffident smile or nod of the head. Daisy ought not be surprised; he was a marquis after all. Only the man she’d come to know was not some lofty peer, sneering down his nose at her, but irreverent and playful. He was simply Northrup.

They reached the terrace that led to the wide lawn and Daisy halted. Hundreds of white paper lanterns hung from the trees to twinkle with a soft, ephemeral glow. Ladies in satin gowns darted to and fro like colorful butterflies as they mingled, their laughter light and correct, never full and bawdy.

Daisy tensed. Why hadn’t she thought this task through? To face these people once again, in front of Northrup no less, was too much. Northrup headed down the steps, but seeing that she didn’t follow, he stopped short. He studied her in silence, his expression showing nothing of what he might be thinking, which Daisy appreciated
as she rather thought it might be pity; she knew her face mirrored her trepidation. Irritation washed through her. Barbed words might cut her, but she’d bleed on the inside. Never again would they see the damage they wrought upon her.

Daisy took a step and came alongside of Northrup. His warm breath touched her as he leaned in. “Good. Do not fear their censure.” A soft touch skimmed the edge of her upper arm. “I have seen generations grow from babes and then be put into the grave. And their words all lost to time.”

He was trying to comfort her, she knew, and yet when she glanced at his clean profile, so youthful and strong, she felt an ache for him. How could she fret over trivial things when he would be forever unchanging and alone as time ebbed and flowed past him? Daisy rested her hand on his forearm and gave it a small squeeze.

He placed his hand over hers and guided her through the throngs of people milling about the wide lawn. “If I remember correctly,” he murmured at her ear, causing unwanted little shivers to dance down her spine, “Randal is a lad of about twenty and two, curly-haired and distressingly cherubic in appearance.”

Daisy’s lips twitched, and she wondered how any person could maintain an ill humor when in Northrup’s presence. “Distressingly? Really, Northrup, I cannot see what could be distressing about a cherub.”

His brows drew in a scowl. “They’re baby angels, for God’s sake.”

As if this explained all. It mattered not. Jesting with Northrup made her feel right. The sensation was like that first true breath she took after removing her corset for the night, yet she felt a qualm of unease. Men were sources of amusement or pain, not comfort.

“The weather is turning,” Northrup said as they glanced about the crowds. Indeed, a thick fog was rolling in, as if cast out of London to haunt the bucolic peace of Highgate. With the fog came a chill that cut to the bone and made one’s insides quiver. “Perhaps they’ve gone inside the tent.”

Once inside the massive garden tent, they separated. Daisy searched the packed crowd for a cherubic-faced youth and his young fiancée, Annika. It was warmer here, the glittering light of two massive crystal chandeliers and the press of bodies heating the air.

Daisy had gone but a few steps when a nasal voice stopped her.

“Why, Jeffery, I do believe it is Mrs. Craigmore.”

“I believe you are correct, dearest. Though I would not have expected to find her here.”

“Here,” the tone of his voice implied, indicating a place of quality.

Grinding her teeth, Daisy turned to face the proper Mr. and Mrs. Bean, once good friends to Craigmore. The older couple lifted their thin brows in unison as if daring her to speak.

“Jane and Jeffery,” she said with a false smile. “How good to see you.”

As expected, Mrs. Bean’s thin mouth wrinkled at Daisy’s irreverent familiarity, and she sniffed as if smelling something foul. “I am surprised that you ventured out so soon.” Her eyes went to Daisy’s deep-green dress, or rather, to the low cut of the bodice and the abundant display of Daisy’s breasts. “Lovely gown, my dear.”

A hit. Very palpable. Yet predictable. Daisy’s bosom would never be demure. Nor would she try to hide it. To wear an ill-cut gown would be a sin. She smiled again,
taking a breath deep enough to make their eyes widen. But her smile felt pained, and her skin as brittle as ice crusted over deep snow. She didn’t belong here. She didn’t belong anywhere or with anyone. For a moment, the pain of such loneliness made her want to sob. It took effort to parry. “Thank you,” she said airily. “One tries to keep up with fashion, not be a slave to it.”

She paused as she took in Mrs. Bean’s monstrously ugly evening bonnet. “What a wonderful bonnet. That quail looks as though it shall take flight at any moment.” And perhaps be shot down by hunters.

Mrs. Bean’s eyes narrowed. “It is a dove.”

“Oh?” Daisy peered closer. “Yes, it is. My mistake. I’m rather dismal at categorizing fowl. Even when it is right before me.”

Unfortunately, Mrs. Bean was quite comfortable with social blood sport and refused to back down. “I see you arrived with Lord Northrup. Quite a big fish to catch.” The long nostrils on her aquiline nose flared as she let her eyes travel once more over Daisy, inspecting and dismissing in one swoop. “Though I fear the bait might be lacking.”

Northrup’s scent touched Daisy a moment before his warm hand landed on the center of her back. “Ah, now, Mrs. Bean,” he said over Daisy’s shoulder, “surely you can do better than that.” He smiled with teeth. “For example, there are times when a simple ‘bugger off’ works quite well.”

Daisy’s shocked gasp was lost among the Beans’. Northrup didn’t wait for a reply but spun Daisy away from the couple. “That was fun,” he said.

Daisy gaped up at him. “You really don’t care, do you?”

“About those fools? No.”

She laughed despite herself. “Good lord, but their faces.” She pressed a knuckle against her mouth to contain her mirth. “I’ve never seen such outraged shock.”

The corners of his eyes crinkled, but his grin faded into something softer. “You look beautiful when you laugh, Daisy. I should like to see you do so more often.” Before she could answer, he leaned in close and his tone became serious. “We have a problem.”

Quickly, he ushered her over to a young man who stood alone at the edge of the tent. Northrup’s assessment of a cherubic appearance had been correct. The man’s eyes widened when they approached him. “I cannot find Annika anywhere,” the youth said without preamble.

“Mr. Randal, I presume?” Daisy asked.

He gave her a quick nod. “Madam.” Randal turned back to Northrup. “Explain this to me again, sir. You believe that the London killer we’ve all been reading about is going after ladies who are wearing Annika’s perfume? How do you know this?” The tips of the lad’s ears turned deep red. Likely he did not want to discuss where he had purchased the perfume.

“He has already attacked Mrs. Craigmore.” Northrup inclined his head toward Daisy. “And two others who have worn the scent. It is imperative that we get her to safety.”

The young man’s frown deepened as he scanned the crowd. “She can’t have gone far. I saw her only moments before you found me.”

The cold air seemed to pluck at Daisy’s spine as she too looked about. “What color is she wearing?”

Randal straightened. “Pink. Pale pink.” His gaze darted between Daisy and Northrup. “Surely there is no harm in Annika wearing the perfume here? Where there are so many people about?”

A soft breeze swam over the lawn to play with Randal’s dark curls. For a moment, he appeared just a boy. Daisy’s unease increased.

“You have no notion as to what this killer will do,” Northrup said. He glanced at Daisy. “Perhaps check the house?”

The crystal chandelier inside the tent tinkled faintly as the breeze shifted toward them and Daisy caught the pungent smell of wolf. She turned to Northrup but his expression had gone blank. His nostrils flared, and the look in his light eyes grew deadly. Without a word, he sprinted toward the shadowed part of the lawn where no one had bothered to tread.

“What the deuce,” exclaimed Randal as Northrup’s lean form disappeared into the dark, and a stifled scream cut the night.

Daisy did not think but simply ran straight toward the sound. She reached the hedge line and halted as she saw the pale length of a pink satin skirt. She blinked at it before a rough shove sent her tumbling as Randal barreled past.