Moonlight Masquerade (6 page)

“But... but...” her aunt stammered
nervously, not wishing to leave her niece alone in this masculine
bedroom, no matter how deserted it appeared to be at the moment.
“You may need me.”

Christine sighed, impatient to be in the
warm water. “There are several towels warming before the fire, a
pitcher of rinse water for my hair has been placed on an easily
reached stool, a clean gown awaits me on that chair over there, and
I am fully capable of washing myself—even behind my ears. Please,
Aunt, allow me some privacy. I have been bathing alone since I was
ten years old.”

“You could become faint as an aftermath of
your injury and slip beneath the water. Christine, you could
drown!” Aunt Nellis ventured, her expression changing rapidly from
concerned to horrified. “I’d come back in here and find your hair
floating atop the water, your eyes open, staring up at the
ceiling!”

Christine looked up at the elaborate stucco
ceiling. “At least I’d have a lovely view,” she said teasingly.
“Dearest aunt, I don’t intend to drown. I promise,” Christine added
solemnly, all the while liberally sprinkling bath salts in the
heated water and then swirling her hand about to raise up mounds of
scented bubbles.

But her aunt wasn’t finished. Her agile mind
had already conjured up another possible calamity. “There could be
a secret passageway in here. There often are such things in these
old houses, you know. Anyone—even the earl himself—could sneak in
here while you’re nak—defenseless, and force himself on you.”

Christine straightened and began tying up
her hair with a pink ribbon. “The earl has not even seen fit to
share his dinner table with us. I doubt that he would wish to share
my bath. Now, please, Aunt Nellis, go away. The tub will soon grow
cold and I shall have to call those dear servants back with fresh
hot water.”

That consideration was at last enough to
roust Nellis Denham from the chamber.

Fifteen minutes later, her clean, wet hair
tightly wrapped inside a small towel twisted into a turban, the
surface of the bath now covered by a thick layer of bubbles, a
clean and thoroughly refreshed Christine carefully leaned her still
tender head against the high curved rim of the enamel tub and
allowed her limbs to go limp.

This was heaven on earth, she decided
dreamily, closing her eyes and allowing the soothing sensation the
warm water created to lift her mind away from her troubles so she
could float on a higher, happier plane.

The image of the earl as she had seen him in
the garden rose unbidden in her head, and she smiled slightly as
she remembered how his handsome face showed to such advantage in
the moonlight. She had to meet him, speak with him, no matter how
shy he was, no matter how he tried to hide from her.

She was not only curious about Hawkhurst,
she was intrigued, and more than halfway along in her construction
of a fantasy life that would explain him—a life that included a
woeful tale of unrequited love and a volume of poems he was
doubtless straining to create as he paced his gardens in the
moonlight.

Poor man, she sympathized silently, he is
obviously obsessed with beauty, if this chamber reflects his
interests, yet he hides his own as if ashamed of it. Someone must
have once hurt him very, very badly.

“I said you might bathe at ten o’clock. It
is now nearly eleven. You abuse my hospitality. Do you then intend
to stay in there until you melt?”

Christine’s eyes snapped open wide in shock
and surprise as she sat up, slopping water and bubbles onto the
rug, and clutching her oversized sea sponge tightly against her
breasts. Her sky-blue gaze hastily scanned the enormous chamber,
trying to ferret out the author of this frightening interruption.
Somehow, she had gotten herself trapped in her aunt’s worst
nightmare.

When she didn’t answer, the deep,
disembodied voice went on coldly: “Well, girl, are you dumb? Have
you no voice? Answer me!”

First he had frightened her, and now he was
insulting her. Christine’s eyelids narrowed angrily and her
winglike brows lifted in challenge as she retorted, “I don’t speak
with shadows, sirrah. Show yourself.”

“I think not,” the voice said, although
Christine noticed that the menacing tone now had a faint tint of
amusement running through it. “You do not appear dressed for
visitors.”

Christine began feeling the chill of the
draft created by an open door somewhere in the chamber. Still
trying to locate the source of his voice, which now seemed to be
slightly to the left of her, she said, “Yet you, noticing my
appearance, were not gentleman enough to retire without bringing my
attention to your presence, were you? I believe that makes us even.
Now, since I will not speak to shadows and you refuse to show
yourself, I suggest that you retire and allow me to quit this tub
in peace.”

Her head snapped around as the voice,
cruelly teasing, suddenly seemed to come from directly behind her.
“But how, lovely one, will you know that I have gone, if you can’t
see my passing? Dare you rise from the safety of your bubbles
unless you are absolutely certain you are alone?”

Tears of frustration stung Christine’s eyes
as she felt like the butterfly her childhood friend James had
pinned to a table before slowly ripping off its wings, one by one.
He held all the cards, this shadowy earl, yet she had to somehow
find a way to strike back at him.

Thinking of James gave her a plan. James had
been a tease and a bully, and like all bullies, he had run away
when finally she had grown tired of his teasing and dared to call
his bluff.

Swallowing down on her fear, Christine faced
forward once more and declared forcefully, “I shan’t know, shall I,
my lord Hawkhurst? Only you will know, only you will see. However,
if you are at all a gentleman you will
not
see. You will
instead turn your back to me—preferably right now—for at the count
of three I am nonetheless going to rise from this tub.
One—two—
oh
!”

A light, warm pressure was applied to her
bare shoulder and she melted back down into the tub, her heart
pounding hurtfully against her rib cage, her vision narrowing as
she truly feared she would, for the first time in her life, swoon
completely away. Aunt Nellis would indeed return to see her niece’s
body submerged, her hair floating on top of the water, her eyes
staring sightlessly at the ceiling, just as she had said she
would.

The thought of coming to so ignominious an
end gave her new strength. Slowly turning her head a fraction,
Christine saw Hawkhurst’s hand, resting just inches above her bare
breast.

“Oh,” she breathed in a small voice,
silently wondering why she hadn’t screamed.

The hand was nearly as pale as her own white
skin, but it was not soft, for she could feel the scrape of
callouses as the hand moved infinitesimally lower, sending her
pulse soaring.

It was a large hand, masculine without being
wide, and it ended in long, tapered fingers and well shaped,
bluntly cut nails. A plain gold signet ring adorned the second to
the last finger of the hand, the hand that burned into her flesh
even as it caused a chilling shiver to run through her body.

“Don’t, Christine,” Hawkhurst said quietly
from far above her head, his words nearly lost in the throbbing
inside her ears. “Please don’t. I’ll go now.”

The hand lingered a moment longer before
lightly stroking the side of her throat and leaving her. She sat
completely still, facing front, as a blur of swirling black moved
past her tear-bright eyes and left the chamber through a door in
the corner.

Only then did Christine begin to cry.

“Y
ou’re terribly
quiet this evening, Christine, Aunt Nellis commented concernedly,
laying down her wooden embroidery frame to look over at her niece,
who was propped against the bed pillows, her usually sunny
expression disturbingly solemn.

“Yes, ma’am,” Christine responded absently,
staring off into the middle distance.

“I think that bath must have worn you out. I
warned you to wait another day, didn’t I? Never have I seen anyone
with such a penchant for washing themselves from head to toe. Why,
when I was your age we didn’t find it necessary to submerge our
entire bodies more than three or four times a year at the most.
Water is not good for anything, not even drinking, some say.”

“Yes, Aunt,” Christine answered absently,
her fingers nervously pleating the bedspread into small, precise
folds. “I think water painting is very nice too.”

Aunt Nellis rose, smoothing down her gown as
she silently congratulated herself. She had been correct. The bath
had obviously been too much for the girl. She’d been listless and
unresponsive all day, and had barely touched the dinner tray
Lazarus had brought up to her.

“It’s getting very late, my dear,” Aunt
Nellis said kindly. “I think it’s time you lay down for the night.”
Crossing over to test Christine’s temperature by placing her
fingertips assessingly on the girl’s brow, she asked, “Are you sure
you’ll be all right? I could spend another night in here if you’d
rather not be alone.”

Christine grasped her aunt’s hand to lightly
rub it against her cheek. “No, dearest, it’s time you had some real
rest. Lazarus has told me how you have barely slept since the
accident. If you don’t soon take some time for yourself we shall
find our roles reversed, with me nursing you. I’d make you eat
gruel, you know!”

Aunt Nellis nodded her approval of this
statement. “Gruel is very beneficial to invalids. You’re showing
some sense at last, Christine. I do believe that is the first
really reasonable thing you have said to me since regaining
consciousness.”

“I’m so glad. I live only to please you,
darling Aunt Nellis,” Christine teased, pulling her aunt down for a
kiss. “Now, go to bed. I’ll be fine, really.”

Christine waved to her aunt as the woman
left the room, but her smile faded once the door closed and she was
alone. She had thought this terrible day would never end. How she
had ever survived the hours between her strange confrontation with
the earl and this moment without her aunt ferreting out exactly
what had happened, she would never know.

Yes, she was exhausted. Who wouldn’t be? She
was exhausted from trying to keep a good face on things while,
inside, she was filled with trepidation mingled with avid
curiosity.

Christine bit at her thumbnail, a habit she
thought she had long since outgrown, trying to find some sense in
the earl’s actions. He was handsome, yet hid himself. He tried to
project total disdain for her and her aunt, yet had been kind to
them in so many ways. He purposely frightened her, insulted her,
yet he seemed to deliberately call her attention to his
existence.

The Earl of Hawkhurst was an enigma, and
Christine longed to solve the puzzle that made up the man.

“You should be resting, Christine, not
abusing your brains trying to conjure up ways to get to me.”

Christine inhaled sharply, sitting up
straight in the bed to address the shadow she saw standing in the
corner. “You’ve done it again!” she accused, too angry to feel any
real fear. “Can’t you ever knock?”

The shadow merely shrugged its shoulders.
“It’s my house.”

“It’s my house, it’s my house,” Christine
parroted, making a face. “That may very well be, my lord, but for
the moment, this is
my
bedchamber. I did not give you
permission to enter.”

“Shall I leave?”

“Yes.
No
! Oh, I don’t know what you
should do!” she exploded, shaking her head. “Aunt Nellis would
expire with shock if she knew you were here. But I do very much
want to speak with you.”

“Permit me to venture a guess as to what you
want to discuss. Being a well-brought-up young lady, you wish to
thank me for my hospitality, for graciously granting your aunt’s
demand for shelter.”