Dancing on the Wind

Chapter 22

After his encounter with the lady in the blue domino, Lucien returned to his room, seething with a combination of physical and mental frustration. He had told his valet not to wait up, so after removing his domino and mask, he built up the fire, then poured himself a small glass of brandy and sat down to think.

There was no rational reason for his suspicion that the lady in blue was Kristine Travers; apart from height, there was no real resemblance between the two women. Nonetheless, he had been unable to shake the persistent feeling that it had been her laughing at him from behind that mask. Perhaps it was obsession that made him see her everywhere; that, and the knowledge that she was a mistress of disguise.

Yet he had gone thirty-two years without being attracted to a woman as intensely as he was to Kit. It made sense that he would also find her identical twin alluring, but it was hard to believe that a total stranger could also arouse him in precisely the same way. If he hadn't made a fool of himself with Kathryn Travers, he would have forcibly removed the mysterious lady's mask. A good thing she had disappeared into the crowd before he had succumbed to temptation.

With a wry smile, he finished his brandy. It was hard to be rational when waltz music from the ball throbbed through the air. Every rippling measure reminded him of how his last partner had felt in his arms. Maybe the lady in blue was a damned Travers cousin, which was why she affected him the way Kristine and Kathryn did. In the morning he would ask a few questions and see if he, could find out who the lady really was, but now it was time for bed.

After he removed his coat and boots, he remembered that he hadn't locked the door on his return. He crossed the room and was reaching for the key when the door swung violently open, almost hitting him in the face. And headlong behind it came Lady Nemesis wearing the blue domino, ash blond curls, and false age lines of his earlier dance partner.

Eyes enormous, she gasped, "Harford's right behind me. Please…"

Explanations could wait. He instantly swung the door shut and turned the key in the lock. "Get into the bed and pull the covers over your head. Then stay put and don't talk."

As she dived for the bed, he stripped off his cravat and threw it aside, then yanked his shirt loose so that it hung over his breeches. As he was unfastening his collar button, a fist struck the door and Harford's voice barked, "Open up!"

"Go away," Lucien called back, his voice sharp with irritation. "I'm busy." As he spoke, he used one hand to rumple his hair and the other to twist a pinch of skin on his neck, leaving a red mark that looked like a love bite.

Harford bellowed, "Dammit, Strathmore, let me in!"

"All right, all right," Lucien said testily. "I'm coming." He scanned the bed, where Kit was a long, curving shape under the blankets. She was covered except for a fold of blue silk that hung down one side of the bed. He shoved the telltale fabric under the blanket, then ambled across the room, taking his time.

After snuffing all but one candle and donning an expression of intense exasperation, he opened the door. "Is the house on fire? I can't imagine anything else so important that it can't wait until morning."

In the hall was Roderick Harford, his eyes furious and his clothing disheveled. "I want the woman you have with you!"

Lucien's brows arched. "You can't have her. She's mine, and I'm anxious to get back to what we were doing."

"The teasing bitch tried to rob me! I caught her searching my desk, as bold as brass."

"Oh?" Lucien folded his arms and leaned against the door frame. "It can't have been recently, because I've been keeping her busy for the last half hour or so."

"But I just saw her come into this room!"

"Not in here," Lucien said positively. "Your ladybird must have gone through a different door. They all look the same."

Expression belligerent, Harford tried to shove past. "I want to see who's in your bed, and I'm aot leaving uatil I do."

Lucien's arm whipped across the doorway, stopping the other man in his tracks. "I really can't permit that," he said in a voice of dangerous softness.

"I'm not asking your permission, Strathmore!" Again Harford tried to bull his way through.

Lucien grabbed the other man's right arm and yanked it up behind his back. When Harford began thrashing violently, Lucien twisted his wrist to a point on the edge of excruciating pain. "If you insist, I'm afraid that I shall have to call you out," he said coolly. "That would be regrettable-it's damned bad form to kill the brother of one's host."

Brought back to a realization of the circumstances, Harford stopped struggling. Lucien released his wrist, but the other man was not done yet. Furiously he said, "You and that slut are working together, aren't you?"

Lucien's eyes narrowed. "You are beginning to irritate me, Roderick. I am respecting the lady's privacy for reasons that have nothing to do with you."

"Why?"

Lucien rolled his eyes heavenward. "Quite apart from normal gentlemanly behavior, there is the regrettable fact that not all husbands are tolerant of their wives' amusements."

After another silence Harford gave an embarrassed laugh. "A married woman. I should have thought of that."

"Yes, you should have. Now kindly seek your felonious female elsewhere. The next door to the left is a servants' stair, isn't it? Perhaps she went that way."

Harford's brow furrowed. "I guess she must have. In dim light and at a distance, it was hard to tell which door she opened." As he turned to go, he added gruffly, "Sorry. I was out of line."

"Apology accepted. Just don't bother me again tonight." Lucien swung the door shut and locked it, then slid the key under the cushion of a nearby chair.

This time, by God, she was not going to get away.

He listened to the sound of Harford's retreating footstep, then the faint creak of the door to the service stairs. With his usual curiosity, Lucien had explored the stairwell soon after he had arrived. Harford would wander for a long tune in the bowels of the house before finally giving up in frustration.

Turning to the bed, he said, "You can come out now."

Expression wary, she pushed back the covers and sat up, surrounded by drifts of bed linen and blue silk. The atmosphere vibrated with complicated emotions: anger, deceit, desperation, and desire. Most of all, desire.

But for Lucien, anger was a damned close second. "So it really was you earlier," he said, his voice low and hard. "I'm glad to know that my instincts were sound. What have you to say for yourself this time?"

She grimaced. "That facing you under these circumstances is in some ways worse than having to deal with Roderick Harford." With a cavalier lack of respect for the expensive silk, she wiped off most of her cosmetics with the hem of her domino. Looking slightly smudged and much younger, she added wryly, "I've provoked him only once."

Her humor raised his anger another notch. "Perhaps you should have taken your chances with him. You asked for my help, but it comes at a price. And this time, my deceitful lady, I am flat out of gullibility."

Her expression became grave. "Given what you've endured from me, that's hardly surprising."

During the long silence that followed, he saw a shimmer of changing emotions in her eyes: regret, doubt, longing, and finally determination. Her hands locked in her lap. "I know that payment is long overdue," she said quietly. "Once you wanted me in your bed. If that's still true-well, I'm here."

Once again she astonished him, this time by her sheer, arrow-straight directness. He drew an unsteady breath. Though he disliked the implication that her offer was rooted in obligation rather than desire, there was no question of his refusing. Gentlemanly compunctions were a feeble consideration when set against the passion smoldering in his veins. "You had better mean it," he said tightly, "because this time you won't be allowed to change your mind or cry for mercy."

"If anyone cries for mercy, it won't be me, Lucien." She stretched out a slim, strong hand. "I've had enough of lies. It's time for some honesty."

He knew with absolute certainty that this time she would not run away. Yet she looked brittle, her eyes still haunted by the aftermath of her encounter with Harford.

Lucien frowned. Fear made a poor bedmate. He wanted her to be as hungry, as vulnerable, as he was. That meant he must control himself while bringing her to a fervor that matched his own. But restraint would not be easy.

In the silence that stretched tautly between them, the lilting music below was clearly audible. Of course, he thought with relief; dancing would re-create the enchantment that had bound them together earlier. He reached out and clasped her hand. "Dance with me, my lady."

After a startled blink, she slid her beautiful long legs over the edge of the mattress and kicked off her slippers. She released his hand, then curtsied gracefully, as if they had just been introduced. "It will be my pleasure, Lord Strathmore."

"Though we have not been properly introduced," he said with matching formality, "I believe that you are Lady Kit Travers?"

She straightened, a smile lurking in her eyes. "I knew it was only a matter of time until you learned who I am. Jane is one of my middle names, though."

"I've thought of you by a hundred names-Lady Jane-Lady Nemesis-Lady Quicksilver. But Kit is better, crisp and unconventional, like you." He tugged off her blond wig. Then he loosened her hair into a silky cloud, each gentle, circular stroke of his fingertips a caress.

"Mm-m-m." She gave a slow smile. "That feels lovely. No wonder cats like having their heads scratched."

She was still wearing her kidskin gloves, so he lifted her left hand and peeled the glove off. Then he kissed the fragile skin of her inner wrist. Her fingers curled, and her quickening blood pulsed warmly against his lips.

When he did the same with her right hand, her fingertips fluttered across his cheek. "Lucifer, light-bearer," she murmured. "Bright son of the morning."

"Now much fallen from heaven, I fear." He placed one hand in the small of her back. Her spine was vibrant with supple strength. Intertwining the fingers of his free hand with hers, he swept her into the pattern of the waltz. "But I have a glimpse of paradise before me now."

She colored and dropped her eyes. In the candlelight, her hair was a cinnamon-tinted halo. With more space than on a crowded dance floor, they could move freely to the rhythms of the music, their bodies speaking directly to one another. The crimson-patterned carpet was lushly sensual beneath their stockinged feet as they glided across the chamber.

Though her dancing was adept, as befitted a professional, at first there was a stiffness in her movements, as if her mind and body were not quite in tune with the music. But as they circled the open area of the room, the music began to work its magic and the strain faded from her muscles and her face.

Their partnership became fluid harmony. He was intensely, physically aware of the lithe feminine body beneath the blue domino. The reverse was also true, for each of his movements produced a matching response in her, a dynamic, constantly shifting balance between male and female.

As they came to the end of the room, he untied the ribbons of her domino with one hand. The silk billowed outward on the turn and floated obliquely down until it crumpled into the angle between wall and floor. Her bare shoulders glowed like warm cream. His mouth went dry. Not yet. Not… yet.

Her eyes had drifted shut so that she was following his lead purely through touch and movement. She was thistle-light in his arms. He found it oddly moving that she was placing herself entirely in his hands, at least for the moment.

Now that he had relaxed her, it was time to make her tense again. He bent forward and kissed the tender angle between her throat and jaw, lapping upward to the elegant curve of her ear. Her breath caught, and her lips parted as he spun her about in a fluid circle.

What would it take to open her eyes? With an extravagant swoop, he tilted her backward over his arm, supporting all her weight. At the same time he thrust his leg between hers so that they were intimately locked together. Her startled eyes flew open, and in the clear gray depths he saw the passion he had wanted to invoke.

She recovered from her surprise in an instant. "Sir," she said demurely, "I believe that we are closer than is proper."

As she spoke, she slowly squeezed her thighs around his. Heat curled through his belly. Breathlessly he said, "Indeed we are." He swept her upright again and swirled her across the room. "And we are going to get closer yet."

He began to improvise steps that were too shamelessly erotic to be performed in public. Her pliant dancer's body adapted to his effortlessly, as if she was an extension of him. Their bodies met in full-length caresses, then separated, only to come together again with greater fire. They became part of the music, its beat thrumming in their blood as they performed their ardent mating dance.

When the music downstairs ended, they merged into an embrace, swaying together in the center of the chamber. They kissed ravenously, and she rolled her pelvis into his with wicked provocation. He groaned as he felt himself harden against the yielding cradle of her hips.

The time for restraint was over. He unfastened the ties that held her gown at the back so that the garment fell away from her body. Eyes smoky with desire, she gave a seductive shimmy. The gown rippled downward over her arms and hips until it pooled at her feet, leaving her clad only in her chemise and the artfully padded corselet that disguised her own slim figure.

His gaze holding hers, he unlaced the front of her corselet. The garment fell open and revealed her breasts as softly arching shadows beneath the sheer lawn of her chemise. He cupped her breasts, teasing her nipples between thumb and forefinger. Her eyes widened, and she ran her tongue over her hips as the sensitive nubs hardened.

Every movement of her body signaled desire. Yet the sight made him realize that desire was not enough. Even more than passion, he wanted an emotional intimacy that would reach all of the lonely places deep in his soul.

As he removed her corselet, he tried to catch her gaze, fiercely willing her to look at him, to share the mysteries of her elusive spirit.

Instead, she stepped forward and slid her arms under his loose shirt, wrapping them around the bare skin of his waist as she hid her face against the triangle of bare chest where his shirt gapped open at the front. Her breasts flattened against his chest as she smoothed her palms over the tight muscles of his back.

Reluctantly admiring the deftness with which she had evaded his gaze, he skinned her chemise up over her head and tossed it away. "You're wearing too much."

"You are, too," she retorted. She pulled his shirt up over his head, then tossed it away. " 'Pleasing was his shape,' " she quoted huskily, " 'and lovely.' "

He had to laugh at the rich absurdity of her imagination. "As I recall, Lucifer was in the form of the serpent when Milton said that."

"Isn't there a serpent somewhere near?" She took advantage of his shirtless state to press scalding kisses to his bare chest.

Her hands skimmed under the waistband of his breeches. He gave a harsh exhalation, and his hands tightened convulsively around her buttocks. The ripe curves fitted perfectly into his palms. Half lifting her from the floor, he molded her malleable flesh against the hard angles of his body.

She bit his shoulder, and the last of his control disintegrated. After ripping off his breeches and drawers, he swept her to the bed. They tumbled onto the mattress with an impact that made the bedframe shriek.

He bore her backward into the pillows, wanting to absorb her into himself, to feast on her intoxicating femaleness. Her mouth met his, open and demanding. They twisted together like wildcats, her hips grinding into his.

Feverishly he buried his face in the scented cleft between her breasts-tangy sweet, salt and carnations. He could not get enough of her.

As he sucked her nipple into his mouth, her whole frame shivered, her head thrown back and her chest heaving with raw demands for breath. She wore only her silk stockings.

Unable to resist the delicious curve of her abdomen, he trailed kisses down it, his breath skimming over the sensitive skin. She moaned and caught his head between her hands, pressing his face into her belly. Her satiny warmth intoxicated him.

He pushed himself up and moved between her legs, his thighs spreading her knees wide to receive him. As he did, he saw the butterfly tattoo hovering teasingly just above her ribbon garter. He leaned forward and pressed his lips to it, and felt her thrumming life force against his tongue. She gasped and spasmodically crushed handfuls of blanket in her fists.

His fingers slid through gossamer tangled curls to the hotly moist folds below. She whimpered with delirium when his fingers stroked, probing and preparing. Shaking with urgency, he positioned himself so that he was pressing into intimate heat.

Her back arched in readiness and her silk-clad ankles wrapped around his as he braced himself over her. Then, with a single eager thrust, he entered her.

She cried out-a sound of shock, not pleasure-and her nails ripped his back as she spasmed with pain.

He went rigid, the muscles of his arms and shoulders like granite, and stared down at her in disbelief. "Jesus bloody Christ! he exploded, his eyes changing from the lucent gold of passion to the guttering green of anger. "Why didn't you tell me?"