A Dangerous Collaboration (Veronica Speedwell #4)(53)

The noise I had detected was a sort of strangled gasp, stillborn in the throat, the sound choked by emotion. I turned to see Helen Romilly at the opposite end of the great hall. The nightlight by the turret stair had blown out, and there was only her candle to light the distance between us. Against the inky shadows of the staircase behind me, my white dressing gown must have appeared ghostlike, the hem trailing along the ground like the draperies of a phantom. My face, half-shielded by my black hair, would look as if it floated above my body, making a wraith of me.

“Rosamund!” she cried, starting forward a half step. “Did I summon you? Go away,” she urged.

I did not move, but just then a gust of wind blew from an opened window in the turret, billowing my dressing gown about me and tossing my hair.

She gave another gasp and her candle fell from her trembling hand, the fitful flame guttering out as it landed upon the stone with a dull thud. She called again in the darkness as she fumbled for it.

“Rosamund! You must go,” she moaned. “You must leave us in peace.”

I did not wait to hear more. I could hardly reveal myself to her. She would be utterly humiliated if she discovered I was no ghost, and I had little inclination to subject myself to further histrionics. It seemed a quick retreat was the easiest for both of us.

Without another thought, I slipped up the stairs, making my way on silent feet into the shadows above. As I ascended, a pool of warm light spread beneath me, rising through the darkness. She had relit her candle and was making her way to the turret. I hurried, very nearly tripping over the hem of my dressing gown as I charged up the stairs, determined to elude her.

I came to Tiberius’ door and flung myself through it, easing it closed just as the golden light illuminated the step below. I had closed it soundlessly; Helen would not find a ghost this night. But while I had successfully eluded both the housekeeper and Helen, I had created a new problem for myself.

Lounging upon his bed in his dressing gown of black silk, Tiberius surveyed me through heavy-lidded eyes, his mouth curving into a thoroughly salacious smile.

“Well, my dear Miss Speedwell. What a delightful surprise,” he said, tossing aside the book he had been reading.

I put a finger to my lips to urge him to silence. I did not know where Helen was, and she might well be just outside the door.

“Oh, don’t worry,” Tiberius assured me in a whisper as he levered himself off the bed and made his way to my side, his lips grazing my ear as he took my hand. “I will be as quiet or as loud as you like. I am yours to command,” he told me. And then his mouth settled on mine.





        CHAPTER





11


I will admit to a certain susceptibility where Tiberius’ amorous efforts were concerned. Between my own healthy libido and the length of my self-imposed and unaccustomed chastity, I was ripe as a plum for the plucking. And we might indeed have plucked had I not come to my senses. As much as I enjoyed Tiberius’ exertions—he had graceful, deft fingers and the nimblest tongue of any man I had ever met—experiencing them only made me deeply aware of Stoker and the thwarted embraces we had shared.

Stoker. The thought of him propelled me to instinctive action. With no little measure of regret, I removed my hands from the viscount’s person and placed them flat upon his chest, giving him a small shove.

At least it was supposed to be a small shove. He ended up flat on his back on the hearthrug, contemplating the ceiling. When he had recovered his breath, he folded his hands over his lean stomach and regarded the coffered ceiling thoughtfully. “You need only have asked me to stop, Veronica. I have never yet taken a lover against his or her will, and I certainly wouldn’t begin with you.”

I reached a hand to help him up. “I am sorry. I suppose I was rather more forceful than I intended.”

He smoothed his dressing gown back into place, tying the knot of the belt where I had yanked it loose in a moment of reckless abandon. “Still, that was rather nearer the mark than I expected. Two minutes more and I wager you wouldn’t have been able to stop yourself.”

He poured out a measure of whisky and handed it to me, taking another for himself.

“Two seconds more and I wouldn’t have,” I admitted. I sipped deeply at the whisky to calm my jangled nerves and persuade my insistent lust to quiet itself.

He eyed the bed, then turned, regretfully I think, to the chairs in front of the fireplace. He settled himself, crossing one long leg over the other. “I suspect I have my brother to blame for this,” he ventured.

I took the other chair, propping my feet upon the still-warm hearth. “There are no significant developments in that quarter,” I told him.

“But there never will be if you and I become better friends, is that it?”

“Something like that.”

He smiled, a curiously kind curving of the lips that was devoid of his usual mockery. “You walk with hope, Veronica. God, how I envy you that. Life is a brutal business when one has nothing left to hope for.”

He rolled his glass between his palms, staring into the amber depths of the whisky.

“Do not try to engage my pity,” I warned him. “You are handsome, wealthy, privileged beyond belief, and you have hobbies to amuse and engage you.”

He arched one brow in my direction. “Music and art are poor substitutes for love, my dear.”