Midnight Angel (Stokehurst #1)(37)

“And who will protect my cousin?” Alicia demanded.

“I will.”

“A fine job you've done so far!”

Plowing through the melée, Emma reached Madame Miracle and Lady Harcourt. She stared at both of them with snapping blue eyes, her golden freckles standing out in sharp relief against her flushed skin.

“Emma,” Lady Harcourt said rapidly, “a childish tantrum is the last thing anyone needs at the moment.”

Emma ignored her, turning to Madame Miracle. “Why did you have to make sport of Miss Billings? She's done nothing to you.”

The woman puffed up indignantly. “I would not abuse my gift in such a way! I revealed the truth exactly as the spirits showed it to me!”

Frowning, Emma folded her lanky arms. “I think you'd better leave now. I rang for our butler. Seymour will show you out. If you don't have a carriage of your own, one of ours will take you.”

“Emma, dear,” Lady Harcourt said in a cutting tone, “just because your high-strung governess has taken offense doesn't mean the rest of the guests shouldn't be entertained. This is a matter for adults, not children. Why don't you go to your room and amuse yourself with your books and dolls?”

Emma gave her a sly glance. “Very well. But I should hate for Madame to face my father when he returns. He has such a horrible temper. Who knows what might happen?” Grinning unpleasantly, Emma curled her finger into a hook, drew it across her own neck, and made a gurgling sound.

Madame Miracle turned pale and began to scoop up her belongings.

“Emma, don't make up horried stories about your father,” Iris hissed. “Go to your room. I won't tolerate your interference. I am the hostess, and I want Madame to stay.”

Emma's devil-child expression vanished, replaced by mulish determination. “She made Miss Billings unhappy. I want her to leave. And it's my home, not yours.”

“Ill-mannered brat!” Iris glanced around the room, seeming to take a hurried survey of the guests. “Where is your father?”

Emma shrugged innocently. “I have no idea.”

Luke went to the small third-floor room, finding the door ajar. The air was thick, filled with stifling silence. A chair was overturned on the floor, a small wooden icon laying beside it. The governess…Tasia…stood at the window. Somehow she knew it was he. “My lord,” she said tonelessly, without turning around.

Suddenly Luke realized that she wasn't angry, or embarrassed, or even afraid. She was devastated. He had hurt her far more than he'd intended. Remorse swept over him, and the dark color of shame crept up his face. Uncomfortably he cleared his throat in the prelude to an apology.

“I came to see how you—” He stopped suddenly. Expressing concern at this point would sound like mockery, when he had been the cause of her pain.

She kept her back to him. Her voice was strained with the effort of sounding normal. “I'm fine, sir. I just need a few minutes alone. That woman was very strange, wasn't she? Forgive me for making a scene. If you would go, please…and let me restore myself. I just need to be alone…” She wound down like a mechanical toy, her words grinding into silence, her shoulders trembling. “Go…please.”

Luke reached her in a few swift strides and pulled her stiff body into his arms. “I'm sorry,” he said against her hair. “I'm so damned sorry.”

Tasia struggled against him, wedging her hands between them. As her face came close to his shoulder, she caught the traces of brandy and tobacco smoke that clung to his coat. It was a good, comfortingly masculine smell. She stopped pushing against him. He was very strong and warm, the steady beat of his heart filling her ear. No one had ever held her like this except her father, when she was a child frightened of the dark. Her throat clenched against a swell of tears.

“No one's going to hurt you.” Gently he smoothed her hair. “I'll keep you safe. You have my word.”

No one had ever offered to keep her safe. It had a strange and powerful effect on Tasia. Tears flooded her eyes, and she blinked furiously to keep them back. He was only saying those words in a misguided attempt to be kind. He didn't know what it meant, how much she needed. He didn't know how desperately alone she was. “You can't promise that,” she said, her teeth chattering. “You don't understand.”

“Make me understand.” He sank his fingers into her tight chignon and pulled her head back, staring into her face. “Tell me what you're afraid of.”

How could she? How could she admit that she was afraid of being caught and punished for her crimes, and most of all that she was afraid of herself? If he knew what she had done, what she was, he would hate her. Her mind lingered on that, his sneering contempt if he knew…if he knew…The stinging tears spilled over her cheeks, and she began to cry with a force that hurt. The harder she tried to stop, the worse it became. Stokehurst groaned and hauled her close, tucking her head against his chest.

Sobbing violently, she clutched her arms around his neck. He held her in a smothering grip, pressing words of comfort into her hair, her throat, his breath warm on her skin. He rocked her gently, until several minutes had passed and the fine linen of his shirt was sodden beneath her cheek. “Hush,” he finally whispered. “You'll make yourself ill. Hush now.” His palm rubbed warm circles across her shoulders and back. “Take a nice, long breath,” he said, his jaw scraping against her temple. “Another.”