Midnight Angel (Stokehurst #1)(40)

A flush covered Luke's face. “It won't happen again. I want the girl to stay.”

“Is that what she wants?”

Luke hesitated. “I think so.”

Charles frowned at him. “I've known you for too many years, Stokehurst…there's something you're keeping from me.”

“I give you my word I'll protect Tasia. Tell Alicia that I regret what happened. Convince her that Tasia is better off staying here. I swear I'll protect her from now on.”

Charles nodded. “Very well. You've never broken your word in the past—I'll have to trust that you won't start now.”

Casually Charles walked away. Luke stood alone at the back of the room, feeling guilty and strangely confused. Everyone shot speculative gazes at him, except for Iris. She sat a few yards away, pointedly ignoring him. Luke was well-aware that if he had any desire to visit her bed that night, he would have to exert a considerable amount of charm, followed by an apology and the promise of a visit to the jeweler's. But he didn't want to make the effort. For the first time, the thought of sharing Iris's bed left him cold.

He was consumed with thoughts of Tasia. Whatever had happened in her past was bad, he had no doubt of that. She had experienced a lot—too much—in her short lifetime, and had survived it on her own. She was an eighteen-year-old girl, unwilling to ask for help, or trust anyone who might offer it. And he was too old for her, a man of thirty-four with a half-grown daughter. He wondered if she had ever given a thought, even a passing one, to the difference in their ages. Probably not. So far there had been no sign that she was attracted to him: no flirtatious glances, no lingering touches, no effort to prolong their brief conversations.

Come to think of it, he had never seen her smile. Certainly he hadn't given her reason to. For a man who was known as having a way with women, he had been remarkably uncharming to her. An ass. And it was too late to retrace his steps and undo the damage. Trust was a fragile thing, built one careful piece at a time. With his actions tonight, he had destroyed any hope of gaining her confidence.

It shouldn't matter so much. The world was full of beautiful women, women of intelligence and charm. Without conceit Luke knew that many of them were readily available to him. But in all the years since Mary, no one had caught his interest as this girl did. Brooding in silence, Luke drank steadily, turning grim and unsociable. He ignored his responsibilities as host, and he didn't give a damn what anyone thought. Many of the faces he saw were the same faces he had seen at the parties he hosted with Mary at his side. Year after year the patterns repeated themselves, round and round like a spinning wheel.

He was thankful when the group finally broke for the evening, everyone heading off to cavort with their bed partners of choice. Biddle, the valet, was waiting in his room in case he needed assistance. Luke snapped at him to turn down the lamps and leave. Sitting in a chair, fully clothed, he lifted a bottle of wine to his mouth and took a deep swallow, abusing the subtle vintage.

“Mary,” he muttered, as if by saying her name he could conjure her out of the shadows. The stillness of the room mocked him. He had held on to grief for a long time, until it had somehow dissolved on its own, leaving…nothing. He thought the pain would be there forever. God, he would prefer that to this emptiness.

He had forgotten how to enjoy life. It had been easy in his boyhood—he and Mary had laughed all the time, relishing their youth, their hopes, blindly trusting in their shared future. They had faced everything together. Was it possible to find that with someone else?

“Not bloody likely,” he muttered, raising the bottle again. He couldn't stand the prospect of more disillusionment, more pain, more shattered dreams. He didn't even want to try.

Sometime in the middle of the night, Luke set down the half-finished bottle and wandered out of his room. The moon was a huge disk in the sky, strewing white-gold light through the windows. He made his way through the quiet mansion, lured by the thought of cool breezes outside. He crossed a stone courtyard and went through an opening in the tall box hedges that bordered the garden.

Luke's feet crunched on the graveled walkway as he proceeded to a marble bench set in a patch of greenery. Hyacinths spread their heavy fragrance through the air, mingling with lilies and heliotrope planted in lush beds. He sat on the bench, sprawling his legs out comfortably. Then he was still, his attention caught by an ethereal shape moving among the hedges. He thought he was hallucinating. But there it was again, the elusive gleam of white.

“Who is it?” he asked aloud, his heart thumping. The movement stopped, and he heard a gasp.

A few soft footsteps, and then she appeared.

“Miss Billings,” he said, a quizzical note in his voice.

She was dressed in the peasant costume she had worn the night he had kissed her, a simple skirt and a loose white blouse. Her hair was loose, streaming down to her hips. A light-colored shawl was draped over her head. “My lord,” she said breathlessly.

He relaxed, shaking his head. “You looked like a ghost drifting through the garden.”

“Do you believe in ghosts, sir?”

“No.”

“Sometimes I think I'm being haunted.”

“People do that to themselves. Usually people who have too much on their consciences.” He gestured to the place on the bench beside him. After a brief hesitation, she accepted the silent invitation. Sitting on the end of the bench, she kept a prudent distance between them. They were both quiet, steeped in the sense of being outside time. The garden was a sanctuary from the rest of the world.