Midnight Angel (Stokehurst #1)(43)

“Perhaps she thinks you'll change your mind.”

An engaging smile appeared. “Stokehursts don't change their minds. We're very stubborn. In that regard, I'm the worst of the lot.”

Suddenly Tasia found it hard to believe she was having such a conversation with him, here in the darkness, tangled in his arms. She had dared to criticize him, and he had allowed it freely. It was an alarming sign of how things had changed between them. Her thoughts must have been easy to read, for he laughed and loosened his hold. “I'll let you go for now,” he said. “If we stay like this much longer, there's no telling what I may be driven to do.”

Tasia wriggled out of his arms, but stayed on the bench and faced him. “I meant what I said about leaving. It must be soon. I have a…a feeling that trouble is coming.”

Luke gave her a shrewd glance. “Where will you go?”

“To a place that no one will know about, not even the Ashbournes. I will find work. I'll be all right.”

“You won't be able to hide,” he said. “People will always notice you, no matter how you try to fade into the background. You couldn't change your looks and bearing if you tried for a hundred years. Besides, you weren't meant for that kind of life.”

“I don't have any choice.”

He took her hand carefully. “Yes, you do. Would it be so terrible to come out of your fortress?”

Tasia shook her head, the locks of her hair moving in a sinuous curve over her shoulders. “It's not safe.”

“What if I'm there to help you?” Slowly he turned her hand over, his thumb dipping into her palm.

The temptation to believe him was overwhelming. Tasia was horrified that her common sense was so easily defeated. A few kisses in the moonlight, and suddenly she was considering entrusting her safety, her very life, to a man she scarcely knew. “What would you want in return?” she asked unsteadily.

“I thought you were supposed to be perceptive. Use your intuition…or whatever you call it.” He leaned over and kissed her, his mouth so deeply stirring that Tasia had no thought of pulling away. Helplessly she answered him, openmouthed and enthralled. She had never understood sensuality before, one body speaking to another with skin and taste and movement. She felt his hand sliding through her hair, fingers coming to grip her scalp and pull her head closer. The sensation of being held steady, gently ravaged, was so exciting that she began to shake. Wanting more, she pressed against him with an awkward surge. He gathered her close and pulled his head back, his breath pelting hard on her face. “Damn,” he whispered. “You don't make anything easy, do you?”

Blindly she searched for his mouth, luring him with glancing kisses. She touched the edge of his lower lip with her tongue, and he groaned and gave her what she wanted, catching her mouth with full, greedy possession. Luke let it go on for too long, until his body was hard and ready to explode. Somehow he found the presence of mind to call a stop to it. “Go,” he said thickly, shoving her away. “Now, while I can still let you.”

She pulled up the sagging neckline of her blouse, staring at him with the eyes of a sorceress. Carefully she rose to her feet, her figure wraithlike amid the streaks of shadow and light. After a fierce glance at her, Luke focused on the ground. He waited for several minutes, staying motionless long after the sound of her footsteps had faded.

He tried to comprehend what had happened. If his problem had been the absence of feeling before, it was now the reverse. Too much feeling, too fast, and with it came all the potential for pain he had avoided for so long. A rough laugh escaped him. “Welcome back to the living,” he told himself grimly. There was no choice but to take the chance he'd been given, and see it through to the end.

On Saturday evening, the results of Lady Harcourt's planning were spectacular. The gold and white ballroom was filled with huge flower arrangements. Blossoms were reflected into infinity by the huge mirrors lining the walls. The musicians were as talented as any Tasia had ever heard, filling the air with heavenly waltzes. Together she and Emma peered into the ballroom from one of the windows in the adjoining gallery. People were dancing, smiling, flirting, admiring each other, all of them aware of what a splendid scene it was.

“Wonderful,” Emma said, awestruck.

Tasia nodded in agreement, staring at the profusion of beautiful gowns. Hungrily she took in every detail. English styles were different from those in St. Petersburg, or perhaps it was just that she hadn't given a thought to fashion for so long that it had changed without her noticing.

Necklines were square-cut and shockingly low, covered with transparent gauze or filmy netting in a sham display of modesty. Bustles were smaller—in some cases gone completely—and the skirts were tightly molded over the thighs. How was it possible for the women to dance in such narrow gowns? There was no room for the legs to move. Somehow the ladies managed it, looping their long trains over their gloved wrists and gliding smoothly in their partners' arms.

Tasia glanced down at her own dress, plain black silk buttoned up to the neck. Underneath she wore thick stockings and sturdy black shoes that fastened over the ankles. She was ashamed to admit it to herself, but seeing the women in their finery caused her a pang of jealousy. Once she had owned gowns far more beautiful than any she saw here…the white satin with just a hint of pink, the ice-blue silk that had flattered her eyes, the delectable lavender crepe de chine. She had worn diamond pins in her hair, and ropes of rubies and pearls around her waist. What would Lord Stokehurst say if he saw her dressed like that? She imagined his blue eyes gleaming with admiration as they traveled over her body—