Midnight Angel (Stokehurst #1)(55)
Because I love you, Luke yearned to say. I love you more than anything in my life except Emma. You don't have to give me anything. You don't have to love me back. I just want to help you. All I want is for you to be safe. But she wasn't ready for those words. She would be frightened, or scornful, and throw them back at him. He hadn't reached the age of thirty-four without developing a reasonably good sense of timing. Strategically he hid behind a mocking smile.
“Because I'm all you've got,” he said, “except for the Ashbournes. If I were you, I'd take help where I could find it. There's not exactly a queue forming.”
Tasia snatched her hand away and glared at him. She said something in Russian—decidedly not a compliment—and went into the cottage. The door closed with a slam.
Luke let out a sigh of relief. She wasn't happy to be there…but she would stay.
As the day progressed, Tasia changed to her peasant blouse and skirt and left her hair to hang in a long braid down her back. There was no one to see her except Stokehurst, and she might as well be comfortable. Truth be told, the cottage was not a bad place to be held captive. She went from room to room, discovering treasures in every corner: rare books, engravings, and miniatures of haughty dark-haired people who could only be Stokehurst ancestors.
Everything in the house was worn and comfortable, the walls covered with faded tapestries and rich oil paintings, the furniture splendidly heavy and old. So cozy and private…It was not difficult to imagine William, Lord Stokehurst visiting his mistress here, shutting out the rest of the world to seek pleasure in his lover's arms.
After investigating the underground wine vault and pantry, Tasia went outside to stroll around the pond, the paddock, and the vegetable plot. She wasn't exactly certain where Stokehurst was, but she sensed that he was aware of her movements. Fortunately he had the wisdom to let her wander alone and cool her temper.
In the afternoon she watched him exercise the stallion, training him to pivot on his haunches. Stokehurst was patient as he worked with the animal. The stallion, with its supple legs and elegant movements, reminded her of a dancer. For the most part he was well-mannered, but there were moments of rebellion for which he was disciplined by being halted for several seconds.
“He hates to be kept still,” Luke said, noticing Tasia's presence during one of these periods. “Like any two-year-old.” They proceeded with a walk and executed a perfect half-turn. Silently Tasia admired the sight of a skilled rider on a sensitive horse. Stokehurst guided the animal with the expert pressure of his legs, maintaining the rhythm of the walk as they pivoted a full turn. Having completed the trick with each hoof in proper sequence, the horse was rewarded with generous praise.
Luke dismounted and led the horse to the wooden railing where Tasia stood.
“Constantine, meet Lady Anastasia.”
Tasia reached out to touch the horse's velvety nose. Constantine delicately investigated her empty hand. Suddenly he lowered his head to push at her shoulder, forcing her back a step or two. Tasia laughed in surprise. “What does he want?”
Luke scowled at the horse and muttered a reprimand, and then a rueful grin pulled at the corner of his mouth. “Emma spoils him with sugar lumps. Now he demands them. It's a hard habit to break.”
“Greedy boy,” Tasia cooed, stroking the horse's neck. Constantine turned his head to the side, to watch her out of one bright eye.
Smiling, Tasia glanced up at Stokehurst. His breath came fast from exertion, and his tanned face and throat glistened with sweat. The white shirt clung to his skin, following the curve of hard muscle. He was so masculine and natural, very different from the men she had known in Russian court life. They had been smothered in buttons, perfume, and pomade, all passion concealed by artifice.
Suddenly Tasia thought of a court ball she had attended, and the hussars and noblemen who had danced attendance on her. The Winter Palace, a building of more than a thousand rooms filled with priceless treasures, had blazed with light that defied the frosty darkness outside. The galleries had been lined with officers in full dress uniform. The air had been scented with heated perfume carried in small silver dishes by the imperial retainers. If Tasia closed her eyes, she could still recall the sweetly exotic fragrance. Women and men alike had been covered with jewels that blazed beneath the light of the golden chandeliers. Her own mother, Marie, had been acclaimed as one of the most beautiful women there, her smooth dark hair confined in a net of gold thread and diamonds, her snowy bosom half-exposed by her low-cut gown, her throat concealed by ropes of pearls and emeralds.
Tasia had danced beneath her chaperone's watchful eye, then picked daintily at a plate heaped with golden and black caviar, stuffed quail eggs, and buttery wisps of pastry. The Russian nobility lived with a splendor unequaled by anyone else in the world. She had taken it all for granted. Now that life was gone, and she was dressed in peasant clothes and standing in a paddock. Another world away. And she was experiencing a feeling perilously close to happiness.
“You're thinking of your old life,” Stokehurst said, surprising her with his perceptiveness. “You must miss it.”
Tasia shook her head. “I don't, actually. Those days are interesting to remember, but…now I see that I didn't belong there. I don't know where I would belong, even if I had the freedom to choose.”
“Tasia…”
She glanced up and found him staring at her with an absorbed look that made her insides tighten in sudden awareness. The silence seemed to hold them suspended in anticipation. Tasia struggled for a way to break it. “I'm hungry. I saw some food in the pantry…” She backed from the paddock railing.
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