Midnight Angel (Stokehurst #1)(69)

“It doesn't look lived in,” Tasia remarked as they strolled from room to room. In spite of the villa's elegance, it was bereft of knickknacks or any items of a personal nature. “One would never guess whose house this is.”

“I bought this place after the other one burned,” Luke said. “Emma and I lived here for a while. I suppose I should have hired someone to decorate it.”

“Why didn't you live at Southgate Hall?”

He shrugged. “Too many memories. At night I kept waking up and expecting…”

“To find Mary beside you?” she asked softly, when he didn't finish.

Luke stopped in the middle of a circular marble hall and turned her to face him. “Does it bother you when I mention her?”

Tasia reached up to brush the hair off his forehead, her slim fingers combing through the dark locks. The tender lines of her mouth curved in a smile. “Of course not. Mary was an important part of your past. I only count myself fortunate that now I'm the one who sleeps next to you at night.”

Luke's eyes were dark, fathomless blue as he stared at her. He traced the delicate tip of her chin with his thumb and forefinger, lifting her face. “I'm going to make you very happy,” he whispered.

“I am—” Tasia began, but his fingers stilled the movement of her lips.

“Not yet. Not nearly enough.”

He spent the first two weeks showing her London, from the original site of Roman occupation to the areas of Mayfair, Westminster, and St. James. They rode thoroughbreds through the lush acres of Hyde Park and visited Covent Garden, where they walked under the glass-canopied market rows and paused to watch a Punch-and-Judy show. Tasia smiled slightly at the antics of two puppets battering each other, but she didn't share the uproarious laughter of the crowd around her. The English had a strange sense of humor, finding a great amusement in pointless violence that seemed at odds with their civilized nature. Bored with the show, she tugged at Luke's arm to urge him closer to vendor stalls filled with flowers and fruit, and others laden with toys.

“It's like the Gostinny Dvor!” she exclaimed, and laughed at his quizzical glance. “A merchants' place in St. Petersburg, where everything is displayed in rows. This is very similar—except there are no icon stalls.”

Luke smiled at the way she shook her head, as if a marketplace without icons was hardly worth visiting. “Do you need more than one icon?” he asked.

“Oh, one can never have too many of them. Icons are good for prayer, and they bring blessings and good luck. Some people carry an icon in their pockets all the time.” She frowned a little. “I wish you had one. It never hurts to have extra good luck.”

“I have you for that,” he murmured, his fingers closing around hers.

They visited several shops on Regent Street, and a dressmaker's on Bond. The designer, Mr. Maitland Hodding, was a small, neat Englishman. Tasia liked the sense of economy in his designs, knowing that simplicity suited her far more than masses of ruffles and bows. She found it impossible to contain her excitement as she was seated in a gilt chair near tables piled high with books and fabric samples.

“I've always worn French gowns before,” Tasia said, an idle comment that brought an emphatic response.

“French fashion,” Mr. Hodding said scornfully, as he sorted through a sheaf of sketches to show her. “They raise the hemline and lower the décolletage, add a few flounces, and dye the whole of it a garish shade of magenta…and for this thousands of Englishwomen sigh and dream of owning a gown from Paris! But you, Lady Stokehurst, will be a vision of elegance in the gowns we will create for you. You'll disdain to wear a Parisian fashion ever again.” He beamed at her and lowered his voice, as if they were a pair of conspirators. “I expect you'll be so dazzling that Lord Stokehurst won't even notice the cost.”

Tasia glanced at her husband, who was seated in a velvet chair. Two showroom assistants were seeing to Luke's comfort. One of them insisted on bringing him tea, while the other dedicated herself to stirring until ever grain of sugar was dissolved. Disliking the way the girls hovered over him, Tasia gave him a frown, which he answered with a helpless shrug.

It had not been lost on Tasia that other women were excited by her husband's dark handsomeness. At a small soirée the Ashbournes had given, she had seen how female guests of all ages had fluttered and giggled whenever Luke was near, and had stared at him with unblinking eyes. At first it had amused Tasia, but then she had begun to simmer like a pot on the stove. It didn't matter that Luke did nothing to encourage them. She hated the sight of the eager women milling around her husband, and she had an urge to rush over to him and shove them all away.

Alicia had appeared at her side, sliding a sisterly arm around her shoulders. “You're staring daggers at my guests, Tasia. I invited you here to make friends. This is not the way to go about it.”

“They would like to lure him away from me,” Tasia had said darkly, watching the group.

“Perhaps. But they've all had their chances for years, and he's never given any of them a thought.” Alicia had smiled. “Don't think he isn't aware of your reaction, little cousin. Luke isn't above trying to make you jealous.”

“Jealous!” Tasia echoed, indignant and surprised. “I'm not—” But she stopped, realizing that was exactly the reason for the hot, riled sensation in her chest. It was the first time she had ever felt that he belonged to her. For the rest of the evening she had glued herself possessively to Luke's side, giving cool nods to every woman who so much as glanced in their direction.