The Veil of Night Page 5

  Finally, Lady 'Victoria spoke. "I think…" She paused. "I think everyone is right, in a way. I think you like the shadows: both the drama and the anonymity. But I also think that you're as frightened as—well, as you accuse me of being. The cowardice behind the bravado." She twisted her mouth ironically in something too bitter to be a smile. "There's something we have in common: We each think the other's a coward, and we each think the other is wrong about ourselves." She raised her glass, still half full of wine. "To the belief in cowardice, then, in all its bold forms."

  "A queer thing to toast," he said, but he raised his glass as well, and they drank.

  She took a few more halfhearted bites and then set the fork down.

  "I've finished eating," she said almost casually, leaning back in her chair. "Won't you lead the way?"

  Byron marveled at how fully she had regained her composure. Her face was perfectly smooth, and her long-fingered hands lay still upon the edge of the table. No twitch, no tightening betrayed any nervousness. Only a sliding away of her eyes when his gaze met hers showed that she was not as sanguine as she appeared.

  "Of course," he murmured, standing. Lady Victoria remained seated until he circled and pulled her chair out for her. Then she stood gracefully, took his proffered arm, and walked with him from the room as regally as a queen.

  * * *

  Chapter Four

  Victoria could hardly hear the rustling of her skirts and the scurf of Raeburn's boots against the floor, and even the sound of the rain lashing the windows was almost drowned in the rasping of her breath and the pounding of her heart. Vainly, she tried to maintain some pretense of calm, but her heart and breath only spiraled more wildly out of control. Her only consolation was that she need not fear that the duke could hear her; if he could, he would have surely already given her one of his sideways, too-knowing looks. Cursing herself silently, she fought to pull herself together. She was no shrinking violet or blushing debutante, and she had no business acting like one.

  Even more distracting than her rebellious body was Raeburn's closeness. Pinned to him as she was, she could not miss the muscular hardness of his side, the restrained power in the arm that held her to him. He was deeply attractive—and just as deeply frightening. What had she gotten herself into? she wondered belatedly. She could hardly claim ignorance or inexperience to excuse her outrageous bargain. In another woman, she would call her behavior recklessness, but that her years of restraint could be so easily shattered was nonsensical. Canny, reserved, politically astute—all these she knew herself to be. But which trait could account for the mad contract that even now nestled in the drawer of her night table? It was the storm, she told herself as thunder rumbled across distant hills. Storms had always made her feel itchy and queer, as if her skin were too small, her clothes too tight.

  They had passed through the door to the gallery, and the duke closed it behind them, leaving them in utter darkness. Though her eyes had adjusted to the flickering dimness of the dining room, now she could make out no more than the vaguest forms. But Raeburn did not pause to find and light a candle—he didn't even slow his pace, but strode confidently through the blackness as if he'd walked that route blindly for years, as if he'd been born to darkness. Victoria gripped his arm tightly, trying to match her steps to his so she would not stumble against some unseen obstacle. Deliberate perversity and melodrama, she thought, resisting the instinct to start when a statue loomed too suddenly before her. Yet she couldn't keep from feeling unaccustomedly helpless as she plunged into the darkness on the duke's arm.

  Raeburn's stride changed. "Stairs," was all he said, but he spoke in a silky murmur that sent a shiver up her spine even as she lifted her foot higher to accommodate the first step. Whether it was the same staircase that she had descended an hour past, she could not guess, but she was certain they climbed much higher than her room had been. They passed through a series of interior rooms—Victoria felt the cold fingers of a draft against her face and the sensation of space as their footsteps echoed hollowly with every pace—and into a corridor so narrow her flaring skirts brushed against the wall. Then they went up again in a tightening spiral until Raeburn stopped abruptly.

  Victoria stood, uncertain, blind, and breathless. She heard the susurration of fabric against fabric and realized the duke was reaching out just as a latch clunked. A rapidly widening sliver of gray appeared against the void, and the muted sounds of rain grew to a nearer rush. The sliver quickly resolved itself into a doorway, and before she could react, the duke strode through, pulling her in his wake.

  The darkness beyond was a few shades brighter, and she could make out a circular wall enclosing the room, pierced with half a dozen broad mullioned windows around its circumference. Raeburn released her, and she crossed to one of them in a show of nonchalance. The storm's fury had subsided into a wind-flung wash of rain, and through it, she could make but the roofs and peaks of the manor house a story or more below, no more attractively or felicitously arranged from a height than from a distance. But though Victoria looked over the Romanesque crenellations and Gothic gargoyles, only a fraction of her attention was tuned to them—the rest was held captive by the duke.

  She heard him cross the room, his heavy steps unfaltering, and then he stopped and there was a soft creak as the room lightened minutely. She turned to see him throwing a measure of coal into a small ceramic stove. In its light, she could make out the furnishings of the room—there was not a bed, as she had more than half expected, but the floor was layered with rugs and strewn with piles of opulent pillows, and three oriental divans marked the circumference.

  "I should hardly be surprised if your manor were scattered with such boudoirs," she said, hiding her nervousness behind causticity. "They seem quite in keeping with the dissolution of the architecture."

  Raeburn looked up at her, face inscrutable. "And its master?" He swung the stove door closed again, shutting out the light. "This room was an eccentricity of my predecessor—and one of the few that could be returned to a habitable state on short notice. The morbid claim that he used a tower chamber like this one to imprison his wife."

  "Do they?" Victoria said weakly. She imagined some ethereal damsel going slowly mad as she passed her days and nights in solitude with no more company than the rooks that built their nests on the ramparts below.

  The duke broke in on her thoughts with an undignified snort of what Victoria could only guess was derision. "He had no wife." His shadowy figure straightened, then loomed close as he crossed the room over to her. "Let that be a lesson in credulity: people will believe anything if it is sufficiently romantic or dramatic."

  Victoria bridled. "Trust me, I need no such lessons." He was so close now that she could smell him—the scent of his cologne and beneath it, his personal odor, as carnal and intoxicating as she would have imagined it to be. She caught herself sternly before the urge overtook her just to close her eyes and breathe it into herself.

  She felt his hand touch her arm, then he was guiding her to one of the low couches and pulling her down next to him.

  "Tawdry," she pronounced chillingly, trying to still the warmth that Raeburn's nearness brought.

  The duke stiffened, and for a moment, she thought he was angry. But when he spoke, she heard suppressed mirth instead. "Indubitably."

  She could feel the pressure of his leg against her hoops, could hear the whispers of his movements over the wash of rain and patter of her heart. She realized he was trying to intimidate her, to make her feel small and weak and helpless. Even more chafing, he was not completely unsuccessful. She sat rigidly, but he made no move to touch her.

  Finally, when the silence had drawn out longer than she could bear, Victoria cleared her throat. "I should appreciate it if you would light a candle."

  Again, a sudden stilling beside her. And again, provokingly, there was humor in his voice when he spoke. "I am certain you should, but I prefer darkness tonight."

  She shook her head and sprang to her fee
t. Raeburn's hand snaked out and grabbed her by the wrist before she'd gone two strides, bringing her up short. She overbalanced all at once and landed half-sprawled in his lap in a tangle of skirts, her elbow meeting something soft and her head something hard. Raeburn grunted.

  "That was my head," she snapped, rubbing it.

  "That was my chin," he replied, pain in his voice, "and my stomach."

  "Serves you right," she muttered, discomfiture making her childish.

  She tried to wriggle off his lap into a more dignified position, but while he let her straighten, he held her fast against him.

  "Your grace," she protested, "I am hardly accustomed to being—being manhandled in such a manner." But already awareness of his body was penetrating her outrage, and to her chagrin, her voice lacked the bite she'd meant to put into it.

  "Your ladyship," the duke replied, his mouth very close to her ear, "must I remind you that we have a contract?"

  "No, indeed, your grace." The taut dignity of her words were betrayed only by the shiver that ran up her back.

  His arms were implacable iron bands around her, and she was sure that his lips were as hard as his voice, as hard as the rest of the body she was pinned against. She should be angry, her conscience whispered: She should feel imposed upon, if she were a decent lady. But no decent lady would have made her foolish bargain with the duke, and she could only feel strung tight with anticipation and something else, a strange kind of lightness in the knowledge that propriety had no place here.

  Victoria relaxed unconsciously against her captor, and he chuckled, low and suggestive. "There's my girl," he murmured. She stiffened immediately, and he laughed again. "The delicacy of your pride must always be watched, mustn't it?"

  "No more than yours," she shot back.

  "Touché?" With his arms still about her, he leaned forward until the stubble of his cheek rubbed against her neck. Victoria stifled a gasp as his breath blew warm and damp against her skin, but he did not kiss her as she half feared—and half hoped—he might. "No perfume," he observed. "Not even a hint of toilet water. There is something…" He breathed again, deep, a hairsbreadth from her skin, and she fought a sudden wave of dizziness. "Practical lavender, no doubt to keep the moths away from the clothes. You don't disappoint." She could almost feel his lips brush her neck with every syllable.

  "I have no idea what you might mean," she said, sounding more breathless than stern.

  He was close, so close! His wrists were brawny under her hands, his body lean and warm. He stirred old needs within her, needs she had ignored for so long but that would not be ignored that night.

  "Your dissimilation," he explained. "It has no cracks—at least, you believe it to have no cracks. The bloodless, undesirable maiden aunt you play must not intrigue men with rare and exotic perfumes, so you wear none. In my experience, however, the desperation of age causes foibles even more extreme than mere scents and paint."

  Raeburn lowered his head a fraction of an inch, and his lips came to rest in the hollow of her collarbone, barely exposed by the neckline of her modest dress.

  Victoria caught her breath. Tension coiled hard in her center as a warning spike trickled up her spine until her limbs felt heavy with it. Soon, the mouth would move—to kiss her, taste her, tease her.

  But after a long moment of stillness, the duke pulled away. A small moan of disappointment escaped her as frustrated anticipation wound tighter in her center, sending a shiver thrilling across her inflamed skin. She felt everything with exquisite sensitivity—the rough brush of stiff silk against her arms, the coarseness of her dress's seams, every individual bone in her corset and each thread in the weave of the duke's jacket, bunched under her hands. Most of all, she could feel the duke, burning with heat through the clothes that separated them. When he laughed, the soft gust of breath against her skin was like a gale.

  "What you don't know," he whispered, "is that all the scents of a perfumery could not be more titillating than the raw smell of your flesh."

  He released her, and dizzy as she was, she clung to his wrists for a moment before realizing she had been freed. She dropped his arms and stumbled to her feet and across the pillow-strewn floor to a window. There was the sound of a match flare behind her, and the room brightened minutely.

  She fought the duke's pull from sheer instinct, clutching at the arcs of stone between the leaded diamonds of glass, seeing nothing, only feeling him furnace-hot behind her, only hearing him approach with footfalls like a giant's. Her hands tightened on the stone as he grazed her hair with his fingers, her head tilting back into the feather-light caress from some obscure impulse of its own. Inside, she was drawn tight and thin, waiting—

  "What do you fear?" Raeburn whispered, the words shivering in the air between them.

  "I am not afraid of you," Victoria said tightly. She didn't turn to face him.

  The hand traced slowly down the bare length of her neck to rest on her nape. Victoria could hear him breathing now, too hard and fast, as if he'd just climbed three flights of stairs, not crossed a small tower room.

  "No," the duke said, and Victoria heard a strange kind of gravity in his tone. "No, you wouldn't be. But you are afraid."

  His hand moved; there was a twist, a loosening, a breath of air, and Victoria realized he had unfastened the first of the long row of buttons down her back. The tightness within her uncoiled suddenly, lashing her with fire that surged from her center through her limbs. Her dimmed vision faded to almost nothing, and she turned impulsively, too light-headed for thought, and pulled the duke's head down to meet her own.

  The meeting of lips—the strange softness of the skin, the exquisite heat, the alarming dampness that promised something more. Victoria had almost forgotten the bitter sweetness of it, the mingled hunger and completion that electrified every sense. When they met, Raeburn's lips were unresponsive under her own, but only for an instant. Then they hardened, giving and taking at the same time. His arms wrapped around her, holding her tighter against him than her instinctive inclination had pressed, half lifting her from her feet. Someone moaned—and Victoria dazedly recognized her own voice. The coarseness of clothing was torture against her skin; it demanded release and the balm of another body against hers.

  The fabric encased her, isolated her in a cocoon of silk and linen. Even as Raeburn's lips caressed her mouth and throat, even as he drew her ever harder against him, and even as a rush of heat suffused her at his touch—even then, she was alone. Alone as she had been for fifteen years. For once, for just one night or even one hour, she didn't want to be alone anymore.

  The duke's tongue pushed against her lips. Closer, closer. She opened them and let him in, tasting him as he explored her tongue, the ridges of her front teeth, the roof of her mouth. When he retreated, she followed. He tasted of wine and of himself, rich and intoxicating. She could drink him forever, and then, some part of her mind whispered, she'd never be alone again.

  Finally, the kiss ended. Victoria drew back with a sigh and opened her eyes. The duke regarded her evenly. Though his expression was impossible to read in the light of the single candle he'd lit along the wall, his scrutiny was unmistakable.

  "You are full of surprises," he said, his voice hoarse and slightly winded. "If you were a courtesan, you could make your fortune in that kiss alone."

  Victoria laughed unsteadily, too conscious of his arms around her, the gaping buttons in her dress, and, most of all, the overpowering desire to kiss him again. "By all rights, I should slap you for that remark, but I find that I have no desire to do so."

  "I should hope not. But it makes me wonder: How much more have I underestimated the Wakefield spinster?" His hands traced up her back to the highest of the fastened buttons and slowly began to undo it.

  "No more than most," Victoria said, and then he lowered his head to meet her lips, ending speech.

  This time, his fingers did not still in their work but sped up, moving with increasing dexterity from one button to the next,
all the way down the length of her back. Victoria's fingers curled in his thick hair; she slid her mouth away from his and burrowed her face in his neck, tasting him, breathing his scent of spice and masculinity. She slipped her free hand under his coat—four buttons, and the waistcoat below was open.

  By now, her dress was hanging open, only the sleeves and the flaring of her crinoline keeping it from sliding off. Rough and strong, the duke's hands moved beneath it, across her bare upper back, trailing heat across her skin as he pushed the gown from her shoulders. She let him tug her arms through the sleeves, first the left one, then the right. As each arm came free, she twined it again about his neck, but when he finished, he pushed her back at arm's length and surveyed her.

  Victoria should have been embarrassed, she knew, what with her bodice bunched around her waist and only her corset and chemise between her body and the duke's gaze. Yet she wasn't. Not even the faintest flicker of self-consciousness stirred as Raeburn folded his arms across his chest and leaned back, perusing her slowly. His gaze only sent a wave of heat through her, another surge of insanity. She wanted to go mad for the night, for once in many more years than she cared to count.

  "Well?" she demanded, returning his look levelly.

  "I was right," he said. "Your corset is hideous." Before she could do more than open her mouth in surprise, he pulled her toward him again. "But you most certainly are not."

  She freed herself and laughed, surprising herself even more. "I think I am flattered," she said.

  Raeburn reached for her again, impatiently.

  "Not yet," she admonished brazenly. "Take it off." She motioned imperiously to his waistcoat and jacket.

  The duke stood impassively, and for a moment, she thought he would take umbrage at her orders. But then he seemed to make a decision, and he rapidly peeled his clothes off, tossing them to the floor.

  Victoria began to approach, but he stayed her with an extended hand and unbuttoned his shirt and collar with rapid ease, slipping off his braces and dropping the shirt and undershirt on top of the other garments.