CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Harry studied the mirror’s fragile inscriptions, a too-true reflection of his heart if not his visage. He laid it on the desk and cocked his head attentively, listening for their return.

For three hours he’d paced the library, prowled the hallways, and stared out of the front windows onto empty streets. He’d growled when poor Duraid had brought dinner and barked so at Magi that she’d fled in a flurry of indignation.

For the hundredth time he asked himself how he could have been such a self-pitying ass. Clearly, she’d been repelled by his narcissism, disgusted by what little history he had related.

The truth, Magi had advised. Well, it hadn’t taken much truth to repel Dizzy. He’d meant to explain and only succeeded in sounding like a mewling brat whining that his wounds were more pitiable than another’s—in this case, Blake’s.

Dammit, she couldn’t possibly have fallen in love with his cousin. Regardless of how hard she tried not to, she had to see beyond the romantic aura she’d spun around Blake.

It was not that Blake was evil. Harry wasn’t altogether sure evil wouldn’t have been preferable. At least evil had the recommendation of being self-generated. No, instead, Blake was a gentleman. Dizzy would die if she wed him, her spirit bludgeoned to death by his stolid morality, his rote nobility, his quaking superiority.

He heard something outside. Moving quickly, he exited the library and strode down the hall to where Magi stood like a statue before the open front door. He looked out. At the bottom of the steps stood half a dozen men, their upper bodies consumed by the enormous bouquets of red roses they carried. They looked like ambulating shrubs with their spindly legs poking out from beneath the greenery. Harry’s lips twitched.

Magi’s mouth gaped.

“What the devil is this?” Harry asked, his amusement vanishing with dawning suspicion.

A ratty-looking turban struggled free of a floral embrace and an old, seamed face regarded him dolefully. “Is this the house of Sitt Carlisle?”

“Yes,” Magi answered.

“Then these are for her. They are from Lord Ravenscroft.”

Of course.

Somehow disengaging one arm from his burden, the old man waved the other five shrubs forward. “You tell us where to put these, you,” he commanded, staring disapprovingly at Magi’s unveiled face.

Magi glanced about the crowded hallway. “Fut! Ilhak’ni min karib,” she commanded them to follow her, leading the way down the narrow corridor.

The men stumbled up the stairs and down the hall, disappearing into the library. Harry trailed after, catching up in time to hear Magi say, “Put them out there. In the garden where they will not clutter up the place. There. Now be gone.”

The turbaned men eyed her sourly, their disapproval of her European manner and dress not noticeably sweetened by the coins she tossed their leader.

Harry lifted a brow at her as soon as the last had left.

“Ignorant men. I thank God that I am an enlightened woman and that I live in enlightened times.” She heaved an exasperated sigh and looked about, shaking her head. “There must be over two hundred roses out there. Such extravagance.”

He didn’t answer. He could only gaze helplessly at the bounty of fragrant crimson blooms now destined to share his vigil.

How ever could he hope to compete with such a spectacular cliché?

*  *  *

Marta stepped out of the rented carriage, one eye on the Carlisle house where Harry was recuperating. She rummaged distractedly through her reticule for the fare.

“Allow me, ma’am.” She looked up, startled to discover Cal Schmidt pressing money into the driver’s open palm.

Her brow knitted with consternation before smoothing self-consciously. A woman could get wrinkles frowning like that. “Mr. Schmidt. How kind.”

She was not entirely pleased at Cal’s appearance. She’d planned so well, and her plans did not include him. Desdemona, she’d ascertained, would be gone for the entire evening with Lord Ravenscroft. It had seemed the perfect opportunity to finish the … conversation she and Harry had begun several days ago. Before he’d lit off after Desdemona.

She couldn’t contrive a seduction with Cal in attendance. She gave an inward sigh. She supposed she’d just have to get rid of her ardent admirer. If possible, without hurting his feelings. He was a very nice man.

She started down the street. Cal fell into pace beside her, allowing her silence.

Odd. Nice men had never particularly appealed to her before.

“You’re visiting your friend Mr. Braxton?” he asked.

“Ah? Yes. I’m visiting Harry.”

“Heard he had a nasty encounter a few days back. I hope he’s all right?”

“Harry? Oh, Harry has more lives than a cat.”

“Does he?” Cal secured her hand and tucked it into the crook of his arm. “Still, I bet the poor guy is asleep. Fellow needs rest to heal. It’s a mite late for someone so recently busted up to be awake. Fellow on the mend needs an awful lot of sleep. I bet it hurts him just to sit upright.”

“Perhaps.” That thought hadn’t occurred to her. There was a good chance Harry was sleeping. Even if he wasn’t, how much seduction can one accomplish on a … a busted-up man? And, too, if Harry was asleep, she’d be left facing the blankly condemning stare of the Carlisles’ housekeeper, Magi. Not an engaging prospect.

“I’d bet a hundred bucks.”

“Oh,” she said, turning to smile up at Cal’s angular, ruddy face. “And are you a betting man, Mr. Schmidt.”

“Mister Schmidt?” His fine gray eyes widened with amusement. Even though she was aware, too late, that such formality with this man whom she had allowed certain pleasurable liberties was disingenuous, there was nothing cynical in his expression, just honest humor.

“Why, yes, Mrs. Douglass, I am. And yourself?”

“Oh, I’ve been known to make the occasional wager.”

He stopped, pulling her to a halt by his side. “I have an idea.”

An idea. She kept the smile on her face even though inwardly a shard of disappointment pierced what had been evolving into pleasure. It was time for Cal to suggest they retire to his hotel.

He took both her hands in his large paws and danced them up and down. “I have heard of a new establishment opening down by the river. Farley’s. It’s a gaming house. Very reputable,” he hurriedly assured her as she stared at him in open wonder. He was actually concerned about her reputation.

“Yes?”

“Well, ma’am, I would be honored if you’d come with me. You speak French so well and I’ve found that there’s more Frenchies in these gaming places than Brits and certainly more than Yanks. I feel quite outnumbered.”

“Oh. I’m sure you could hold your own.”

“Maybe.” He grinned. “But then I wouldn’t want to if I could be with you. Please, won’t you come?”

She glanced at the Carlisle house. It did look dark.

“It’ll be fun,” he said.

“Only if we win.”

“If you come with me, Marta,” he said quietly, “I already have.”

It wasn’t the subtlest compliment she’d ever received, but it may have been the most delightful. She smiled and accepted his invitation.

“You’re as lovely as you are sweet,” Blake said at the front door to the house.

“What?” Desdemona forced herself to concentrate on Blake. All evening, her thoughts had returned to Harry: Harry’s secrets, Harry’s anger, Harry’s rift with Blake. She needed to discover the source of the pain she’d seen reflected so clearly in his face, to discover where envy had led Harry—if envy it was. But how else could she construe his earlier anger and the words “I deserve”?

Blake angled closer. His hand dropped lightly on her shoulder and his breath tickled her ear, recalling another’s warm breath—

Harry’s lips near her shoulder, his breath in her ear—

“What are you dreaming about, my dear?” he murmured.

I have loved you through each long season—

“Nothing.” Whatever Harry was or was not, right now she was with Blake.

He smiled and reached past her, tapping lightly on the door. “England? I, too, whenever I hear Haydn’s music, am filled with longing for our home. Or were you dreaming about something, or someone, else—”

The door swung open and Magi squinted down at them. She pulled her dressing gown closer. “Oh. It is you. Quite late.”

Blake smiled indulgently. “Ah, the inestimable Magi. Good evening to you. May I ask if my offering arrived?”

“Offering? Go to church if you would make an offering.”

Drat Magi, anyway. Her accent was pronounced, her syntax a caricature, and her expression petulant. Magi did not appreciate being woken from a sound sleep.

Blake laughed good-naturedly. “Well, then, did my gift for Miss Desdemona arrive?”

“Yes.”

Blake turned to her. “Would you mind, my dear, if I am here to see you receive my present? Call it a vanity on my part, but I would like to watch your expressive little face when you discover them.”

“You cannot come in,” Magi declared. “It is most unseemly. Much too late. Very bad ton.”

Blake craned his neck, peering down the hall, ignoring Magi’s edict. “Where have you put them?”

“Them?” Desdemona asked.

“In the garden. Another reason you cannot come in. Master Harry—poor, dear, suffering Master Harry—he needs his rest. You remember Master Harry?” She glared at Desdemona.

As if she could forget him. Thoughts of Harry crowded her mind with confusion. Last week she would have said she’d known Harry like the back of her hand, but it wasn’t last week. During the past seven short days their relationship had changed. The realization frightened her. If what they’d once had was forever gone, what, if anything, would replace it?

She shivered. She did not want to be alone. She’d had enough alone to last two lifetimes. She looked at Blake.

“You cannot disturb him by going through the library,” Magi was saying to him. “And that is the only way into the garden.”

“We could go around the outside of the house,” Desdemona suggested, unwilling to follow her previous thoughts, needing to flee the specter of abandonment.

“But of course.” The smile Blake cast at Magi was a shade victorious. “If you’ll excuse us, Magi?”

Magi’s mouth twined. “Fine. But you do not hurt my Desdemona’s reputation by coming in. You stay in the garden. Now, I go to bed.” Without another word, she closed the door in their faces.

“Magi is very protective,” Desdemona offered as Blake took her arm and led her down the stairs and around the back of the tiny house.

“And I applaud her vigilance. She has a precious treasure to guard.” He waited patiently at the high stone wall as Desdemona unlocked the wooden door set in a low arch. Then he stepped aside, bidding her enter before him.

Immediately inside the gate, the aroma of roses assailed her nostrils, cloying and sweet and heavy. She squinted, her vision slowly adjusting to the glow cast by the single lantern that Duraid lit nightly. She glanced at the library door, a small unexamined hope dying when she saw that though open, the interior was black. Harry must be asleep.

She shouldn’t be thinking of Harry anyway. She should be concentrating on Blake.

She looked about. Everywhere were roses, their deep color uncertain in the faint light. Red, she supposed. They covered the wrought-iron table and stood in vases on the paving stones, they crowded the seats of stone bench and twin chairs and marched along the bottom of the garden walls.

“Oh, my.” She’d never seen such abundance, so many roses crowded into so small a place.

“I hope you like them.”

“They’re impressive. Extremely.” And tragic, she thought. For having been cut, they were dying. Already the blooms dipped on their stalks and the first fallen petals sprinkled the pale pavers beneath like dark drops of floral blood.

“They do not begin to rival the beauty of the one near me. She is a single perfect rose blossom: sweet, pretty, pure.”

—My hot, harrowing desert and my cool, verdant Nile, infinitely lovely and unfathomable and sustaining.

She chased his words from her mind. “Lord Ravenscroft—”

“Blake.”

“Blake, I am not perfect.”

“I think I, who have had some experience with women, am a better judge than you. But then, that’s only part of your charm. You don’t even realize your own worth. It’s delightful.” He moved closer, capturing her in his arms, his head bending near. “It is provocative.”

She closed her eyes. This is what she had always dreamed of. All of the wonderful, romantic, exciting sensations depicted in her beloved books were about to come true. A dark and noble aristocrat, smitten with her beauty, was unable to keep himself from kissing her. Unlike Harry, who’d easily managed to resist her. She tilted her head invitingly.

“Oh, my dear,” he breathed.

She was crushed in the viscount’s strong embrace, and then her tender lips were bruised by his passionate kiss. She couldn’t breathe. His embrace tightened and she was suddenly hefted into his arms and moored against the bastion of his mighty torso. Her dangling feet collided with something hard and the sound of a crashing pottery vase filled her ears.

She frowned into his kiss. That wasn’t right. She should only be able to hear her racing pulse. She wrapped her arms tighter around his neck.

His broad hands cupped her delicate skull, holding her head still for the forcefulness of his ravenous mouth. Suddenly he tore his lips free from hers and set her aside. She stumbled back, upsetting yet another pair of vases as she struggled to regain her footing in the closed quarters and knocked into—

Blast the stupid flowers anyway! They were ruining her story. She reached her hands out toward Blake, determined to give it another go, but he backed away.

His mighty limbs trembled violently, his eyes darkened with ardor. “You make me forget myself.”

“I’m sorry.”

He stood silently, attempting to regain mastery of his tumultuous emotions. Ladylike, even now, she folded her hands in front of her, twining her long, delicate fingers anxiously, uncertain what to do, what to say.

“God help me, I can stay no longer,” he mumbled.

He mumbled?

“I understand.”

“Do you?” he demanded. “I doubt it. I have to go. Now. Before I forget myself.” He did not look again in her direction. Instead, he strode past her, his noble head high, his fists clenched at his sides.

And collided with no less than three more vases on his way out.

She blinked at the horizontal roses and the broken crockery and the puddles of water winking in the guttering light. In her mind’s eye she saw instead a hazy, darkened alley, smelled tobacco and bay rum, felt Harry’s lips—

She shook her head. She had just lived out the most romantic aspect of her most romantic dream. She had just been kissed by raven-haired, ebon-eyed, stern-faced Blake, and all she could think about was plain brown Harry. Harry whom she didn’t know anymore.

She pursed her lips together. If she just thought about it long enough, that kiss could become everything she’d envisioned. Maybe Blake’s arms should have “enveloped” instead of “crushed” and if his lips had “conquered” rather than “bruised”—She felt along her lower lip with the tip of her tongue, uncertain whether she tasted blood.

“My,” a soft, masculine voice said, “that certainly looked painful.”