Page 24

W ith both glasses balanced carefully in one hand, Adam touched Miss Wilton’s shoulder with the other, urging her silently towards the terrace.

All eyes were focused on Lord Hatfill, so it was highly unlikely that anyone would notice them slipping outside.

She hesitated for a second, then nodded as the mocking crowd moved in for the kill.

“Like vultures, aren’t they?” Adam commented, as they stepped into the evening. “Give them a piece of fresh carrion and they will quickly abandon the old corpse for the new.”

“How very mean of spirit I must be,” Miss Wilton said, leaning against the balustrade as she held her side. “I was laughing along with the rest of them at the poor man.”

“I would reserve my pity for someone more deserving than Lord Hatfill,” Adam said, producing the glasses with a flourish. “He would not have hesitated to sully your name, if he could.”

She shuddered, the last wisps of laughter fading like smoke. “He was looking to do more than that,” she said softly, her hand trembling as she took the glass. “But then, I am no longer a green girl as I was years ago.”

He cursed himself for inadvertently bringing up the recollection. Nearly a decade had passed, yet the fear was obviously still strong. No wonder she was so guarded and apprehensive. “Should have offered Hatfill a ten-paced walk at dawn,” Adam murmured, running an angry hand through his hair.

Miss Wilton’s eyes widened in astonished realization. “ You did it,” she guessed. “You primed him for the spill. But why, milord?”

Adam lifted his shoulders in a chagrinned gesture of admission. “A desire for justice, I suppose, if only in a small measure. Let him recall what it feels like to be the butt of scorn and mockery. Perhaps it will teach him to keep his foul mouth shut.”

“He was talking about me, I take it.”

Miss Wilton spoke quietly, but there was a distinct tremor in her voice. Adam cursed himself once again for not changing the subject. “Not you,” he lied, setting his glass aside, “but the Wodesbys, witches. It was more a general sort of slur, but he has been taught his lesson.”

She took a sip of wine. “No need to paint it with whitewash, milord. I thank you for playing the role of Chaucer’s ‘parfit gentil’ knight.

But if you mean to avenge every innuendo against me or mine thusly, there will not be a whole piece of glass left in all of London before long,” she said, attempting a smile.

“It has never been easy to be what we are. A hundred years ago, I could have lost my life because of Hatfill’s smears.

Too many of my forebears did. I account myself lucky that mere words are all that I must stomach. ”

“Words have a power all their own,” Adam said, moved by her forlorn effort at gallantry. Plainly, from the pain in her eyes, her declaration was little more than a whistle in the dark. “I would not like to see you hurt any further, Miss Wilton.”

“Miranda,” she said, vouchsafing her name. He had earned that right and she wanted to hear him say it in the dark warmth of the night.

“Miranda,” he said it slowly, as if testing the syllables on his tongue. “And you must call me Adam.”

“Adam,” she agreed. He was more correct than he knew. Words did indeed have intrinsic power, especially names. His had a texture, a flavor that felt eminently right. She recalled her mother’s cautionary advice. A name, freely gifted, is a mighty force to conjure with.

Pronounced by him, “Miranda” became almost like a piece of Mozart, a mixture of loneliness and recognition, the grandeur of the heights and a view of the abyss.

As the music of her name faded into the shadow, she felt a depthless void within her and knew that she had been caught within an enchantment of her own making.

The marquess reached covertly behind him and plucked a hothouse flower from the pot by the door. Misdirecting her attention with a wave of his left hand, he made the blossom appear in his right, as if from the ether itself. “For you, Miranda” he said, presenting the delicate bloom with a flourish

“As you wish . . . Adam,” she whispered, pleased with the gift, even though she knew that the offer of his name was of no real significance to him, nothing more than social reciprocity.

She set her glass on the balustrade. “You have learned the art of illusion well,” she remarked, stroking the petals gently, releasing their sweet scent into the darkness.

“Had I not known your methods, I would have sworn that you pulled this from the fabric of the night.”

“Ah, but you of all people should know that the night has its own magic,” he said.

Although lightly spoken, the words acquired a peculiar ring of truth.

As her long fingers moved with supple tenderness, caressing the blossom, Adam felt touched by sudden heat.

Sensual and fluid, the flowing line of motion led his gaze up the moonlit curve of her arm.

In the shadow, the gown’s cunning web of netting had all but disappeared.

Her shoulders seemed entirely bare except for the emerald that caught the moon in its heart of green fire.

Despite the aura of stylishness, there was something elemental and wild about her, the ingenuous charm of a doe, poised on the edge of flight.

He picked up his wine, hoping to somehow temper this sudden powerful longing, but found the glass empty and absently put it aside.

Much as he tried to resist, he moved toward her, tempted beyond reason.

Moonlight silvered her skin and cast a shimmering glow on the silk of her hair.

He wanted to pull away those jeweled combs and let the strands cascade like threaded gold through his fingers.

His hand seemed to acquire its own will, moving without conscious volition to brush gently against her cheek.

The flower slipped from Miranda’s hands, fluttering to the stone.

A faint whiff of shaving paste blended with the fragrance of freshly starched linen and the warm wine-scented touch of his breath.

A sharp stab of desire cut her last tenuous hold on reason.

Hesitantly, she put her hand on his shoulder, ignoring the fading echo of the voice within her that was crying fool, besotted fool .

Her fingers held the sweet scent of flowers.

Cradling her chin, he looked into the dark blue depths of her gaze, saw the questions and a single unspoken answer.

He gathered her into his arms and she closed her eyes, tilting her head in a gesture that was implicit consent.

Just as a kiss seemed to be as certain as sunrise, a cat yowled beneath the shrubbery.

Miranda jumped back and he caught her hand to keep her from tumbling over the rail.

“I’m sorry,” he said, shaking his head like a swimmer just come to the surface. “I do not have the foggiest notion as to what came over me.”

As if she were some form of madness or malady .

Miranda turned to face the darkness of the garden before he could see the hurt that she could not fully conceal.

“There is no need to apologize,” she said in deliberately wry tones.

“What nearly happened is as much my fault as your own. One would think that I would have learned my lesson ten years ago.”

The unspoken comparison acted as a slap in the face. “I am not Hatfill, Miranda.”

“I know,” she said. “You made no attempt to force yourself upon me, as he did. I came into your arms willingly. Perhaps I was still pretending that you were the man of my dreams, so I was no less responsible than yourself.” Gathering the remnants of her pride, she faced him.

“I did not step away, nor did I protest when you touched me, I could have done either, had I chosen. As you say, the night has a magic all its own and the combination with moonlight can be dangerous indeed.”

He should have been thankful that she was willing to absolve him from blame. However, gratitude was definitely not the emotion that he was feeling. “And you would have let him kiss you, this phantom of yours?”

“The man of my dreams? Indeed and I would have returned his gesture of affection with equal fervor. That is part and parcel of loving someone,” she said, recalling the times she had come upon her parents holding each other close, kissing and laughing like moonlings.

Her heart contracted. That had always been her dream, to share the intimacy of a lifetime of loving.

But even that hope had been compromised.

Now that sharing of hearts seemed as much beyond her grasp as magic itself. ”

“You speak with an air of authority, Miranda,” Adam asked. “Are you in love, then?”

“I have hopes,” she whispered, trying to think of Martin, but she could not even visualize his face. She could come to love him, she told herself. He was fond of her, at least. Many a marriage had succeeded with far less.

“And does he return your affection?” Adam queried.

“I think so,” she answered, wondering how he had managed to tap into the doubts in her mind.

“But you are not certain?” Adam asked, knowing that he had no right to question her so closely.

“I should never have come out here,” Miranda said, closing the matter before he could dig more deeply “But the temptation to get away from the ton’s eternal surveillance was beyond resisting. Now, I must go back before my absence is remarked.”

“They are far too busy with Hatfill,” Adam said.

“And when they are done picking his bones, they will move back to the main course with additional relish, sauced now with the spice of speculation. There are many who think that Hatfill has been cursed, even though he chose his own bane by making Ruby Simms his wife. Now they will wonder if this incident is part of Wodesby’s revenge as well. ”

“I had not thought of that,” Adam murmured guiltily.