Mistress at Midnight(3)

His woman. To take. The smell of her filled his nostrils, dangerous yet  tempting, all the rules of gentlemanly conduct crossing over into  darkness.

'Go.' It was all he could say for he did not trust himself enough to deny such want. 'I shall send you the invitations.'

The anger beneath his words must have registered because she moved back,  shadow falling across her face, her hair lifting in the breeze as she  turned, footsteps and then silence, only whorls of dust left in her  wake.

Kneeling at the bottom of the railing, Stephen hung on to the solid  wood, wild despondency all that was left. Lord, it was getting worse,  this dispiritedness, claiming the early evening hours as well as the  midnight ones. The demons of his past were gathering, armies of lost  souls and foundered causes hammering at all he had stood for in the  pursuit of justice. Could it have been for nothing?

Crumpling the black hat she had left behind in his fist, he looked for  the brandy flask in his jacket pocket and undid the silver chain.  Drinking deeply, he knew without a doubt that the solace of strong  liquor was the only thing still keeping him sane.

The carriage she had rented was waiting in the place she had left it and  she scrambled in, ordering the driver on even before she settled.

Away. Gone. It was all she wanted.

She should not have come to this place at all, but the memory of her  mother here was strong and today, travelling between the mills and  London, she had wanted to stop and remember.                       
       
           



       

Sylvienne had brought her here often because she said it reminded her of  a place in Provence and for just a little while Mama did not stand in  England, but in France, the mistral on her face and the little Alpilles  at her back.

Aurelia would wait there with her, fingers laced together as her mother  listened to the silence, her particular melancholy still remembered so  vividly. Afterwards they would retire to one of the nearby villages for a  drink and a meal and Mama would talk of her childhood, the heated sun  and the trees that shaded roads bound by fields full of flowers.

And now here was another memory. Aurelia had recognised Lord Hawkhurst  the moment she had seen him there, in the wind above the cliffs, his  black cloak billowing and drawing her on despite misgivings. Had she  gained a favour or lost one, she wondered, with her ridiculous reaction  to his kiss? Shame had her breathing out hard and chastising herself for  her inappropriate exchange with Lord Stephen Hawkhurst.

She should have insisted on the pendant as payment, but for a moment she  had desired another truth, wanting to know something of unexpected  passion and the melding together of souls.

She smiled wryly. Well, she had found that out. Bringing her hand to her  lips, she touched her fingers to the place where they had been joined,  trying to feel again the euphoria and delight.

Unexpected and addictive.

The sort of reaction her mother had made an art form of with her years  of numerous lovers, reaching for that elusive and fleeting moment of  forgetfulness.

A frown formed on Aurelia's brow.

She could not be the same, could not encourage feelings long since  bottled to spring into a sort of half life, contained between scandal  and ecstasy.

Which parent do you favour?

Five moments ago she would have answered 'Papa' without question, but now … ?

No. the genie must be stopped before more emotions wanted to escape. She  had learnt already the high price of her own ill-considered choices and  now there were others needing her, depending on her …

Taking a deep breath she smoothed down her skirts and pulled her gloves  on. She was an expert in the appearance of control; the smile of casual  indifference she had perfected returned and the racing beat in her heart  returned to quiet.

Lord Stephen Hawkhurst was to be avoided at all costs. His cousin had at least taught her that.





Chapter Two


London

'She's a lovely girl from a good family, Hawk. Safe. Pretty. Well thought of.'

There was something in the way Lucas Clairmont listed the attributes of Lady Elizabeth Berkeley that made him feel uneasy.

'You said you needed to settle down, for God's sake, and that you wanted  to be a thousand miles away from the intrigues of Europe. As the only  daughter of a respectable and aristocratic family, she certainly fits  that bill.'

Finishing the drink he was holding, Stephen poured himself another before phrasing a question that had been worrying him.

'When you met Lillian, Luc, how did she make you feel?'

'My wife knocked me sideways. She took the ground from underneath my  feet in the first glance and I hated her for it, whilst wanting her as I  had never wanted another woman in my life.'

'I see.' The heart fell out of his argument. 'Elizabeth is more like a  gentle wind or a quiet presence. When I kissed her once upon the hand  she felt like a glass doll, ready to shatter into pieces should I take  it further.'

Silence greeted this confession. Damn, Stephen thought, he should have  said nothing, should have kept his mouth shut so that uncertainty did  not escape to make him question an amiable and advantageous union    . He  was no longer young and Elizabeth Berkeley was the closest to coming  near to what he thought he needed in a woman.

'There are different kinds of attractions, I suppose,' Luc finally  replied. 'You seemed happy enough with the arrangements last week.  What's changed that?'

'Nothing.' The room closed in on Hawk as he thought of his encounter at  Taylor's Gap, fiery silk running through his fingers like living flame.

Elizabeth did not question him. She accepted all that he had been with a  gentle grace. She saw only the goodness in people, their conviviality  and well-mannered ways-a paragon of docility and charm.

Unease made him dizzy, the black holes of his life filling with empty  nothingness. What might a woman such as that see inside him when the  shutters fell away? Nay, he would never allow them to.

'I have it on good authority that her family expect you to offer for her. If you have any doubts … ?'

'I do not.'

Damn it, he liked Elizabeth. He liked her composure and her contentment.  He liked her dimples, her sunny nature and her pale blue eyes that were  always smiling. He needed peace and serenity and she would give him  this, a sop against the chaos that had begun to consume him. He filled  up his third glass.                       
       
           



       

'You drink more than you ever have done, Hawk. Nat is as worried about you as I am.'

Smiling, the stretch of pretence felt tight around the edges of his  mouth. Lucas Clairmont and Nathaniel Lindsay had been his best friends  since childhood and each had had their demons.

'I remember saying the same to you not so long ago.'

'If you want to talk about it … '

'There is nothing to say. I am about to be betrothed to a woman who is  as beautiful as she is good natured. I like her family and I like her  disposition. She will give me heirs and I in turn will give her the  security of the Atherton wealth and title.'

'Then it sounds like a sterling arrangement for you both. A marriage of  much convenience.' The hollow ring of censure worried him.

'I am tired, Luc, tired of all that I have been. "A sterling  arrangement", as you put it, might not be such a bad thing. Hemmed in by  domesticity, I shall be happy.'

He picked at the superfine of his breeches as he spoke and crossed his  legs. His boots reflected the chandelier, its many tiers of light  spilling down into the room, everything bright upon the surface.

'Alexander Shavvon said you are doing more than reading codes for the Home Office?'

'Shavvon could never keep his mouth shut.'

'Ten years is too long to endure in service. Nat did five and nearly  lost his soul. He swears that death stains everyone in the end whether  they think it does or not.' The condemnation in his friend's words  wasn't gentle, though Hawk knew the warning was given with the very best  of intentions.

I kill people, Stephen thought as he opened his hand to the light. It  shook now, all of the time, the tremors of memory translated into The  flesh. I take policy and make it personal again and again in the dark  corruption of power. The black of night, the flame edge of gunpowder and  the red crawl of blood. Those are my colours now.

He wanted to tell Luc this, as a purge or as an atonement, but the words  buried in secrecy would not form; the consequence of a life depending  on camouflage, he supposed, and ceased to try to find an explanation.

Shadows, veils and mirrors. He could barely recognise the man he had  become. Certainly, he did not defend the Realm with the cloak of justice  firmly fixed across his shoulders any more; a score of innocent lives  had seen to that particular loss as well as a hundred others who had no  notion of such a word.