Dancing on the Wind (27 page)

He studied her from the corner of his eye as they drove through the busy London streets. She sat silently, feeling no need to fill the air with chatter. Though her manner was more reserved than her sister's, she shared the same marvelous, heart-catching profile. The sight of her made him ache for Kit.

When they reached the relative peace of the park, he asked, "Did you ever resent your sister for dazzling everyone?"

"How can one resent the sun for shining?" she answered. "Besides, Kristine enjoyed being the center of attention and I didn't, so there was no competition between us."

"Never?" he asked skeptically.

"Never." She glanced at him askance. "I'm not sure if a non-twin can understand this. Because we are similar in so many ways, a compliment to her pleases me as much as if it were made to me. I have always delighted in her achievements."

She sounded sincere, yet he had the impression that she was not telling the whole truth. Surely there must have been times when Kathryn had yearned for attention.

She continued, "The reverse is also true. Once a stuffy widower who was considering me for his next wife claimed that I was far prettier than Kristine. Even if the idea hadn't been nonsense, I would have been angry. How could he expect me to take pleasure in a compliment made at my sister's expense?"

"That was clumsy," Lucien agreed. "Yet it is not impossible that the fellow might have honestly found you more attractive. The glory of the sun does not lessen the loveliness of the moon."

She gave him a quick, startled glance. Then her gaze fell to her gloved hands. "You have a glib tongue, my lord."

"Yes," he admitted, "but that doesn't mean I don't sometimes tell the truth, as I just did."

Sudden laughter lit her face, and for a moment it was as if Kit was sitting beside him with all her teasing, volatile charm. Lucien's hands tightened on the reins, confusing his horses, and he reminded himself this was not the sister he wanted.

Yet while Kathryn did not have her sister's radiant sensuality, there was an intriguing hint of passion lurking beneath her proper surface. A good thing she was the sort of respectable female that a gentleman could court but not seduce. Otherwise, he might have been tempted to further their acquaintance, and his life was confused enough already.

Kit was a different story. Having chosen to kick over the traces of conventional morality, she was fair game. If—when—they became lovers, it would be as equals.

Yet he was still acutely aware of the woman sitting beside him. With an inward smile, he told himself it was a good thing Kathryn had a strong right arm and was willing to use it. No, it was his right cheek that had stung, so she must have struck him with her left hand.

He asked, "Kira, are you and your sister both left-handed?"

Her previous wariness returned. "Why did you call me that?"

"My aunt said that you and Kristine called each other Kit and Kira. I used your nickname because I like it."

"Lady Steed noticed a great deal," she said repressively. "But those names are private to my sister and me. It sounds strange to hear 'Kira' on a stranger's lips."

"I'm sorry," he said meekly. "I'll restrict myself to calling you Kathryn if you prefer."

"Lady Kathryn, if you please. We are not on familiar terms with each other."

"Yet."

She gave him a straight look. "I am not Kristine, Lord Strathmore, and I don't appreciate being used as a tool to help you find her."

He was surprised at how much he disliked the fact that she felt that way. He pulled his horses to a halt on the side of the track so he could give her his full attention. "It's true that I want to find your sister, for selfish reasons as well as disinterested ones. But you are an intriguing woman in your own right. I think we could be friends, if you would allow yourself, instead of growling like a cornered wildcat."

She looked away. "I'm sorry if I have been rude. The fact that my father was an unreliable sort has tended to make me suspicious of male intentions."

"I have no dishonorable intentions where you are concerned, and I would enjoy your conversation even if you didn't have a twin sister. Could that be considered a basis for friendship?"

"Perhaps… perhaps it could," she said uncomfortably. "But I don't know if I wish for friendship."

"You're a hard woman, Lady Kathryn,"

"I prefer it that way, my lord." As if needing to change the subject, she asked, "Do you have a brother?"

"No." It was Lucien's turn to be uncomfortable. He started the curricle forward again with perhaps too much concentration on his horses. "I had a sister, but she died very young."

"I'm sorry," she said with genuine sympathy. "A sibling can be one's best ally against a difficult world, for no one else can ever so completely understand the forces that mold us for life."

"I adopted three brothers at Eton, and they've served me well," he said lightly.

She gave a faint sigh. "A family that one chooses must be more satisfactory than the sort one inherits."

"Usually it is, but when there are problems, they are as painful as with blood kin," he said, thinking of the trouble Michael had caused the previous spring. "Since you know Kristine better than anyone, surely you have some idea where I might look for her. I have reason to believe she might be living in Soho."

"She had a flat there once, but no longer," Kathryn replied. "I don't believe she is performing for the next week or two, so she may have left London." She gave him an unreadable glance. "If you learn anything, will you let me know?"

"I was about to ask the same thing. Surely she is more likely to communicate with you than me."

Kathryn stared down at her hands, which were clamped tightly in her lap. "We are no longer as close as we once were. Though I would be pleased to hear from her, I don't expect to."

He thought of the complex ties that bound twins and ached for Kathryn's loneliness. It must be difficult to live on the charity of a strong-minded aunt, cut off from her sister, who had been her closest friend. And it would be worse yet to feel that sister no longer cared for her.

Deciding he had upset his companion enough for one day, he turned the conversation to literature as they drove back to Lady Jane's house. When Kathryn was relaxed and discussing an abstract topic, her dry wit was very amusing.

He was pensive as he drove away. In her own way, Kathryn was as enigmatic as her sister. She was also, he realized unhappily, almost as alluring. He wanted to fan that hidden spark of passion into a flame. He wanted to kiss away her wariness and make her laugh without restraint. He wanted…

Damnation
! He didn't know what he wanted. No, that wasn't true. He wanted Kit, and in his frustration he was transferring that desire to Kit's twin. Granted, the similarities between them were tantalizing, yet the differences were far more significant. The women were individuals, each with her own dreams and fears. To confuse them in his mind would be a denial of their essential humanity.

Besides, Kathryn was entirely too rigid for Lucien's taste. He reminded himself of that—repeatedly.

By the time he arrived home, his normally even temper was thoroughly foul. He needed to find Kristine before he turned rabid. Unfortunately, the progress he thought he had made had turned out to be an illusion. He was no closer to finding his Lady Nemesis than he had been before meeting Kathryn.

Interlude

She waited for him by the door. The instant he stepped into the anteroom, she cracked the whip across his shoulders. He spun around, surprised and aroused. Tonight she wore virginal white, like the innocent girl she was not, and a white veil floated over the soft, false blond curls. But her satin gown was only long enough to brush the tops of her thighs, and her long legs were encased in leather and black lace. "You look especially beautiful tonight, mistress," he breathed.

"
Silence!" She stretched sensually so that the white satin strained across her breasts. "Of course I am beautiful, but I am not for the likes of you, slave. You must not touch me. You cannot look at me. You may not even
think
about me
."

"You are cruel, mistress," he whimpered. "I can't help but think of you, and of the ecstasy I find in serving you."

She choked back the bile that rose at his words. When she had mastered her voice, she spat out, "Insolent swine! You must be punished for your presumption. Come into my dungeon."

Though he obeyed eagerly, he paused for a moment by the evil little mechanical device. She slapped the whip handle across his knuckles to start him moving again.

In the center of the rough-hewn stone chamber stood a large wooden frame. Touching him as little as possible, she shackled his wrists and ankles so that he was spread-eagled and on the frame.

Then she raised the hardest-edged whip she owned and used it to strip him naked. Endless hours of practice had made her an expert, and her control was exquisite. She knew exactly how much pressure was required to rend fabric, and how much more to graze the flesh beneath
—
how to raise a welt, and now to draw blood. Soon rents in his garments revealed the sweat-filmed skin below, and crimson stains marred the white linen remnants of his shirt
.

She gauged her progress by watching his organ swell against the tattered fabric of his breeches. The more of his clothing she shredded, the harder he writhed against his bonds and the louder his moans for release.

Not until he was fully naked did she apply the final, vicious slash across the buttocks that she knew would bring him to orgasm. He gave a drawn-out wail of animal need, his hips pumping wildly as his seed spurted in a silvery arc. Then his whole body went slack, and he hung limply from the shackles, only the heaving of his chest showing that he still lived.

She drew the whip through her trembling fingers and wondered how long it would take him to die if she knotted the leather thong about his throat. The murderous impulse was so intense that she could taste it. His face would turn purple, and he would thrash in terror when he realized that this time there would be no escape, but he, would be helpless before her lethal rage.

Quickly, Before she could act on her desire, she whirled away and fled from the dungeon.

Kit awoke with a smothered scream, her fingers cramped from her vicious knotting of the leather. Horrified, she looked at her hands in the dawn light. She half expected to see ridges gouged in the flesh, but they were empty. She had not really murdered anyone. It had only been another ghastly nightmare.

They were coming more often now, each uglier and more upsetting than the last, but this was the first time she had dreamed of murder. She tried to remember the fact, but it was too distorted—by rage? by fear?—to be recognizable.

Staggering from her bed, she made her way to the washstand and cracked the film of ice that covered the surface of the water in the pitcher. Then she splashed her face and hands, feeling like Lady Macbeth in her frantic desire to cleanse herself.