Dangerous Diana (Brambridge Novel 3) (7 page)

It was red. It always was at the moment.

“Dianthus Carrolus.” He rolled the words quietly in his mouth.  “Yes. You are right. I have found I’ve gained a somewhat dangerous passion for flowers recently.”

“D…d…dangerous, sir?” the clerk stuttered.

Hades gripped at the ledge of the counter.
Dangerous for whom?
“It distracts me from my other activities.” He shut his mouth with a snap.

The clerk sighed with relief. “Yes, books can do that, can’t they? I remember one time when I had a first edition of…”

Hades rubbed at the bridge of his nose. “The books please, Bob.”

“Oh yes, of course.” Laboriously the clerk wrapped the books in brown paper and then carefully drew string around the two parcels and tied them with a neat bow at the top.

“Do you need anyone to help you, sir?” The clerk lifted the books and stared at him as Hades gazed into space.

Help?
Gods, that was exactly what he needed. Melissa would probably call it an antidote. He clapped a hand to his forehead as a hot shiver ran through him. Help from what, though, exactly?

CHAPTER 8

Melissa rubbed underneath the glass of her spectacles at the rogue tear that had collected at her nose. It had been her last resort. She
had had to
offer a kiss. It was the only bargaining chip that she had ever known that any man she met had ever wanted.

She slowly rose to her feet from her ignominious position on the floor. It was a case of more fool her. Testing his will had been like flying a red flag at a bull.

She hung her head. She hadn’t been able to stop her hands stealing up the contours of his massive back, and encircling his powerful shoulders, her body unconsciously pressing itself closer to his broad torso.

She righted her glasses on her nose and leaned against the bookshelf with a sniff. Absently she stroked her lips with her hand. How many other women had he kissed in the same way? He had reacted so strongly to her taking over his chair, she couldn’t believe that he had ever let a woman into his inner sanctum, which did not say much for any of his relationships, mistresses or otherwise.
Oh dear.
These were dangerous thoughts.

And yet he did not seem like the same boy to whom the book on Cicero was dedicated. She rolled his name around on her tongue,
Hades
, Hades Harding. It was the name of the god of the Underworld. It was apt, she found the earl as beautiful and handsome as sin, and as muscular as any Greek god statue. And yet she could see why he did not advertise it.

The inscription in the book had been even more interesting.

Dearest Hades, Wishing you every happiness, my serious darling, on your thirteenth birthday. Remember that as Cicero explains, behind every defeat there is a triumph, and every sadness, a joy.

Mama

It seemed at first sight rather imposing advice to write to a thirteen-year-old. But then Melissa had read the Cicero letters from cover to cover. The inscription did not mean to say that out of every defeat someone else will triumph, or even that someone else would feel joy at one’s sadness. It meant that a defeat could be
turned
into a victory, or even sadness into a joy.

She could not comprehend why a thirteen year old would need such advice at such an early age. But clearly the man was still as serious as the day when he received the book.

Shaking her skirts out, Melissa pushed herself away from the stacks of books and stepped gingerly towards the leather chair. Her legs wobbled slightly, shock, perhaps. She had seen similar symptoms in patients that had nearly been hit by carriages, or who had fallen from horses. Normally she recommended a strong cup of tea but in some cases they had sworn by a tot of rum instead.

Her eyes fell on the tantallus on the mantelpiece above the fire. Just one sip wouldn’t hurt. When she had stayed with Lady Colchester whilst Lord Stanton had endeavored to draw Eliza and Edgar and their hellish plans out, the women seemed to have drunk strong spirits on a daily basis.

With fuzzy movements, she unstoppered the glass jug and poured a measure into a waiting glass. As she stoppered the jug again, she caught a quick glimpse of herself in the glass above the fire. Her glasses glinted in the ever-present firelight and her hair stood on end.

She smoothed her hair and took off her glasses, thrusting them in her pocket. Squinting slightly, she regarded herself in the mirror again. That was much better. Perhaps that was why her attempt to buy her freedom had not worked.  Melissa eyed the glass of brandy. She grasped the glass and tentatively took a sip.

The liquid slid smoothly down her throat. Licking her lips to gain all of the sweetness, she took another sip, and another. It really was rather good. Seeing that her glass was already half-finished, she poured herself another generous measure. Silently wishing herself good health in the mirror, she tottered to the leather chair and fell into it in a heap, without managing to spill a drop.

What she needed was another way to escape Hades. Her plan had backfired spectacularly on her; attempting to bargain with him with a kiss had only drawn his snare more tightly around her. His kisses had pulled her as tight as a spinning top, smoothing away any semblance of control she exerted over her own actions.

And when he found out that she was seeking the Viper too, she would be even more at his mercy.

Melissa shifted in the chair as the brandy warmed her stomach. As the study blurred around her, it was almost as if she was back in the sumptuous library of the home in Buckinghamshire that her father had bought when she was little. Her father, Arthur Sumner, renowned botanist and expedition leader, had bought the house for the fertile grounds where he could plant all of the different varieties of flowers he brought back from around the world. Melissa had played on the front steps singing nursery rhymes as her father gardened, and then later on in the winter, games of hide and seek until she knew the house backwards. It had also been useful in escaping Eliza.

Melissa hiccupped and reached for her glass again.
Eliza again.
Melissa stared into the glass. Was she already giving the other deportees her own peculiar brand of freezing camaraderie or had that only been reserved for Melissa? It was only when Melissa’s father was away that she had first noticed the woman’s coldness. But her father had always soon thankfully returned, and Melissa would disappear with him into a happy haze of flower examination and tales of orchid hunting leaving Eliza doing… whatever she did.

But then one expedition he didn’t come back. Arthur Sumner’s expedition partner had sent Eliza a letter that had turned her beautiful pale face white. Melissa had supposed it was grief. She had only ever seen the first page of the letter, the part where Professor Lisle recounted dryly how her father’s body had been found at the bottom of the crevasse, that there was nothing he could do for him, and that these things happened. He was buried in the town where they had been staying, and where would Mrs. Sumner like him to send Arthur’s belongings?

Melissa threw the last contents of the brandy glass into her throat, the liquid burning her tongue. It wasn’t long after that Eliza’s coldness turned into an Arctic freeze. She started to go out more, staying in London for long periods leaving the bewildered and grief-stricken Melissa alone in the house in Buckinghamshire. Her only consolation was found in her father’s books and plants. She read, she dissected, she studied, until she knew the texts by heart, and her knowledge was almost as good as her father’s. She tended the plants outside, the strange orchids and exotic ferns. She even developed a particular interest in healing plants. But then her mother came back and announced that they were going to move. That they were going to buy a smaller, more manageable place in London, away from the disgusting plants that reminded her of her dear Arthur. And by the way
dear Melissa,
Professor Lisle had kindly agreed to buy the house for a generous sum of money.

That was the start of the moves, each time to a house that was progressively smaller, and in a less and less salubrious area of London, until they ended up in Bayswater—

A footman entered softly as Melissa groaned. He stood regarding her curiously for a second before placing a large piece of sumptuous cake by her chair. Melissa blinked at him and narrowed her eyes. There was something familiar about him… he had a nasty scar on his cheek too, but then the flicker of recognition disappeared. She eyed the brandy glass. It must have been the effects of the alcohol. She turned back to speak to the footman, but caught only the sight of his back as he tiptoed out through the door. He did seem very considerate.

The slice of cake was large, and smelled of almonds. She didn’t really feel that hungry. Swiping the tantallus off the oval table, Melissa poured herself another drop of brandy.

Now what had she been trying to get at on the top shelf of the library? It seemed important, but only to her. Perhaps if she looked again…

Melissa awoke to the feel of warm breath on her brow and warmth on her left hand side. Every now and then her body jolted up and down. She tilted her nose upwards to see the underside of a strong chin and aquiline nose.

“Mmm, Hades,” she said, recognizing the earl. His warmth was irresistible. Twisting slightly, she burrowed into his chest, becoming aware that he also held her under her knees. Realizing that her right arm was hanging downwards, she pulled it up and rested it on his chest. She traced the outline of the buttons than ran down his waistcoat. Each one was inscribed with a roaring lion.

“Just like a lion, warm and strong,” she murmured. “I suppose you must be if you live in the underworld.”

She felt a rumble of laughter in Hades’ chest. It cleared some of the warmth in her head.

“But also cold and savage like all other men,” she muttered wanly. Hades bent his head to look at her but she didn’t want to meet his gaze. She dropped her hand to her waist and turned her face into his chest. It was easier to dream that way.

CHAPTER 9

Hades pulled the knocker down on the front door of the house in Mount Street. He didn’t really want to return, but he had no other place to go. The door opened softly.

“Hello, Carruthers,” he said, pulling his hat from his head. “Is Lady Colchester in?”

“I’ll see if she is taking visitors, sir.” The butler shut the door firmly on his nose.

Hades blinked. He really was persona non grata. Well, that didn’t matter. He needed his antidote, and fast. He tapped his boots on the top step impatiently, and unpeeling a glove from his hand, ran a finger over his lips.

The sweetness of her kiss and the feeling of her warm—

“You may come in.”

Hades jumped.
Gods
, it was getting worse. He hadn’t noticed the door reopening so quickly. He pushed past the butler and, in one quick movement, tossed his gloves and cane onto the hall table. With a disgusted glance at the large portrait of Victoria and her deceased husband that hung on the wall above the hall table, he strode into the front room.

“Wait,” cried the butler.

Hades closed the door on his face, happy to return the compliment.

Victoria stood reading a letter at the window. Hades took a moment to admire her beautiful blonde hair and the expanse of creamy skin that stretched from shoulder to shoulder. She turned in surprise, her blue eyes meeting his.

“Earl Harding, what a surprise…” But she had no time to finish her sentence. He stalked across the front room and gathered her up in his arms. With grim determination, he pulled Victoria towards him and kissed her thoroughly.

After a minute he stopped.

Absolutely nothing. There was
absolutely nothing
. Just like all the other women since Lady Elsa. All that is, for the shrew that was currently taking over
his
house. He shut his mind quickly.
By God—

He sank into one of the ridiculous small chairs that Victoria used to torture her guests with and humphed.

Victoria remained by the window, the paper that she had been reading now crumpled in her hand. Objectively, she looked as beautiful as ever. Hades humphed again and turned his head to the fireplace.

Victoria placed her crumpled paper on the small table below the window and delicately sat in the chair opposite Hades.

“What is the matter, Hades?” she asked softly. She made no reference to the kiss.

Hades swallowed. If he had expected to her to be outraged by the liberty that he had just taken, he should have thought again—he had only recently become aware that Victoria was far more perceptive than the silly persona that she projected. It was what had piqued his interest again until… he stopped himself. He hadn’t factored that in to his grand plan when he had made up his mind to kiss her. He had hoped that he could give a curt goodbye and walk out. Like he had many times before.

“We are not the same people we were three years ago, Hades,” Victoria said gently into Hades’ continued silence. “You and I both know that.”

“Elsa…” Hades voice hitched. He didn’t quite know how to put it into words.

“Elsa’s in America. I haven’t heard from her in years.” Victoria put a hand to her face. “She’s not dead, is she? I know how much she meant to you.”

Hades looked up sharply.

“Come on, Hades, don’t be a pea brain. Of course I knew. We were both hurting. I from the mistake I made with Colchester, and you from believing yourself in love with Elsa.”

“I
did
love Elsa,” Hades protested.

“Pah! Moon-calf love. She knew that, I knew that. Even your mother knew that.”

“My mother!”

Victoria pursed her lips. “So she’s not dead, then?” she said hurriedly.

“I’ve no idea.”

Victoria got to her feet. She started to pace up and down. Hades stayed quiet. He’d seen her like this before during the
Monsieur Herr
affair. He wasn’t going to like what was coming next.