The Duke of Shadows (31 page)

After a minute—or ten, or twenty—she realized he was murmuring to her. And then, with a small shock, she realized it was not English he was speaking. It was a different language, that melodic, lilting tongue that her maid Usha had used, so long ago. Like yesterday. It made his chest vibrate. It was more soothing than English, like a lullaby, nonsensical, blank. English was so heavy. So desiccated and hardened by meaning, by pain and anger and even the jests and petty quibbles, everything under the sun that obscured the basic truth. But the sound of his voice as he spoke to her now, she heard the wind in it, the stillness of the night. Stars above. The things that had kept her going. Always in her memory they had been there. That night on the way to Sapnagar. She had tried to ignore it, but she had always failed. It had always been there, quietly, as his voice was now, against her ear, against her hair.

She pulled away. "He dropped his letters. He was holding them when he came in, and he knocked down my sketchbook. I was gathering up the drawings in a hurry—I was in a panic, not thinking—and I took it all. By accident, and then I didn't know how to get rid of it. Because—well, it was proof, wasn't it? Proof of what I'd done. And the whole camp was talking. A soldier, murdered in their midst."

He stroked her hair back from her face. A strand or two stuck. She reached up to pull them away. Her cheeks were wet. His shirtfront as well, she saw suddenly.

"I—" She swallowed. "This will change your idea of me."

He took her by the chin, directing her gaze back to him. "No. You know it does not."

"But I murdered—"

"In defense of yourself," he said. "And the letters should not worry you. If you took them from him, then he was part of the treason as well. There is no question of anyone blaming you."

She exhaled in disbelief. So easy? All the reasons she should not be forgiven—could he not see them, even now? So much blood had been shed around her. The horror like a contagion, and she so hopelessly infected. And then the original sin. "Laughing at Anne Marie and Mrs. Kiddell—"

He exhaled sharply. "Sweet girl, how can you blame yourself for that? You had no idea those were sepoys."

"Their last memory—if they were lucky, Julian. It was of my laughter.
Laughing
at them. So … hard to bear."

"Yes. It is." He kissed her forehead, and one hand stroked down her spine, urging her back against him. After a long moment, he said, "My cousin died, Emma."

"What—oh!" She tried to look at him, but he held her still.

"Deven died," he said softly. "In the assault on Delhi. I lit his pyre; my grandmother gave me that honor. But I did it only for her. Deven would not have wanted it. He did aid the rebels, you know. He hated what I stood for; he would have died another death to know I performed that rite for him. And that knowledge … yes, it lingers with me. Much as Anne Marie lingers with you."

Now she did wrest out of his grip, just enough to meet his eyes. "You were trying to help him, Julian. Always. You were trying to keep them safe."

"Of course," he murmured. "And you were only trying to survive, dear heart."

Her face was so close to his now that their eyelashes tangled. "And what did I survive for, do you think?"

She felt his smile against her lips. "For art, Miss Martin?"

"More than art, I think." And then, on a deep breath, she kissed him.

His eyes closed, and he accepted the kiss, letting her do as she liked, his lips mimicking hers. Always accepting her. His fingertips slid down to either side of her waist, balancing there. As if she were the lead in this dance, and he would follow her step for step. The thought made her smile. She broke away, and he exhaled.

"You came to me," he said.

"Yes."

"Do you know why?"

She smiled. "Julian. You looked for me in Kurnaul. You looked for me in Alwar. Where else did you name? Lucknow. Agra. Bartpur. Have I forgotten any?"

"Several," he said, and his finger ran over her bottom lip. "But you know that."

"Yes. But there is one city in particular I never heard you name. You never named London."

"No," he said softly.

"I thought you had not found me here," she whispered. "Or I thought you would not want me, as I am now. But you
did
find me here. Didn't you?"

"Yes." Something moved across his face as he looked at her, and it caught her like a hook; her next breath felt painful. Her heart was breaking to look upon him, or, no, it was finally knitting together; he wore his emotions so openly before her, she could not conceive of how to doubt him. She took his jaw in hand and directed his mouth back to hers. There was a hesitance in his lips, and she eased it by instinct alone, running her tongue along the seam of his mouth, sliding her hands down his chest. When his tongue finally touched hers, she laughed into his mouth and said, "Will you not take me to bed? Or is always to be floors for us?"

His forehead settled against hers. "Emma—there is nothing I would like better. But … the servants."

"What of them?"

"There is only one way I can take you upstairs. And that is if I know I will have the opportunity, later, to repair the damage it does to your name."

"Yes," she said. "Take me upstairs."

She smiled at him. "Did you think I meant to?"

Now his grip firmed, and his pace quickened a little, so that she was giggling and breathless when they finally reached the end of the corridor. He drew her through a small anteroom leading into his bedchamber. His valet looked up from a pile of neckties, eyes widening as they fixed on her.

"The evening is yours," said Julian.

"Sir," the man said, and hastily let himself out.

She stepped inside. So this was where he slept. A thick Turkey carpet ran from wall to wall. Two chairs flanked a small, scrolled table by the fire. In one corner stood an overflowing bookshelf, and two doors set into the far wall opened onto a sleeping porch. The late-afternoon sun spread fingers of light through the doors' glass panes, illuminating the carved surfaces of the rosewood bed frame, picking filaments of silver from the canopy's burgundy silk swags.

Turning around, she saw that the door through which they'd entered was flanked by two handsome chests, inlaid with brass wire. She had never seen anything like them. Perhaps he mistook the direction of her interest, for he moved into her path, blocking the door.

"You took my meaning downstairs," he said.

His tone was perfectly even, but he watched her closely. It came to her that he expected her to try to bolt—and he was resolved not to let her do it.

Amusement and love and the smallest trace of sympathy took hold of her. He still thought her hesitant—and why shouldn't he? She had gone about this in the most backward way. "Yes," she said, and fought the twitch of her lips, for he was very serious. "I understood you."

But it was not enough for him. "You are entirely compromised," he pressed.

Now she did give vent to her smile.
"Almost
entirely. I look to you to complete it."

His answering grin was wry. "By marrying you, do you mean? For let us be clear: that is what we're speaking of."

The idea of it swelled up in her like an orchestra's overture, and she had to blink very hard to prevent the tears. She caught up his hand. "Take it back," she said.

"I beg your pardon?"

"You cannot say such things until I say that I love you, Julian. So let me say it; I have waited far too long to do so. I
love
you. For a very long time now. For years."

His fingers closed around hers, and he laughed, a soft, happy, slightly incredulous sound. "How hard that was for you," he murmured. "You almost look resigned to it."

"Yes, I'm a dunderhead," she said. "It's only—"

But he cut the words off with a kiss. "I'm teasing you," he said against her mouth. "And myself, a little."

She smiled beneath his mouth, and his hands slid down her ribs to settle on her hips, just below the edge of her corset. Their firm pressure made her voice go husky. "Very unkind of you," she murmured, "to tease me so."

His voice was equally soft. "You must learn to accustom yourself to it. For there is more than one way to tease, and I plan to try them all on you. Turn around."

It took a moment for the command to penetrate the growing lassitude in her brain. "Oh," she said, as his hands at her waist gently nudged her around to face the direction of the windows. His fingers played cleverly over the cameo at her throat, and on the buttons at her wrists; in another second, her jacket was slipping from her shoulders. His hands moved again, making an economical descent down the eyelets of her gown; she shivered as his mouth found her bared nape. A finger gently traced the top of her spine, playing on a sensitive spot between her shoulder blades. The gust of his breath made her shiver. He laughed softly, and then the corset was loosening, as he worked at her laces. She reached up to unfasten the busk, and he lifted the thing away.

His hands came around to settle over her breasts. Gently his palms cupped her, drawing her back into his body. He was aroused, hard and hot against her lower back; but for a long moment he simply stood there, holding her, his breath steady in her ear. Her eyes fell shut. Warmth was moving up her face: the sunlight, spreading farther into the room. She felt as if she were floating. All along her back came the heat of his body, and in front, there was the hot embrace of his hands on her breasts, the slightly callused texture of his palms.

"I am yours," he said quietly.

His thumbs brushed over her nipples—just once, the most fleeting abrasion. But it was enough to speed her pulse again, and she turned her head, looping her hand over the back of his neck to pull his mouth down to hers. Her tongue brushed against the seam of his lips; they were flavored by the brandy he had drunk. She pulled harder, and his mouth opened fully, so she could breathe him into her.

When she broke away, it was to say, "You have me at a disadvantage."

"A pleasant change," he said, and she laughed, and reached up to unwind his necktie. Next his frock coat, the wool soft and finely textured beneath her fingers. He wanted to help; she batted his hand away. Now the buttons of his black waistcoat, and the braces beneath. His trousers did not come off so easily. She resisted his effort to help, falling to her knees before him to unhook the buttons. As he lifted his shirt over his head, she pulled the trousers down.

An artist should not be shocked by the human body. But she had never seen him in the light, and sculptures lacked certain … details. Her body had accommodated this thickness; it was astonishing. She traced the vein that ran down from the head of him to the black curls at his base, and his sharp breath inspired her to stroke him again. It was not so frightening, she thought, and curved her hand around it, and felt how the skin moved over the hardness beneath. She glanced up; his face was hard now, set in fierce, grim lines. Startled, she said, "Oh—I didn't mean—" But when her hand would have released him, he reached down to hold her there.

"It's … fine," he said, and laughed a little. "Just—surprising."

She felt a flush prickle through her cheeks. His eyes traced down her. "God," he said softly. "How you blush."

His tone, so hushed and heated, made her legs go weak. She sat back on her heels, running her eyes down his length, past the planes of his abdomen and the angular jut of his hipbones, the narrow expanse of his hips to his … cock … wrapped in her hand. The sight stirred her. She could touch him here. And he would continue to look at her like this, as though she held all the answers he wanted, because nothing she did could deter him. She drew a breath and laid her free hand against his thigh, so sculpted, the muscle flexing beneath her touch. The anatomy books she had studied did not cover it. Her hand smoothed down the flare of his quadriceps. He moved as though to urge her back up, but she did not want to go. This part of him was hers as well, and she had neglected it, hadn't she? She set her mouth to the skin of his thigh, nipping lightly; his muscle tightened beneath her lips even before she heard his gasp.

She drew back a little. There were benefits to being hopelessly singular. One's imagination could conjure possibilities that might not occur to others. She moved her lips to where her fingers curled around his cock, and heard his breath catch again. From the heat of her breath on him? Only that? She hesitated briefly. He was watching her do this; she felt his eyes on her. Embarrassment and excitement felt so similar, at times. On an indrawn breath, she darted her tongue over his tip. Salty, scented with a faint musk. His strangled noise intrigued her. Had she made such noises, when he had performed a similar thing on her?

The thought made her dizzy. Yes, he had done this to her. He had put his head between her thighs, and licked and sucked her; and now she would do the same. She opened her mouth and put her lips around the head of him. There was nothing to hide between them anymore, nothing more intimate than this; he had looked into her soul and told her he was hers, and her tongue, tracing the underside of him, made him moan.

After a moment, he said roughly, "Come," and now she did let him pull her up, because her limbs were too weak to resist his hands' direction. He stripped the chemise from her, and released the tapes of her crinoline; she stepped out of her clothing. Taking her bottom in his hand, he pulled her into him again, and now they were pressed naked together, in the light. She set her face into the crook of his neck as he stroked her, broad hard strokes down her back that brought her so close that his cock had nowhere to nestle but in the space opened at the tops of her thighs. She parted her legs slightly for a better fit, and the pressure as his hardness arced up against her quim made her moan. She opened her mouth on his skin and bit him. He had done so, before, and she understood now why he had liked doing it.

"Look," he said softly, and she raised her head. He turned her so she faced the pier glass. His forearm came around her waist, the veins in his arm standing out, the muscle there flexing as his hand angled up to close over her breast. She watched in the glass as his other hand slid between her thighs, cupping her gently. He held her quim as if it were his, which it was, she thought suddenly. She was his as much as he was hers. Every part of her answered to him.

His regard in the mirror was slumberous. She met his eyes, and the corner of his mouth quirked a little, as if he had secret plans for her and the thought of them pleased him. She put her hand on top of his where it held her breast, and he rubbed her nipple lightly. His skin looked so dark in comparison with her pallor; his hair was so black against her cheek as he leaned down to swirl his tongue in her ear. She made a little noise, and his hand moved between her thighs, pressing up into her with sudden sure pressure. Her hips jerked.

In the mirror her face reddened further, and her eyes widened. She might have laughed at herself, a little embarrassed, if she had had the strength to do it, or if, as his eyes met hers again, anything in his face had suggested humor. His thumb found that spot which robbed her of breath, and he began to push upward on her from within, and his hand at her breast chafed as he sucked on her earlobe. "The bed," she said, and did not recognize her own voice—so hoarse. The sound of it heightened her agitation. She felt like a tuning fork, quivering; or a flute played by his mouth and fingers, pushed rapidly up through the scales.

He swung her around and up into his arms, turning her so her legs closed around his waist as he carried her. They tumbled onto the mattress. She found herself seated on top of him, and rose onto her knees, thinking to climb up to kiss him again. But he used the space opened between them to reach down and take hold of himself and rub the head of him in the dampness between her legs. The sensation, the idea it inspired, made her catch her breath. "Like this," she said, and "Yes," he said, and she exhaled as she felt him press upward, spreading her, forcing inward.

He moved into her so deeply that it burned a little. She doubted, for a moment, whether she could take anything more. And then his hips jerked, and she was fuller still, the loveliest dilemma. His hands grasped her waist to direct her, and as she began to move—clumsily, at first, and then catching the rhythm—the burn gone, only the sweetness remaining. The friction distracted her mind, let instinct play guide. She circled her hips, and watched his eyes flutter shut, his head tip back. The sight made her flush hotter; she leaned forward to lick the sweat from his cheek. It was the same taste as she remembered; she tasted him again.

His eyes came open under the stroke of her tongue. "You…" he said, but it seemed he could not finish it. He rose up and turned her over onto her back, and she laughed and then his hips rolled and her laughter ended in a gasp. She remembered that night in the desert again, so clearly that it was as if they were back there, and the bed and its silk hangings and the rich afternoon light faded before the overlay of shadows and stars.

He took her hand and moved it down, so she could feel where he pressed into her. The sensation, the feel of their fingers tangled together there, as he moved in and out of her, brought everything in her to a keening pitch. She broke around him, and their lips met, and his movements grew fierce; she held onto his back and felt her own strength, her own resilience, as she absorbed the furor of his thrusts.

When he finished, she caught him to her and would not let him pull away.

"I will crush you," he said.

"I am not fragile," she murmured.

"No," he whispered against her breast. "Anything but." His hand came up to thread through her hair, so it fanned out over her shoulders. He murmured something else, which she did not understand. When she asked, he smiled. "It is a couplet by Ghalib, a poet I once met in Delhi. 'In love my temperament found a new taste for life: it found a cure for the pain, and a pain without cure.'"

She stroked his hair softly. "It is beautiful. But I do not wish to give you any more pain than I already have done."

He leaned up to kiss her. "Too late. I am clearly very badly off, to be reciting poetry in my own bed."

She laughed and pressed his head back down, so her hands could stroke through his hair. She felt—changed, she thought. As though the sunlight had settled inside her. The dark crescents of his lashes, the curves of his lips, made her want to kiss him again. But then she would miss the sensation of his breath, so soft and hot against her breast.

The moment seemed precious. Portentous. It was borrowed, she thought, from her future.