Teresa Medeiros - Once An Angel

Lily threw herself back in the seat, sighing in content. "Harvey will have a Hereford if he knows we took this route." She giggled slyly. "Sometimes I wish he'd take this way himself. I try to lie very still and endure his attentions as Mama taught me, but I shouldn't mind so much if he snuck off to fertilize someone else's bloom. '

Lily began to sing under her breath, some ditty about the bees buzzing around Mrs. Rose's garden.

Emily sank back, fingering the soft wool of her cloak. She was hard pressed to imagine lying still

beneath the tender stroke of Justin's hands. The image brought warmth stinging to her cheeks.

How familiar was Justin with this street? Had his carriage ever been parked outside the pretty gray town house with the curtained windows? She frowned. If he was so determined to follow her, why shouldn't she lead him on a merry chase?

The carriage slowed at the corner. Emily reached for the door handle.

Lily recognized the sparkle of mischief in her eyes only too well. Her gloved hand closed over Emily's. "Oh, no, you don't. What are you up to? Going to jab the horses with a hairpin and send me careening into the Thames?"

"This joke isn't on you. I promise." She pried away Lily's clinging fingers. "Have the driver circle the block a few times, then pick me up in the park."

Ignoring Lily's protests, she opened the door a crack and eased out of the carriage. The driver clucked

the horses into motion, unaware that he had lost a passenger.

As the brougham rolled away, Lily hung out the window and hissed, "Take care, silly. The moon is already out. It'll be full dark soon."

Emily strolled across the road to the park, swinging her embroidered purse as if she hadn't a care in the world. From behind her she heard a frantic cry of "Whoa!" a horse's whinny, and the clatter of someone spilling out of a carriage in great haste. Pretending to brush a stray hair from her shoulder, she looked back just as Justin ducked behind the mottled trunk of a sycamore.

Pulling her hood up over her hair, she darted into a thicket of trees. The air was much colder here. A lacy web of branches blocked out all but the most tenacious rays of light. She followed a cobbled path around a frozen pond and past a terra-cotta cupid. Icicles dangled from his pouting lips. Dusk was falling fast.

She swung around a fragrant spruce, fully intending to circle back to the brougham by another path and leave Justin combing the park for her. The deepening shadows rendered the tangled shrubs a maze. She took one path, then another, only to find herself at the fountain again. Cupid smirked at her. She stuck her tongue out at him.

Hugging herself against the chill, she chose the only path she had not taken. It was much narrower than the others. Dead weeds sprouted through the cracked cobblestones. She was beginning to wish she were sitting in the parlor at Grymwilde, sipping hot spiced cider and listening to Edith drone on about a new embroidery pattern.

The bushes rustled behind her. Emily hesitated, regretting her folly. A woman walking unchaperoned in

a park was fair game for any scoundrel. A shiver crept down her spine. She swung around to face the looming shadows.

For a long moment there was only silence, then came the reassuring click of a walking stick against the cobblestones. She pressed a fist to her thundering heart in relief. Perhaps Justin had decided to play the game along with her.

She started to sing softly in Maori, a child's tune Dani had taught her, hoping to entice him to show himself.

A match flared in the darkness, followed by the unmistakable sizzle of flame against paper and the stringent tang of smoke. Emily's voice trailed to silence. She'd seen Justin partake of a pipe on occasion after dinner, but she'd never known him to smoke a cigarette.

She took two steps backward. "Justin?" she whispered to the encroaching twilight.

The shadows held their silence. Emily spun around to flee and crashed into something so warm and solid it could only be a man's chest. Her purse fell to the ground, spilling out her card case and an ivory array of calling cards.

The man knelt to retrieve them.

She gave his shiny top hat an aggravated thump. "You scared me half to death! Didn't you hear me

calling you? I almost . . ."

Her voice faded as he lifted his head. The rising moon shone through the trees, and she found herself gazing into the molten brown eyes of a man more beautiful than Satan himself.

The moon caressed a face of pure masculine beauty. Not a single whisker marred the purity of its

narrow planes. Except for Justin, he was the first clean-shaven man Emily had seen in London. An

ivory cigarette holder hung from his lips. His dark eyes seemed not opaque, but translucent, lit from within by a diabolical fire.

With a flick of his elegant fingers he held up one of her calling cards. "Miss Scarborough, I presume?"

She could not help staring at his hand. His nails were trimmed to precise points, their beds as pink and smooth as a baby's. He cleared his throat and Emily realized she was behaving like a churl.

"Why, thank you. I'll just take that." She reached for the card, but he slipped it into his breast pocket

with the deftness of a magician.

"Allow me." He handed her the purse and straightened, looming over her in the growing darkness. An opera cloak rippled in ebony folds from his narrow shoulders.

"Have you come calling today, Miss Scarborough?" His voice held the faintest trace of a continental accent.

"Not quite. I'm afraid I'm lost," she said lamely.

He tapped the ash from his long, slender cigarette. "A condition my soul is quite familiar with."

The dark humor in his voice was irresistible. Emily laughed, then wished she hadn't.

He flicked the cigarette from the holder. The polished heel of his boot ground it to pulp. "Will you allow me to escort you to a safer haven?"

He smiled, his canine teeth gleaming in the moonlight. Whoever filed his nails ought to take a crack at

his teeth, Emily thought uncharitably. She hesitated, feeling a bit like Red Riding Hood being invited to picnic with the wolf.

He read her mind with eerie accuracy. "I fear you're safe with me. I've already gobbled up three lost young ladies this evening. I'm quite sated at the moment."

She flushed. Mayfair was a genteel neighborhood. He was probably some nice gent, whose wife didn't allow him to smoke in the house, eager to get home to his cozy fire and three chubby babes.

Feeling sheepish, she tucked her hand in the curve of his arm. "I'd be honored."

The new moon shone through the naked branches, casting a silver latticework across their path.

"I couldn't help but hear your charming little song," he said. "Was it Swahili?"

"No. Maori."

"Ah, the Maori. Natives of"-he hesitated as if searching his brain-"New Guinea?"

"New Zealand."

"My goodness, you are lost, aren't you? Did your boat capsize?"

Emily thought of the tangled chain of events that had returned her to London. "In a manner of speaking, yes."

They emerged from the trees onto the gaslit street to find the brougham silhouetted against the darkening sky. An unbidden sigh of relief escaped Emily. In this light the whiteness of the stranger's shirtfront was dazzling. She was tempted to shield her eyes from its brilliance.

She bobbed an awkward curtsy. "I can find my way from here."

His response was interrupted by Lily, who came running up, her bustle listing to starboard. "There you are! My head is positively spinning from circling this block. Harvey is going to slay me for coming home after dark. If he forbids me the opera next week, I'll die a thousand gruesome deaths. Oh."

Her rebuke died as she realized they had an audience. Her hazel eyes widened to mesmerized splendor

as she gazed up at the stranger's compelling face.

He inclined his head and brought Lily's gloved fingers to his lips. "Good evening, madam."

He turned to Emily. "Perhaps another time, Miss Scarborough." He lifted her hand to his lips, but instead of kissing her fingers, he brought his moist lips to bear against the naked flesh of her inner wrist. Emily would have sworn his teeth grazed her skin.

"Thank you for your kindness," she said, withdrawing her hand.

"My pleasure, cara mia."

He tipped his hat to them both, revealing a sleek, dark cap of hair, then strode off into the night, his

opera cloak swirling around his ankles.

"Oh, my." Lily rubbed the tips of her fingers absently against her lips. "Wasn't he the most gorgeous creature you've ever seen? Like some sort of archangel."

"Look again, dear. Your angel has fallen from grace."

Lily's mouth fell open as they watched him saunter across the street and up the stairs to Mrs. Rose's establishment. The stained-glass door swung open. A burst of music and laughter tarnished the winter stillness. Then he was gone, so quickly they might have imagined him.

"Can you believe his boldness?" Lily said. "Most of the gentlemen have the decency to use the back entrance from the alley. He just strolls up to the front door as if he owns the place. Who does he think

he is?"

"I wish I knew," Emily murmured.

He had not offered his name. She remembered her calling card disappearing into his breast pocket. He knew who she was, though. A faint shudder rippled down her spine.

Lily patted her shoulder. "You poor dear. You must be chilled to the marrow."

"I dare say she is."

The voice came out of the shadows behind them, as cool and lethal as pistol fire. Emily started as if

she'd been shot. Justin stalked out of the trees like a hungry wolf who has spotted a helpless fawn.

His tie was no longer knotted. His greatcoat was littered with twigs and smudged with dirt. His hair was wild, as if it had wrestled with more than one tree and lost. But even a fresh limp did not mar the murderous grace of his intent.

"Good evening . . . sir," she said weakly.

"A little late for a stroll in the park, isn't it, dear?" he bit off.

Lily wisely drifted toward the brougham.

Emily stared straight ahead. "I find the air invigorating this time of night."

His eyes narrowed to amber slits. "So do all sorts of dangerous characters."

Emily found it laughable that only minutes before she had found a suave stranger so menacing. No man was more dangerous to her than this one. She lived daily with the mortal risk of falling to her knees at

his feet and begging him to love her.

He circled her, then stopped so close behind her that she could feel the angry heat emanating from his lean form. His lips touched her ear, bringing the tiny hairs along her lobe to tingling life. "How would

you like to be robbed or murdered … or raped?"

"Are those my only choices?" His sigh scorched the back of her neck. She turned to face him. "Why

were you following me anyway? Don't you trust me?"

He rubbed the back of his neck. "I wasn't following you. I just happened to be passing by."

At that moment his carriage rumbled around the corner at a full gallop with Penfeld hanging out the window, waving his handkerchief. "Thank the Lord, sir!" he cried as the carriage clattered to a halt.

"You found her. If anything had happened to her, I would have blamed myself. . . ."