The Trouble With Moonlight Page 13

  “Given your lack of clarity,” she said, tapping her spoon lightly on the table, “perhaps we should concentrate on your plans for this evening.”

  “Yes, this evening . . .” He frowned again. She’d not shown concentration to be her strong suit during their sessions the prior week. Something had changed; even her appearance had altered in a slight degree, though he couldn’t say how. He ran a hand over his face, mentally focusing on the mission ahead. “This should be a very quick endeavor, Miss Havershaw. Don’t you think you could maintain that invisible condition of yours for a brief space of time?”

  She looked pensive for a moment. “If I soak up the available moonbeams for a lengthy period before attempting to enter the Farthington residence, and I stay in moonlight as much as possible, and if the clouds do not hinder the moonlight, perhaps I can sustain invisibility.” She looked doubtful. “There’s less certainty when the moon is not full. I don’t have a great deal of control.”

  He tried not to linger too long on her admitted lack of control. The woman roamed about bloody well naked without so much as a by-your-leave. If that didn’t indicate a lack of control, he didn’t know what did. Obviously, it fell to him to maintain the proper distance and decorum in their relationship. What if he hadn’t left last night? What if he had pulled her into his arms as he had longed to do and revisited their earlier embrace? What if he hadn’t . . .

  “What if I phase-back to visibility too early?” she asked.

  He cleared his throat, hoping the action would dismiss the direction of his thoughts. “This is where I think we can use the events of two nights ago to our advantage.” He reached for the issue of the Times that rested by her plate. “Yesterday, the paper suggested that you were the spirit of Mrs. Farthington’s niece who tragically drowned several years ago on her country estate. Perhaps that illusion will hold should you be discovered.”

  “That illusion?”

  Her confusion pulled at the corners of his mouth. “Can you wail and moan convincingly?”

  “I suppose so.” She appeared perplexed, although certainly a woman of her free and sensuous nature knew a moan from a sigh.

  He settled more comfortably in his chair. “Please demonstrate. ”

  She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Just as he realized the moonstone brooch was missing from its customary position, she let loose a keening wail that could draw restless spirits out of Kensal Green. At the very least, it drew Pickering back to the door.

  “Is all well, sir?” he asked, surveying the room with his hand to his hip as if to draw out a nonexistent sword.

  Miss Havershaw hid her laughter with a fist to her mouth.

  “Everything is fine, Pickering,” Locke said, feeling repressed laughter squeeze his ribs. “Miss Havershaw was merely demonstrating her dramatic talents.”

  He waited until Pickering had left before he leaned toward Lusinda, his eyes crinkled with humor and his voice lowered to intimate levels. “You are truly amazing, a regular Sarah Bernhardt.”

  “If I am caught, I don’t think they’ll worry that I’m a ghost,” she said, barely containing her laughter.

  “Why not?”

  “I can’t wear my clothing and still be invisible, remember? If I should phase-back before leaving the house, I shall glow as I did before, but all over.”

  He closed his eyes and tried very hard not to imagine what that would look like. He almost wished there was another alternative to keeping Farthington occupied just so he could be there in case of such an occurrence.

  “Locke?”

  “Hmm?” He wondered how the Times would describe that ghost sighting.

  “There is another difficulty.” Her voice had returned to a serious note.

  He opened his eyes. “And what might that be?”

  “I’ll need a location where I can soak up available moonbeams and begin the phasing process. At home, I have an enclosure constructed for that purpose, but here . . . the servants . . . Pickering . . .”

  “I suppose I could blindfold them.” He was teasing, but her grimace suggested she was very serious about this slight complication. He sighed. “I shall give them a paid evening off. I don’t imagine there will be complaints.”

  “Thank you.” She smiled. “I shall still require a driver, but I can stay clear of the stables until it is time to go. Just give your driver instruction as to the time and place. I’ll make sure I’m in the carriage before he leaves.”

  She began to push back her chair, but he moved to his feet to assist her before the chair had moved an inch.

  “I’ll leave you to the Times,” she said, standing then turning so that a mere breath of air separated her alluring body from his own. “I need to locate an appropriate spot open to the moon but removed from the public eye where I can lie down to soak up the beams.”

  She clasped her hands behind her, shifting her shoulders back. The posture lifted her breasts and thrust them forward, as if for inspection. His mouth went dry.

  “My entire body will need exposure to the moon,” she said with a demure downward glance.

  The mental image that accompanied those words made his tongue thick and words impossible. A soft smile lingered about her lips, almost as if she could read his thoughts.

  “I’ll start in the conservatory.”

  All he could manage was a nod.

  LUSINDA SLIPPED OUT OF THE BREAKFAST ROOM AND down the corridors toward the conservatory with a smile on her lips. Ha! Let’s see how he likes to be abandoned after a provocative encounter. She was not above being wicked. Although leaving him to go to another part of the house hardly compared with abandoning her with only Pickering for company.

  He had said she was amazing. Amazing! It didn’t matter that Pickering’s hateful allegations the night before had festered into a foul mood that morning. Locke still managed to make her laugh. She wasn’t sure if it was that adorable way he quirked his brow, or his voice that flowed through her like chocolate, or the way he had a creative solution to any proposal, she couldn’t stay angry at him.

  Lusinda opened the door to the conservatory. The heavy humid air reminded her of her purpose and gave her pause. They were going on a mission tonight, with the moon less than full. She smoothed her hands down her sides to keep from balling them into worrisome fists. Isn’t this what she wanted? Didn’t she insist that they take immediate action to find the list so she could leave? Of course, that supposed she had somewhere to go. After her visit home, she wasn’t sure Portia, who was just coming into a life of her own, wanted her there.

  There was no time to think about that now. She needed to focus on this evening’s task. Green leaves of indigenous and foreign plants brushed her dress as she paced the length of the conservatory. Perhaps it was just as well that she hadn’t been able to tell Locke of her news of her success with the Milner. She wouldn’t have to prove her newfound skill with tonight’s mission. The inconsistent moonlight would cause her enough worry.

  A breeze blew through one of the many windows opened to alleviate the trapped heat, releasing the relaxing scent of lavender. She turned to see thin purple heads swaying with movement. She sighed.

  There was no point in worrying about things not of her control. She would simply gather as much moonlight as possible and pray that Locke would come to her rescue should events not occur as planned. He would do that, she realized. Even after having witnessed him the morning after a night of drunken rowdiness, she knew he would come to her aid if needed. He needed her steady hands. She lifted a geranium plant to her nose and sniffed. Now if only he could need her loving heart as well.

  Love! The thought surprised her. Did she love Locke? She liked him, truly, but could one love someone who did not return the sentiment? Lusinda’s path round the conservatory placed her before the pots of moonflowers that she had brought with her upon arriving at Kensington.

  Tending to these remembrances of home had initially helped with the separation from her sisters and aunt. Now they we
re simply favored flowers. Their white petals were still tightly curled, waiting for the moonlight that called to them to open and bloom in profusion.

  Much like her ancestors, moonflowers were not indigenous to England. However, they preferred tropical heat and rich, fertilized soil, whereas she could tolerate the London cold. She lifted a pot, holding it carefully away from her overskirt apron. Perhaps she shared similar traits with the plant. She basked in the warmth of Locke’s kisses, thrived in his embrace, but withered when he distanced himself from her as he had last evening.

  She had thought their shared kiss would have made a difference, yet it did not. He still held himself carefully aloof at breakfast and always managed to keep a chair or a barrier between them. Perhaps Locke was afraid of her. After all, he was the only male who knew of her ability to phase. She placed the flowerpot back on the shelf. No. She doubted even a hungry lion would frighten him. Locke would stay pensively in a corner and determine the best way to satisfy the lion’s needs without jeopardizing his safety.

  Perhaps Locke was afraid that his touch would damage her fragile abilities, although that certainly hadn’t crossed his mind the night they had struggled on the floor. She felt the familiar heat in her cheeks and dismissed that notion immediately. Locke hadn’t been afraid to touch her last night, nor she him.

  She felt torn, uprooted. On one hand she yearned for more kisses and more embraces like the one they had shared last night. Yet she also wanted to be surrounded by a family that loved her.

  Tears welled in her eyes at the thought of her aunt and little Rhea, and she fumbled for a handkerchief to brush them away.

  “Enough of that,” she said aloud, finding comfort in the sound. “My plants won’t thrive with salty tears.” And neither would she, she noted. She gave herself a mental shake and glanced around at her surroundings while pressing the scented square of linen to the corners of her eyes. “Yes, I think this should work.”

  The potted palms and benched plants would provide sufficient cover to hide her from outside view. The panes of glass overhead would admit what moonlight would be available. If the clouds dissipated by nightfall, or at least avoided the moon, she might be able to collect enough light to phase, at least for a while.

  She slipped her finger into the pot of moonflowers to test the soil. Dry. She frowned. She’d need to speak with Pickering about the watering schedule, but in the meantime . . . She scanned the many shelves of the conservatory . . . there. She spotted a copper watering can on top of a tall shelf with a footstool conveniently positioned by its base. She gathered her skirts and advanced to the top step, then balanced on the tips of her toes to reach . . . reach—

  “Lusinda! That stool is off center. Be careful or you might—”

  The unexpected intrusion of her given name spoken by a man whose voice made her insides tremble resulted in a miscalculation of balance. Her fingers brushed the side of the watering can, sending it crashing to the brick floor below.

  Which was where she would be if Locke’s strong hands hadn’t reached up and spanned her waist, steadying her on the footstool. Her hands wildly sought purchase in the empty air before discovering the firm support of his shoulders. She glanced down, the warm satisfying comfort of his grip penetrating the stays of her corset. Framed by the swirling fabric of her skirts, he slowly lowered her to safety.

  He held her at sufficient distance so that her jonquil-striped skirt apron barely brushed the front of his white linen shirt. However, as the swell of her bosom glided past his eyes, his nose, and his tightly drawn lips, a surge of heat jolted through her, making her wish he would pause her downward journey for a brief moment. He glanced up, and she felt evidence of her desire burning on her cheeks. Her lips briefly brushed his nose as she descended, and on impulse, she pressed her lips gently to his as they passed. Her feet touched the floor, but her hands remained on his broad shoulders, while his continued titillating the span of her waist.

  “You’re playing with fire, Miss Havershaw,” he said, his eyes darkening beneath low, half-shuttered lids.

  He might be right. The flames consuming her feminine core flared higher beneath his gaze.

  “I preferred it when you called me Lusinda,” she said, wanting to experience more of that delicious heat.

  His firm, finely sculpted lips remained a breath away from her own. She could feel a tenseness in his hands. He was struggling within, holding himself back. How very much like Locke to allow some absurd sense of propriety to rule his emotions.

  This was her last chance, her only chance, to experience those things commonly shared between a man and a woman, to feel, to be touched. Just to be held in such close proximity without fear of discovery was a marvel of sensation. The realization that it was short-lived was almost too painful to contemplate. After they had recovered the list, she’d have to return to her previous isolated existence. Just as she needed to soak up moonbeams, she wanted to completely absorb this experience of touching and being touched in return.

  She reached her hand to smooth the hair away from his face. As soon as her fingertips touched his skin, she felt a tiny jerk in reaction, as if she had breached some invisible barrier. She felt the expansion of his lungs as he took a deep breath, then he lowered his head, moving his lips over hers with a fierce intensity, demanding entrance, which she freely gave. Her arms slipped around his neck, allowing her to press her chest against the muscled wall of his. Such a simple motion, yet all manner of delightful chaos and urgency erupted within her, all finely tuned with a need to press closer, tighter, till there was no room for air between the length of them. His hands pulled her tight at the small of her back as if he too were infected with this crushing need to touch, to press. His hands splayed across her back as if to count the number of lacings in her corset. Oh, if only his talented fingers could loosen those restrictive ties as the tumultuous commotion inside her was making it difficult to breathe.

  Then she felt it. A hesitation. An indecision. His kiss gentled, his tongue retreated, his thumbs followed the top of her corset around to the front. He broke the kiss and stepped back while his hands dallied at her breast as if reluctant to lose that final contact. His gaze stayed focused on his thumbs as they slid back and forth across the lip of the molded form. Even though several layers of fabric separated his touch from her skin, she could feel the motion much like Shadow must feel her stroke across his fur. For an instant she thought she might purr in response, but her throat remained too constricted from the broken embrace.

  “You do realize most thieves are more sure-footed,” he said, transfixed with watching the movement of his thumbs, or was it the rise and fall of her breast? Both seemed interconnected.

  A quick retort leaped to her tongue, but she hesitated. Her eyes searched his face. His eyes appeared somber, his lips tightened, almost as if in pain. What was happening? One moment his embrace whispered one emotion, the next moment his actions proclaimed another. She gentled her voice.

  “I’m not a thief.”

  “Indeed, you are.” A brow quirked. “You’ve already stolen a kiss.”

  A smile tugged at her lips. “Then allow me to return it to the owner.” She leaned forward, intent on engaging in another delightful exchange of passion when the sound of a man clearing his throat intruded.

  Lusinda stilled. Her gaze flashed up to meet Locke’s eyes. He continued to stroke the top of her corset, his actions unseen by the intruder behind him.

  “Yes, Pickering?” he said, his gaze remained locked with hers.

  She winced at the sadness and longing in that gaze. Her arms disengaged from the embrace about his neck. She let her hands slide down the front of his chest.

  “I have a communiqué from Colonel Tavish, sir.”

  Lusinda heard condemnation in his tone. There could be no doubt as to its target. Locke took a deep breath; she could feel it in the expansion of his chest beneath her hands.

  “Put it in the library, Pickering. I will attend it there.”
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br />   “But there may be need for an immediate response.”

  Locke almost turned. Indeed, Lusinda thought he would have if her hands were not splayed on his chest. Instead he turned his head to speak over his shoulder.

  “Do not make me repeat myself. I will attend to it shortly.”

  Surprised by his unusual display of annoyance, Lusinda waited for the sound of retreating footsteps to fade, then said, “You promised me that he would not be present in the household.”

  Locke glanced out one of the windows into the early afternoon sun. “He will leave before dusk, I promise you.” He shifted his gaze back to her and slid his fingertips along the side of her face. “The house will be empty by moonrise.”

  She turned her face slightly to press into his light embrace, but he withdrew his hand as if embarrassed, then stepped toward one of the panes of glass, peering through it as if searching the gardens for miscreants and interlopers.

  “I hope you are more agile climbing trees than climbing footstools,” he said.

  “What do you mean?” He had shifted faces on her again, presenting first one of compassion and then another of indifference. Perhaps it was just as well that this mission be quickly completed. For many years she had feared she would never experience love and intimacy with a man; if such inconsistencies were typical of intimate relationships maybe it was best to be alone.

  “Mr. Farthington keeps his safe in his bedroom. It’s behind a painting on the inner wall.”

  “I’ll have to enter his bedroom?” Most of her recoveries were from studies or libraries, never in a man’s bedroom.

  He squinted. “You’ll be invisible—”

  “We hope.”

  “You only need to be invisible long enough to enter the house. There’s a window and a nearby tree for an emergency escape if needed.” He looked back at her, a smile teasing his lips. “I’d suggest using the steps for entry, though. Climbing up the tree might be difficult.”