“By God, you had the whole afternoon with her in your rooms, Strathmore.” Felicity spoke in a high breathy voice.
Something about the woman pulled Julia’s nerves taut. “And it clearly wasn’t enough,” she said throatily, deliberately dismissing the older woman. “With Strathmore”—she emphasized pointedly, wondering if desperation could make an actress of her after all—“it can never be enough.” She didn’t have to feign the rising anger in her tone.
Strathmore smiled wolfishly, the picture of a man with his hands full of demanding woman. “Hush, no need for one of your outbursts,” he said pulling her closer for the benefit of their intimate circle. With the fog of desire and revulsion beginning to lift, Julia felt the cool air on her bare skin just as Strathmore tilted her face toward him for a kiss. He began moving them, a slow languid dance, toward the hall’s entranceway. Miraculously, the small crowd parted.
“Perfect,” he said, sounding like a caress in her ear. “Now say something. As though you’re angry or quite thoroughly mad.” Together they edged their way through the room, stopping at intervals so he could kiss her—small, delicious incursions, his lips on hers.
“I don’t know what you mean,” she said, just as Felicity’s arm snaked around Strathmore’s waist.
“Strathmore, my love, you are entirely too hasty,” pouted the older woman, her crimson-tipped hand extending downward to caress his chest.
Strathmore ignored the questing fingers but Julia did not. For the second time in twenty-four hours, she wondered at the woman she had become. And whether she was acting at all. “I should advise you to desist, madam,” she said, each word as distinct as a knife’s thrust.
The buxom blonde’s sloe eyes widened. “My, my, Strathmore, your kitty certainly has claws. Wherever did you find her? You are welcome to her for the time being.” Felicity took quick measure of the situation with the sharpness of a fishwife. “But please do hurry back,” she said, recovering her composure, lips curved in promise, “as I shall make it worth your while.”
Julia did not have a moment to react. Wrapping a firm arm around her waist, Strathmore marched them both from the hall. Candles blazed and the chandeliers floated past, a blur of light in the dark.
When Julia looked around again, he had deposited her in a music room, with a piano at its center surrounded by a half dozen gilded settees. Glancing at the double sets of French doors, her world began to right itself, fueled by a sudden overwhelming urge to flee. The thought crept in beneath the panic, despite a small voice that told her the evening at Eccles House was not yet finished.
For a moment she’d forgotten Strathmore’s presence. Heat rushed to her face at the thought of what she had witnessed and what they had done. Her hands fluttered around her neckline, hastily securing the fragile ribbon that held her bodice in place. She’d scarcely taken one step toward the French doors when her body was jerked backward. There was nothing at all amorous about the grip.
Julia tilted her head back willing herself to look into the deep set eyes above the strong cheekbones, dark hollows carved beneath. The mask had slipped. It was not Alexander Strathmore, passionate lover.
“This is hardly necessary,” she said frowning at Strathmore’s large hand encircling her arm.
“You’re mistaken, Miss Woolcott. It’s more than necessary.” The formality of his tone after what had transpired just moments ago made her feel as though she’d fallen into a deep, dark well. In the brief, silent impasse that followed, Strathmore’s grip did not loosen.
“Very well. What now? I can tell you’re eager to tell me of your plan. You do have one, I suspect,” she said. She decided to appeal to his sense of reason, even as her pulse beat in time with the overwhelming need to get away from him.
His eyes narrowed. “Perhaps you’d like to rejoin Wadsworth’s guests.”
“Indeed. With a desire beyond my wildest dreams. Isn’t it what one would expect from a tempestuous wildcat?”
He smiled. “Don’t tell me you’re offended, Miss Woolcott. The gambit worked, didn’t it? Otherwise, you’d already be splayed like a ripe peach for the delectation of at least several gentlemen. If you don’t believe me, we can rejoin the gathering.” To his credit, the last words were delivered with a trace of irony.
Unsuccessfully, she tried to wipe out the outrageousness of the last hour. Worse, she could not reconcile the man manacling her wrist with the man she had touched, tasted, and all but devoured with a desire that scared her. “That’s utterly ridiculous and you well know it. I’m hardly here out of my own free will.”
“Then follow my lead and I shall extricate you from this situation.”
She shook her head, exasperation mingling with a desperation to understand. “Why ever would you do that? I’m here because of you, after all. You’re the one who invited me to Wadsworth’s little party, as I gleaned earlier this evening. I should like to know why the youngest son of the Dunedin duchy, vaunted traveler and explorer, would find it in his interests to forge a liaison with a woman of a certain age with no reputation—”
“A country mouse,” he supplied bluntly.
She glared. She was not herself. Truly. She licked her lips, trying to recall the quiet, even-tempered Julia, preoccupied with books and daguerreotypes, she had once been. Although it hardly seemed relevant anymore. All of the torturous, serpentine debauchery began and ended with Faron. She would do well to remember that.
Strathmore watched her closely, his eyes on her mouth.
She flushed. “Very well, then. Why all the subterfuge? Why do we not simply leave? I don’t believe Wadsworth has barricaded the doors to keep us here with him.”
“You will simply have to trust me.”
“Not very likely,” she snapped. “But since we find ourselves at yet another impasse, what is it you have in mind?”
“What is required is a lover’s spat. A loud, violent one, if you please.”
She gazed into those cool eyes and gave a reflexive tug at his hand at the same time. She could think of no other way to respond to his illogical demand. “You are not making any sense, sir. They expect us to fall into each other’s arms not engage in fisticuffs.” She gave another small tug of her wrist for emphasis unable to reconcile his calm demeanor with the heated nature of their exchange.
“It’s not what they want that I’m interested in. It’s what I want.”
She stilled, suddenly exhausted beyond all reason. “Which is what?” Never mind what he wanted. She didn’t know what she wanted anymore. To launch herself back into Wadsworth’s debauchery, to follow the thin skein back to Faron, or to flee through the French doors a few feet away?
Strathmore let go of her wrist with an unnerving suddenness. With fluid motions, he leaned over to push aside the right leg of his trouser. A black pistol appeared unexpectedly in his hand which he cradled with the familiarity of a lover. “Prepare yourself,” he said bluntly. He looked briefly up at the ornate plaster moldings encircling the ceiling. “Pity.” And shot three perfect holes into a trio of rosettes.
A shower of fine dust rained down upon them. It confirmed what she had instinctively known. She was next. He was going to kill her. She turned toward the French doors but his words stopped her more effectively than any bullet ever could.
“Do you want to find Faron?” he asked.
Shock bolted through her. Her throat constricted with emotion, rendering her silent.
“Do you want to find Faron?” he repeated. The door rattled, the handle moving slowly. She realized with dismay she