Midnight Kiss Page 2

  “I will not harm you.”

  Her breath came in quick snatches. As she looked up into his eyes, self-preserving instinct screamed: Don’t believe him! Stronger than that reasonable panic was the hypnotic hold of his stare. She trembled, yet didn’t move to safety.

  His hand rose, skimming her cheek with the ridge of his knuckles. “So beautiful,” he murmured. “So young and beautiful.”

  She might have protested that she was neither, but the seduction of his voice made her believe. And with the fear mingled the first stirrings of desire. He thought her beautiful. He was gentle now, and she no longer wished to run. She wanted him to say more, to continue touching her. And he did.

  His sensitive fingertips roved the smooth contours of her face, then drifted downward, coming to a light rest along the pulsing artery in her throat, testing her elevated passions, drawn to that rich throb of life. His thumb rubbed over her full lower lip until it was soft and moist. Ripe.

  “Yield to me, Arabella.” It wasn’t a suggestion. It was a velvety command. “You have wanted me. I’ve felt it from the first.”

  “My lord...”

  “Louis.”

  “Louis... yes.” She was panting softly, leaning into him, lost to the intoxicating knowledge that this man desired her. But even in her limp state of bliss came the nagging suspicion that something was not right. Though she would try to push away that whisper of unease, it wouldn’t leave her.

  “I can show you paradise,” he crooned, his honeyed accent flowing, enveloping her faint resistance. “I can give you pleasures beyond what you can imagine. I can give you eternity with a kiss. Let me drink from your lips. Let me taste of your willingness.”

  “Yes,” came her wavery sigh. Oh, yes. That was exactly what she wanted. She gave herself up to him without a struggle, and the first press of his mouth upon hers was, indeed, beyond anything she could have guessed. His lips were still chilled from the night, yet were quick to draw warmth as they lingered for a luxurious exploration. Having never experienced a kiss of passion, Arabella was as eager as she was overwhelmed. She gasped in shock and delight as the wet slide of his tongue parted the way for a deeper union. Her fingers sought and clenched in the front of his coat as sensation threatened with swooning waves of surrender. He lifted up slightly, just far enough to captivate her dewy stare.

  “Tell me you want me,” he whispered with compelling power.

  “I want you,” she whispered without hesitation, succumbing to his control and to her own desperate longings. As his head dipped down, her eyes closed and her mouth opened, but instead of enjoining his lips with hers, she felt them move with slow, seducing sweeps along the taut curve of her neck. She arched for him, giving him access to that slender column as he gathered her even closer in his arms. She could feel the crashing thunder of his heart, pounding savagely against her tender breast. She was aware of the foreign hardness of his body as he shifted his weight to press more intimately into her receptive femininity. And she wanted him wildly, without restraint, without wisdom. As she had since that first time she’d seen him.

  He was nuzzling her throat, sensitizing the soft skin with the stroke of his tongue, making her shiver with erotic yearnings as his kisses evolved into gentle nips of his teeth. She was holding his bent head, drowning in the strange delight of it, her own breathing hurrying to match the harsh rasp of his. A rasp that grew so low and husky it was almost a growl.

  “Oh, Louis...” She had never imagined this, not ever. Her eyelids fluttered shut, her head falling back in supplication.

  “Miss Arabella?” A firm rapping upon the door echoed like shots. “Would you like me to bring tea?”

  With a sound more snarl than groan, the marquis flung her from him. Arabella stumbled and collapsed upon the settee in weak disbelief. What had she done? What had she invited him to do?

  He must have been wondering the same, for his features contorted in the worse sort of agony until covered by unsteady hands. “Oh, God, what a monster I’ve become,” he cried hoarsely, as if horrified by his actions. And he reeled away, fleeing her father’s office and the house itself, as if all the devils in hell were clutching at his soul.

  THE STREETS WERE stark and deserted. The rain was a ceaseless drizzle, as if the heavens wept over Louis Radman’s lost humanity. He wanted to weep. He wanted to wail. But the time for such a display was centuries past and no one in heaven would hear. God had turned from him long ago and he had no right to expect mercy or forgiveness. Nor could he find it within his own wretched spirit.

  He’d nearly ruined everything with his damnable lust. The vileness of what he was had almost cost him his last hope. He had weakened to the very cravings he sought to tear from his life. His life. A cruel joke. What kind of life did he have when it was sustained by the blood of others? He fed on their fear. He feasted on their vulnerability. He depended upon their vitality. Like a disgusting parasite. And he killed. Occasionally, he went too far and he took the very essence of life he held so precious. The very mortality he longed to embrace. With all his superior strength and his centuries-old wisdom, how could he give way with such feeble stupidity?

  It was her. It was Arabella Howland. Thinking of her even now brought back the painful throb of need. It beat through him, that hot, dangerous hunger, driving him further into the darkness of city and soul. He’d wanted her so. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt such tremendous temptation. The doxy had whet an appetite, but Arabella had him starving.

  I want you.

  How that made him tremble. Her passion, her strength, her caring nature excited him beyond control. She aroused more than the greedy frenzy for food with that innocent claim. Of course, she had no idea what she was inviting. No woman would want what he was, unless she was a prisoner of his hypnotic power. But without will, where was the satisfaction? There was none. There was only emptiness. And he was so weary of that eternal loneliness.

  Arabella. Oh, to have a woman like her. To hold her without the fear of instinct overcoming constraint. To love her with the passions of mortal man. Yes, he could give her paradise. Surrendering to him would bring a hellish rapture. And eternity—that, too, was within his power. But how could he bring another into the same horror he knew with the setting of the sun? With the rising of the moon came the hunger. Most nights, he could control it. Some nights it controlled him. But he never gave in without a fight. Until Arabella offered her white throat and the sweetness of her flesh. For a moment, her kiss had been enough, and he’d considered the joys of her female frame with a desire he’d thought lost to him. It had been, what?... three hundred years since he’d coupled with a mortal woman? Once he’d quenched his thirst at the foul wellspring of his kind, he’d lost his appetite for sex. Blood became the aphrodisiac he’d once found in physical release.

  The fact that he’d touched Arabella Howland just for the pleasure of touching, and not as a seductive prelude to opening an artery, surprised him. That he’d responded to the warm press of her with the urgency of a mortal male astounded him. And in that there was confusion and danger. Because she was Stuart Howland’s daughter, and the last person alive he could risk with the evil of what he was.

  But oh, how he’d wanted her.

  He’d gone deep into the dregs of Southwark. He had no fear, but he was not usually so careless with his concentration. The sudden jab of a pistol bore to the kidney took him completely unaware.

  “Yer purse, me lord, and be quick about it.”

  “You’re making a mistake,” Louis drawled softly.

  The muzzle prodded harder. “’Twould seem you’re the one makin’ the mistake. Hand over the ready, lest you lose yer spleen.”

  Hands easy at his sides, Louis turned to face his assailant. The pistol barrel nudged into his midsection with deadly intent. To be fair, he felt obligated to give another warning.

 
“You don’t understand—”

  “I understand plenty. Gimme yer valuables. An’ I’ll start with that there sparkler.”

  He grabbed for the sapphire Louis wore in his cravat, only to find his wrist in a bone-splintering clench. The robber shrieked in astonished agony and fired point-blank into the silken waistcoat.

  The shattered hand was released as Louis staggered back several steps, bending double from the shock of impact. Then he straightened. The fabric of his vest front was still smoking, singed black by powder and stained with a meager amount of blood. But there was no gaping wound, a wound that should have been so horrible it would have snatched the life from any mortal man. Instead of falling dead to the street, the marquis gave his would-be killer a sad smile.

  “As I said, a mistake. Your last.”

  Before the fellow could utter a final scream, Louis had him by the throat. A slight twist silenced him forever.

  And then Louis Radman fed.

  Chapter Two

  IT WAS LATE, Stuart Howland realized, as he slipped inside his town home and out of his wet greatcoat. He hadn’t meant for the time to get out of hand, but several students persisted in their questions after his lecture, and, as always, he’d been caught up in their enthusiasm and admiration. Such a bright bunch, really, so eager to consume knowledge, to apply fees in exchange for that learned skill. In their hungry expressions, in their fevered curiosities, he could well imagine cures in the making for the plagues of mankind. And it flushed him with a sense of importance, the way their reverie did. As if he were some god, some fount of miracles. Untrue, of course, but he didn’t discourage that attitude. So he’d lingered longer than he’d meant to and returned later than he ought to, and intuited almost at once that something had happened in his absence. Considering what he’d invited into his house, that filled him with dread.

  His daughter met him in a state of ill-concealed agitation. That in itself worried him, for Bella was never discomposed. She had a constitution steadier than most men’s, which was why they’d got on so famously since her mother died and he’d assumed responsibility for her care. It was easy, really, for Bella required none of the usual cosseting one associated with females. She preferred books of anatomy to those of frivolous verse, and table talk centering on erysipelas to erstwhile entertainments of theatre and the social elite. And if there was one thing he loved to the equal of his profession, it was his clear-eyed and calm-headed daughter. Which was why he was so concerned to see her rattled.

  “What is it, my dear?” he asked, struggling to make his voice sound normal. “You are particularly pale this evening. Not fretting over my tardiness, were you, poppet?” He pinched her chin as he leaned forward to buss her cheek in a fond display. Her arms went about him, and for a moment, she clung. Stuart began to experience panic.

  “It’s nothing, Father. Just glad to have you home at last.”

  “It’s him,” Bessie interrupted, as she took the doctor’s coat, ignoring Arabella’s glower as she did. Stuart didn’t miss the exchange.

  “What’s this? Has this to do with the marquis?”

  Bessie took the opportunity to vent all her anxious objections. “’Tis unseemly, that’s what it is, sir. Leaving the likes of him alone with the young miss. Imagine the scandal of such doings, him already the center of talk, what with his odd habits and—”

  “Bessie.” The doctor had only to speak her name in that stern tone to silence her tirade. “Is his lordship in my study?”

  “No, Father. He left—”

  “Like the ’ounds of hell was after him,” Bessie interjected with a colorful touch of drama. “I told you, sir, he’s a queer one, what with those bright eyes and—”

  “Bessie, please.” Howland held up his hand, his patience strained. But he was studying his disconcerted daughter. “Bella, did anything... improper occur before his lordship took his leave?” He was going to say unusual, frightening, unholy, but he caught himself. He should have thought of this, knowing what Radman was, knowing the danger. He hadn’t considered his own safety, but he should have considered his daughter’s. Why hadn’t he?

  Arabella couldn’t bring herself to look into his somber gaze and lie. So she canted her glance away as she murmured, “No, Father.” What could she say? That she’d been seconds from rolling around upon the furniture with the man?

  “Would you care to explain what happened then?” She could tell by his quiet tone that he didn’t believe her... and by the unnatural brightness of his gaze that he was more than agitated. He was terrified, and that thought upset her more than any of the night’s strange happenings. What was it that she didn’t know about the marquis? What was her father hiding from her?

  “His lordship was quite distressed to find you not yet home. He became restless and impatient, is all. I fear he was suffering from some physical distress as well. Though I couldn’t hazard a guess as to its cause.” She did look at him then, straight on and accusingly, as though to say if he’d given her the details of Louis Radman’s case, she could have handled things better.

  But Stuart Howland was too distracted to notice her reproach. Now that he was assured of his daughter’s safety, other things preyed upon him. He frowned to himself. “I wonder if I should attempt to find him?”

  The thought of him leaving her was too much. For then, she’d be alone with the mental images, with the powerful feelings. And she wasn’t ready. “Oh, Father, not on this horrid night. You just got in. I daresay, you probably haven’t eaten a bite all day, and you’re chilled to the bone. Whatever’s troubling your patient, I’m sure it can wait until his next visit.”

  “I wonder,” Stuart mused softly. Then he smiled at his daughter. “But you are right. I wouldn’t begin to know where to look for him. If he needs me, he can always return.”

  Bella smiled back, her expression slightly strained as she thought of Louis Radman’s return. Then her father surprised her with a warm embrace, drawing her in close and letting his hands remain on her shoulders when he stepped back. And with a casual gesture, his thumbs caught the edge of her standing collar, easing it away so he could quickly scrutinize her flawless and unmarked throat. There was no disguising the relief that loose-limbed his posture and warmed his smile.

  “Let’s go see what Cook has prepared for dinner, shall we?”

  Arm in arm, they went to the table.

  Over a bland roast beef and flavorful gravy, Stuart at first kept his conversation from returning to Louis Radman, though thoughts of the mysterious marquis flitted through his head. Finally, he said, “Bella, Mrs. Kampford isn’t entirely wrong, you know.”

  “About what, Father?”

  “About it being... awkward, you entertaining my patients in my absence.”

  “Oh, Father, really. I must protest.”

  “You may, but it won’t change the fact that you are a young, unmarried female, for all purposes alone in this house. It is not wise to invite gossip or... mischief. In the future, I think it best to have Mrs. Kampford turn away those who come for treatment or counsel while I am out.”

  Arabella was about to argue when she considered once more what she’d almost allowed to happen in her father’s study. She’d almost succumbed to Louis Radman’s seduction. “Succumbed” perhaps wasn’t the right word. She’d encouraged it. If Bessie hadn’t chosen that moment to knock, she might have found herself prostrate upon the sofa beneath the marquis’s caresses. And while that notion excited, it also cautioned. Such behavior was beneath her, and it defied the trust her father had always shown her. No gentleman would take advantage of a woman within her father’s home without first declaring his intentions. And she knew Lord Radman’s intentions were not the kind that he could speak to her father.

  But it had been wonderful... and disturbing.

  So she said nothing, and in her silence, agreed to Stuart’s con
clusion. She would be safe from wicked temptation. And from the illicit charm of the marquis.

  Stuart watched her as she buttered her bread, seemingly at a loss with the passion plays flitting across her face, but wise enough to be wary of them. “Arabella, perhaps it’s time we gave thought to your future.”

  She had taken a swallow of her wine and nearly choked. After a delicate fit of coughing, she wheezed, “My future?”

  “My dear, surely you must realize that you are the exception to young ladies your age. While I understand your launch in society was rather disappointing to you, I cannot believe that a woman as intelligent and attractive as yourself hasn’t caught the eye of at least a score of gentlemen—or would if you were to give the slightest sign of encouragement.”

  “Father—”

  “Now, hear me out, Bella. You know how much having you involved in my work has meant to me, but you must start considering what you want to make of your life.”

  “Well, I know I don’t want to wed some stuffy aristocrat and end up having vapors and raising a batch of vapid, overweaned children on some moldering country estate.”

  Stuart betrayed no sign of shock. He was used to her outspoken ways. “Now, Bella, that’s not all there is to marriage. Your mother, God rest her soul, was a wonderful woman not given to vapors, and I daresay, you are hardly vapid.”

  “But you and Mother were different.”

  “And I want the same for you, child. I want you happy, and I cannot believe that filing my papers and organizing my schedule is a fitting ambition.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because it’s lonely business, Bella. I’m not asking that you accept the suit of some prissy nabob. But I am telling you that you’ll never find a proper match locked up in my cluttered office.”