A Stolen Heart. Candace Camp

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      “How hard you are on your peers,” she told him.

      He shrugged. “I am a mere novice compared to many of them. Malice and vitriol are the oils that keep the ton running.” He set aside their plates. “Are you ready to return to the dancing?”

      “Of course. It will be much more enjoyable watching everyone now that I know all their secrets.”

      “You have barely scratched the surface, my dear girl.”

      They left the room and made their way to the stairs, but Alexandra paused to look at some of the paintings that hung on the walls of the huge entry hall.

      “That is the present Duke’s mother,” Thorpe told her, pointing to a picture of a woman with her arms around a young girl and two toy spaniels at their feet. “Painted by Gainsborough.”

      “It’s beautiful.”

      “He has some fine art, nearly all portraits, of course—that is what the former Duke valued in art.”

      “His favorite, doubtless, was the horse.” Alexandra nodded toward the massive portrait of the animal that she had noticed when they first walked in.

      “Definitely. Would you like to see some of the other things?”

      “Why, yes, if you think it would be all right.”

      “I’m sure of it.” He guided her up the stairs and away from the ballroom, heading down the long gallery. Just past the stand of armor began a row of portraits, many dark with age.

      “Why, this looks like—”

      Thorpe nodded. “A Holbein. It is of Isabella Moncourt, the lovely young wife of the then Marquess of Moncourt. The young woman met an untimely end.”

      Alexandra eyes widened. “Really? She was murdered?”

      Thorpe shrugged. “Who knows? She died young—a fall down the stairs one night. Murder was definitely rumored—a charge the Moncourts vehemently deny to this day. But it is said that she had caught the eye of one of the Howards. And her husband was known to be a jealous man.”

      “Caught his eye? That was all? Why didn’t the husband kill the Howard, then? It sounds to me as if he were more at fault.”

      Thorpe chuckled. “No one even knows if it is true. But if it is, I would guess that the lady was not entirely blameless.”

      They continued along the hallway, peering to see the portraits in the light of the wall sconces. “I would love to see them by day,” Alexandra commented.

      “I can show you an even better collection another day, if you’d like.”

      “Your family’s ancestors?”

      “No. My family’s art, such as it is, is primarily at the estate in the country. I spend little time there. And my house, as you know, is given over to ‘heathen art,’ as Lady Ursula has told me.”

      “Who?”

      “The daughter of a very good friend of mine. I hope you will be able to meet her tonight.”

      “Lady Ursula?”

      “No, although I dare swear we will be unable to avoid that if the Countess is here. But it is the Countess I want you to meet.”

      “She is someone special to you?”

      Thorpe nodded. “Yes. Her grandson and I were friends at school, and I often visited with them. The Countess was—Well, let’s just say I found more understanding and love there than was ever at my home. Sometimes I feel that she is almost my mother—or grandmother.”

      “I look forward to meeting her, then.”

      They reached the end of the gallery and turned to look back down the empty hallway. There was a pool of darkness at the end of the long corridor, the golden circles of light cast by the wall sconces ending several steps before them.

      Alexandra turned, her eyes going to Thorpe’s. His face was shadowed, but the gleam in his eyes was unmistakable. Her breath caught in her throat. Was he going to kiss her? He took a step toward her. She knew that if she turned away, it would break the moment, and he would not touch her. But she found that she had no interest in turning away. She waited, her eyes locked on his.

      He smiled faintly as he reached out and brushed his knuckles down her cheek. “You intrigue me, Miss Ward.”

      “Indeed?” Alexandra struggled to keep her voice light, even though the whisper-light touch of his skin upon hers made her blood race. “Is this your common practice with women who intrigue you, my lord? To lure them down dark, deserted corridors on the pretext of showing them art?”

      His eyes danced. “’Twas no pretext. We have been looking at art. And you are free to go any time you wish. I am not holding you here.”

      Alexandra could feel the pulse pounding in her throat, the heat rising in her face. She did not move.

      A smile touched his lips, and his hand moved to cup the back of her neck. She watched him, her breath coming faster in her throat as he leaned in. She had no thought of scandal or propriety, only of the fact that she wanted to feel his kiss. She turned her face to him.

      His lips were soft and hot on hers, and she shivered a little at the new sensation. Only one man had ever tried to kiss her on the mouth, and his wet, inebriated kiss had felt nothing like this. She had given that man a good, hard shove, and he had ended up sitting on his backside in the snow. This time, however, she had no desire to push Thorpe away.

      Little tendrils of sensation darted through her, raising tingles and heat throughout her body and a sudden strange weakness in her knees. She leaned in, her hands going up to grasp his lapels for support, for she felt as if her legs might give way beneath her. She heard Thorpe’s breath draw in sharply at her movement, and his arms slid around her, pulling her tightly into him. His body was deliciously hard against her softness, pressing into her all up and down. Their mouths blended; their arms sought to pull each other closer and closer still; their skin surged with heat.

      Alexandra was lost in the experience, dazzled and dazed. Her flesh quivered, and blood pooled in her loins, throbbing and heated. There was an ache between her legs, and her breasts felt swollen and tender, her nipples hardening.

      His tongue swept her mouth, exploring and arousing her. Alexandra moaned, clinging to him, as she tentatively answered with her own tongue. Thorpe made a noise deep in his throat, and his hands moved down her back and onto the rounded flesh of her buttocks. His fingers dug into the firm mounds, lifting her up and into him. She could feel the ridge of his desire against her, hard and insistent, and somehow the knowledge of his hunger for her aroused her even more.

      Finally Thorpe raised his head and looked at her, his face flushed, his eyes glittering in the dim light. “Good God! I had not meant—”

      Alexandra gazed at him, stunned momentarily into speechlessness. Her СКАЧАТЬ