Seducing an Angel

"I beg your pardon," he said, "for prying into your life and causing you pain."

Her eyebrows stayed arched upward.

"You did not cause me pain, Lord Merton," she said. "As I remember it, you caused me a great deal of pleasure. I hope I caused you at least an equal amount."

"Where do your servants sleep?" he asked her. "And the child."

"On the floor above this," she said. "You need not fear that our pantings and moanings have been penetrating walls and keeping anyone from sleep. And they are not my servants. They are my friends."

She was not a likable woman when her mask was in place, as it so often was. The very best thing in the world for him would be to leave. The money he had sent her yesterday morning would keep her and the others for a short while. After that… Well, she was not his responsibility.

But the trouble was that the woman who wore the mask did not exist, and he did not /know/ the woman behind it. He did not know if he would like her or not.

She did not want to be known.

She had killed her husband.

Good God, what was he /doing/ here?

But she had brought with her to London an aging governess, a waif of a maid who had lost her job, the maid's very young child, and the damaged dog. She had determinedly sought him out as a protector so that they would not all starve – them, as well as herself.

"This is their home," he said. "I sully it when I come here to exercise my rights as your employer. I impinge upon the i

That fact had bothered him since he saw her yesterday afternoon, rosy-cheeked and tousle-haired and wide-eyed. One of life's precious i

She had crossed her legs and was slowly swinging one leg. She gazed at him for a while without saying anything. Her smile still lingered.

"A gentleman with a conscience," she said eventually. "It seems a contradiction in terms. It must be very inconvenient to you, Lord Merton."

"Often," he agreed. "It is what a conscience is intended to be if it has not become jaded. It is the guide by which I try to live my life and make my decisions about the course it will take."

"Is it conscience that kept you here after you were dressed?" she asked him. "Or a lingering lust for what you would lose if you left then? If it was the latter, you need not worry. You will never lack for bedfellows whenever you want them – and would not even if you were not titled and wealthy. If it is the former, it must be that you pity me and my pathetic little entourage. Do not. We will survive without you, Lord Merton. We are really none of your concern, are we?"

He answered her even though the question had been rhetorical.

"No," he said. But he did not move.

"What is your purpose, then?" she asked. "Do you wish to set me up in some love nest? It is what other gentlemen do, especially the married ones. It would be very cozy, and you could visit me there whenever you wished without fear of sullying anyone's i

Her foot swung a little faster. Her voice was low and mocking.

"It will not do, Cassandra," he said.

She sighed audibly.

"Then this is the end, is it?" she said. "I hope you will not mind not having /all/ your money returned, Lord Merton. I have spent some of it, you see. I am very extravagant. But I have serviced you for two successive nights and ought to be paid something."

She seemed to notice her swiftly swinging foot and stopped it abruptly.

It would be so easy simply to say yes, this /was/ the end. It was what he surely wanted. He could go home to Merton House, sleep for what would be left of the night when he got there, and put this whole sorry episode behind him when he got up in the morning. He would be free of an entanglement he had not really wanted from the start.

He could resume the familiar life that he enjoyed.

He could not say yes.

"Cassandra," he said, leaning forward slightly, "we must start again. /May/ we start again?"

She laughed at him.

"But certainly, Lord Merton," she said. "Shall I undress? Or would you prefer to do it for me? Or… would you like me to lie down as I am?"

She had not misunderstood him at all. But for reasons of her own, she had decided to needle him. Perhaps, he thought with a painful flash of insight, she hated herself for what she had chosen to do with him.

Perhaps she hated herself for the killing she had some-how got away with – as far as legal proceedings went, anyway.

"Stay where you are," he said. "There will be no more sex tonight, Cassandra, and none for the foreseeable future. Perhaps never for the two of us."

Her lip curled.

"And so," she said, "by suggesting that we start again you are inviting me to seduce you all over again, Lord Merton? It will be my pleasure.

Never say never. I am better than that."

He crossed the room to her in a few quick strides, went down on his knees in front of her chair, and possessed himself of both her hands.

She gazed at him, startled, and the mask slipped.

"Stop it," he said. "Just stop it, Cassandra. That game is over. And game is all it ever was. That was not /you/. Or /me/. I am sorry for what I have done to you. Truly sorry."

She opened her mouth to speak and closed it again, the words unspoken.

She tried to look scornful and failed. He tightened his grip on her hands.

"Cassandra," he said, "if we are to go on, we must do it as friends. And I do not use that word as a euphemism for nothing at all. We must become friends. I need to continue helping you, and you need help. It is, perhaps, not quite an ideal basis for friendship, but it will have to do. I will support you for as long as you need support, and you will give me your confidence and trust and company in return. Not your body.

I ca

"Goodness me, Lord Merton," she said, "you /must/ be desperate if you are prepared to pay for friendship. Is being an angel such a lonely business, then? Does no one want to be your friend?"

"Cass," he said, "call me Stephen."

Why was he bothering? Why /was/ he?

Her smile was back – and then was not.

"Stephen," she said. It was almost a whisper.

"Let us be friends," he said. "Let me visit you openly here, with your former governess as your chaperone. Let me bring my sisters to visit you. Let me escort you about London as I did yesterday afternoon. Let us get to know each other."

"Are you so desperate, then," she said, "to have access to my secrets, Lord Merton? Are you itching to know all the titillating details of the way I killed Nigel?"

He let go of her hands and got to his feet again. He turned away from her and ran the fingers of one hand through his hair. He looked at the rumpled bed, where they had made love just a short while ago.

"/Did/ you kill him?" he asked.

Why had he not fully believed her the first time he asked? Why had he not recoiled in horror and put as much distance between himself and her as he could?

"Yes, I did," she said without hesitation. "You will not get me to deny it, Lord Merton – /Stephen/. You will not get me to invent a convenient stranger, a vagrant, who for no reason whatsoever but an inherent villainy climbed through the library window, shot my husband through the heart, and then took himself off again without even stealing anything of value. I did it because I hated him and wanted him dead and wanted to be free of him. Do you /really/ want to be my friend?"

Why did he /still/ not quite believe her? Because such a thing was unimaginable? But Lord Paget had died because a bullet had been shot into his heart. He tried to picture her with a pistol in her hand and closed his eyes briefly, appalled.