Prince of Hearts (15 page)

Romanov moved closer, his voice grew softly seductive. It was the voice of the devil. "Finch ... Aline. What shall you do without me?"

She stiffened, stepped backwards. "I shall manage, sir."

"Sasha."

She snorted. She was not about to start calling him
that
. "I am marrying Charlie and settling down," she insisted.

"How dull. How bourgeois."

She ignored him. "We shall have a cottage together."

"Ten children, three dogs?"

"No dogs," she retorted.

"You are not the housewife type," he pronounced.

She bristled. "Some people rather like the idea of having a family. You might think it silly, but I want children."

"You hate children."

"I would love
my
children," she amended.

"You'll be bored to death."

"I will not be idle. I will write full time. But this is getting us nowhere. I will never be your secretary again. Not for all the tea in China.”

He was silent, still. The music inside the ballroom hummed in the background. She thought about bolting for the doors, but something made her hesitate.
Romanov
made her hesitate. For five years, she had watched him waltz through life with one of two masks on his face. One was the intense, absorbed, driven mask he wore when playing his role as the professor. The other was the devilish one he took up when he flirted with women or played with his hellhounds … or teased her. Rarely had she seen those masks drop away.

But they did now. He looked weary, soul-dead.

It could have been a trick of the light in the poorly lit garden, but somehow she doubted it. He ran a hand over his face, through his hair, and sighed. "Please. Don't leave me now."

It was a mere whisper on the wind.

She clutched her hand against her traitorous heart, which had begun to beat dangerously fast in her breast, and turned away to face the garden wall. Beneath his masks, despite his success and wealth and perfect beauty, he was little more than a lonely man adrift upon a very large sea. And she hurt for him.

Something had happened to him on this last trip.

No, that wasn't right. Romanov's soul-sickness had always been there. He’d chosen to study killers, psychopaths, and all manner of deviants with a singular, unnerving focus. He relished in the hunt of the sickest of society's criminals when Drexler called for his assistance, spent his days and nights trying to understand what drove men to murder and cruelty. A man like that had to be a little touched.

Or extremely tortured.

But she would not become mired in that world again. He would
not
draw her into his obsessions. "I can't."

She turned back to him and nearly collided with his chest. He had approached her while her back was turned. Now he was much too close. She could barely breathe now, barely think.

"Where do you think you're going?" he said gruffly.

Her lips tightened with stubborn disapproval. "I am going back inside, to my fiancé."

"We are not through,
milaya
,” he murmured.

She sucked in a breath. First he called her Aline, and now … this Russian endearment. "Don’t call me that," she demanded, feeling her blush rise.

"Yes, my pet."

She growled at him, a fierce little noise that surprised both of them. His eyes widened, and something … hot … passed over them.

“Just give me my spectacles, and let me go.”

"You'll ruin your eyes, wearing them when you do not need them." He raised both hands and touched her temples, lightly caressing. "It is why you get so many headaches," he said in a low voice. "Trust me."

"That is something I ... will ... not ... do," she murmured. Yet she stood fixed in place as his fingers massaged her temples. What was he doing? And why was she letting him do it? She worried her bottom lip with her teeth, and he stared at the sight as if it fascinated him.

He stepped closer, and suddenly he seemed to be breathing as rapidly as she was. A fingertip grazed her lips, tracing them, pressing them apart at the seam. Oh God, it was her flat all over again. A bolt of electrified lust traveled down her spine, settling low, in unmentionable places.

"If you kiss me," she whispered, "I’ll scream.”

"I'm not going to kiss you," he whispered back. "You're imagining things, Finch."

She gave him a look that told him exactly how little she believed him and attempted to say something further, she knew not what. But he silenced her by placing a finger on her lips once more. He let it fall down her chin, over her throat, to the top of the high collar of her dress. He eyed the bit of faded lace peeking over the top distastefully.

"I hate your clothes, Finch."

"I don't care," she managed, refusing to be affected by his proximity.

He raised his finger and tapped her on the end of her nose. "I’ll buy you a new wardrobe,” he said, then leaned close and whispered in her ear, “Better yet, no wardrobe. Not. A. Single. Stitch.”

All of her self-possession went up in flames. Her whole body seemed to have lit on fire. Over four words. He was seducing her for some nefarious purpose; she knew this in the last rational corner of her brain. But she was powerless to resist him. She began to wobble on her suddenly boneless legs.

The Professor caught her by the shoulders and pulled her against him, as if he’d been waiting to do just that. Then he let out a ragged breath, and she peered up at him, startled. He was shivering, and his heart was speeding out of control beneath her hands. She’d never imagined a heart could beat so fast. She’d never imagined he’d be as effected as she was. She licked her suddenly parched lips.

He groaned. "What are you doing to me?" he murmured, sliding one arm around her back, raising the other between them, encircling her neck with his fingers, as if he contemplated strangling her. But she was not afraid. She’d never feared him, though she knew she probably should.

"I am not doing anything,” she murmured.

His eyes flashed with amber fire. "You're offering yourself up on a platter, Finch. I would devour you whole."

Her eyes widened in comprehension. "You wouldn't!" she breathed.

He held her tight. "I would. I could.”

"You
wouldn't!
" she repeated, less certainly now.

"I could have you, Finch. If you like." he stated. “I could kiss you too. If you like.” He tightened his hold around her back to emphasize his claim, and she let out a little breathless yelp. "I dare you," he finally said.

She blinked through her fog of desire. "What?"

"I said, I dare you. Say, ‘I’d like that, Sasha,’ and I’ll kiss you again. Say, ‘I’d like that, Sasha,’ and I’ll …” He thrust his hips against her crudely, almost brutally, letting her feel the hardness of him. Her eyes widened in surprise, but instead of being revolted, she burned even hotter.

She didn't know how long they stood there, locked together, on fire. They stared at each other, speech forgotten, and for a moment, she thought he looked as startled as she was by this sudden turn of events.

And God forgive her, she couldn’t remember ever feeling so alive. It was how she'd felt in her flat, when she'd begun challenging him for the first time, how she'd felt when he'd had her against the desk, reason suspended.

He lowered his head, and his lips brushed hers, light as a butterfly’s wings. She craved more. She thought in that moment she would sell her soul for more. And that scared her so much she managed to get enough of a grip on herself to wrench away from him.

It seemed to snap him out of his trance as well, and he backed away. His insouciant mask quickly fell back in place. Though the heat in his eyes remained. They practically glowed.

Anger and shame quickly replaced her momentary madness. She’d let him paw her, while her fiancé danced inside, oblivious to her inconstancy. How could she let him overcome her so easily?

Not. A. Single. Stitch.

She shivered, hugging herself. “Why are you doing this to me?” she demanded. “Trying to … seduce me? I am marrying Professor Neverfeel.” Oh, God, and now
she
couldn’t get her fiancé’s name right. And at such a moment!

He pulled her spectacles out from his lapel. "You underestimate your importance to me, Finch. Aline." He tapped the end of her nose with her spectacles. "I want you, Finch."
Tap. Tap. Tap
. "And I shall get what I want."

Tap
.

She snatched her spectacles from his grasp and settled them behind her ears. Just then, she spotted two figures approaching over Sasha’s shoulder, and her blush returned. The last thing she needed was for others to see her in the aftermath of such a blistering encounter.

She had no time to escape, however. A grim-faced Earl was nearly running down the path in their direction. On his heels was Inspector Drexler from Scotland Yard, limping behind him with his long cane, looking equally serious. The jagged burn that ran from the edge of the gleaming carapace of his Welding eye to his chin was pulled taut by his frown.

Sasha’s fierce concentration on her broke, and he turned towards the intruders with unnatural speed, something unsettling flashing through his eyes. His hand reached into his jacket, as if for a weapon. Which was absurd. The Professor consulted with Scotland Yard, but he was no warrior. He was a head doctor. He didn’t carry a weapon. Did he?

When he saw who approached, his shoulders relaxed, but only a little. And his expression did not grow any less dangerous. In fact, his mouth tensed at the edges, as if he was holding back intense emotion.

The Earl shook his head as he came to a stop next to them. “Sasha, it’s happened.”

Romanov closed his eyes as if he’d received a great blow. Aline started to feel very alarmed. She’d never seen the Professor look so … human. What was going on?

“Where?”

“St. Giles. Where else?” the Inspector said gruffly. “I believe this is what you’ve been waiting for. You’ll never guess the address,” he said, giving Aline a wary glance that she didn’t understand.

“I think I can.” Romanov heaved a great sigh. His expression was so bleak, so … hard … that Aline started to tremble with apprehension.

“I think it is time Miss Finch knows the truth,” the Earl said softly.

It was as if the Professor couldn’t bring himself to look at her now. “This is not what I wanted,” he said in a low, tortured voice.

“She is stronger than you think…” his Lordship began.

“
No one
should have the knowledge we do. Nor should she have to face the dark dealings of this night.”

Her dread was quickly being replaced by exasperation. Men.

“Oh, please! Stop these ridiculously ominous riddles! I don’t know whether to be annoyed or frightened. Professor, as I have been your secretary for five years, I have seen plenty of dead bodies. I assume that’s what this is about? There has been a murder?”

“This is different,” Romanov insisted.

“More different than even you imagined, Sasha,” his Lordship said in a low voice.

Romanov looked sharply at his friend. “Something’s changed?”

The Earl gave Drexler a dark look. The Inspector stared stoically ahead. “Everything’s changed.”

Suddenly, out of nowhere, Lady Christiana joined their group, slightly winded, as if she’d sprinted from the ballroom. Aline bit her lip. This was all the night needed. Who would join them next? The Misses Ridenour and Eddings?

“Would someone please tell me the meaning of all of this?” Lady Christiana demanded. But she was looking at the Inspector. And Aline had never seen such an expression on the lady’s face. She looked … well, what Aline suspected she herself had looked like about five minutes earlier when Sasha had been whispering naughty things in her ear. Aline gaped at her friend. Lady Christiana was in love with the Inspector. How could have Aline missed noticing such a thing?

The feeling, however, did not seem to be mutual. Drexler refused to so much as look at Lady Christiana, his jaw clenching even tighter, his hand gripping his cane until she could see the whites of his knuckles even in the dim gaslit garden.

When it became clear that the Inspector would not answer her, Lady Christiana’s expression changed to one of frustration … and hurt. She turned to her brother. “I saw the Inspector’s arrival. You’ve been gone forever, you know. What is going on?”

When Aline glanced over at the Earl, he looked so furious at his sister that Aline took an unconscious step back. She’d not thought Rowan Harker capable of such anger.

“Go back inside, Christiana,” he ordered. “I will deal with you later.”

Christiana’s eyes widened. “
Deal
with me? What in heaven’s name have
I
done?” she scoffed.

“Elijah has just told me everything.”

Christiana froze, and the blood drained from her face. She turned to the Inspector. “Why?” she whispered. “Why would you…”

The Inspector shook his head tersely.

Devastated, she turned back to her brother, rushing to his side and grabbing his arm. She stared up at him pleadingly. “Please don’t hurt him. Don’t tell the others. They’ll … kill him! It was all my fault!”

Now Aline was sure her mouth was touching the garden path. She took another step backwards, straight into Romanov’s chest. And stayed there. She had a feeling something huge was happening, and she needed something to anchor her. Even if it was her nemesis.

The Earl looked down at his sister, his expression arctic. Then he removed her hand from his arm, gently but impersonally, as if she were a stranger. He turned away, as if he could not bear to look at her. “You should worry for your own hide, my Lady. Go inside. You’ve a ballroom full of guests, and it will look most odd if one of us is not there. We shall discuss this later. I have business that cannot wait.”

Lady Christiana stood there, her shoulders stooped as if in defeat, and a heavy silence fell over the garden. Aline wanted to go to her friend and comfort her, but she could not seem to move her feet. She was too stunned, too confused to do much of anything but gape at the scene unfolding before her eyes.