Shadow's Curse

Couldn’t leave her at home all alone. You understand. Family duty and all that.”

A frown creased Mrs. Fowler’s penciled brows and pouted her full red lips while she eyed Callista as one might a stray puppy. “I certainly understand the odious pressure of family responsibility.” Her narrowed gaze moved from Miss Hawthorne’s thick woolen travel cloak and leather satchel to David’s odd, haphazard attire.

He grinned. “I apologize, my lady. I came straight from ‘dress like your favorite dustman’ night at my club. Silly, but then, you know what revels go on at these places. Bad as the old school days.”

“Yes, of course,” she answered smoothly, her wary expression growing more than appreciative as her gaze leveled off somewhere south of his waist. “If only our local dustman had your masculine attributes, sir,” she purred.

Out of the corner of his eye, David saw Corey’s men approach, though the press of Mayfair’s finest held them back from making a full frontal assault. Beskin, on the other hand, crossed the street like a hound on the scent, his sneer positively fiendish. David doubted a minor obstacle like a mob of mere humans would stymie him for long.

“Yes, well, I’d love to chat, but is your daughter within?” He edged Callista and himself around Lady Fowler and ever closer to the door. “Such a sweet girl. Full of . . . verve.”

“Really? I don’t remember your ever noticing Harriet. She’s just inside by the—”

“No worries. I’ll find her myself.” David made a final storming of the breach, dashing past the proud mother and into the entry hall.

“What are you doing?” Callista hissed.

“Saving our asses,” David answered. “No one will risk barging into the Fowlers’ drawing room after us.”

“We barged in.”

“But we—or at least I—was invited. That’s different.”

“Fine. So, we’re in. How do you propose we get out?”

“Just stay close, follow my lead, and try not to draw attention to yourself.”

Callista pinched her lips together. “A bit late for that advice, wouldn’t you say—Mr. St. Leger?”

He acknowledged the hit with a smile and took her hand. Together they shoved through a gaggle of girls in virginal white hovering by the stairs, a cluster of rowdy young men by the punch table, and a row of stern matrons overseeing the couples on the dance floor like high court judges. Most were too caught up in their own amusements to notice an oddly dressed couple scurrying through the crush. And the few who recognized David and raised a voice in friendly greeting were left behind with a tossed grin and a wink. Luckily, Callista didn’t seem to notice the appreciative nods or knowing nudges.

“We’re almost there,” David encouraged. “Freedom is through those terrace doors and across the garden to the mews beyond.”

“Then what?”

“Damned if I know.”

“Oh, Mr. St. Leger!” toodled Lady Fowler above the din. “We need to speak.”

That was one raised voice that would not be so easily fobbed off.

“Bugger all. Quick. In here.” David dragged Callista through the closest curtained archway into a tiny alcove full to the brim with wraps, coats, hats, umbrellas, and cloaks. Trapped. No other way out. They were pressed together on the six inches of floor space not taken up with cast-off outerwear, Callista’s body snug against his.

“Is this supposed to be better?” she asked, her breath whispering against his throat.

“Much,” he answered as her warmth, combined with the tingle of Fey-blood magic, shivered over his skin.

“Mr. St. Leger? I have some lovely etchings I want to show you,” Lady Fowler’s voice sounded from just outside their refuge, a slight predatory edge coloring her tone. “I think you’ll find them exquisite.”

“Etchings?” Miss Hawthorne scoffed. “Really?”

A ringed hand gripped the curtain to draw it aside.

Frantic, out of ideas, and because, damn it, this whole horrible mess could be laid squarely at Callista Hawthorne’s door, David kissed her—again.

* * *

No sooner had David’s lips touched hers than Callista’s spine stiffened with instinctual fear and her stomach clenched in knots. No, not David. His name was Mr. St. Leger. A very proper and formal address to stop the wild quivering up her spine.

Follow my lead.

The words flickered to life in her mind, but so, too, did the deep velvet of his voice, roguish amusement coloring even his mental touch.

He slid an arm around her resisting body, crushing her against him just as Lady Fowler dragged the curtain back. Light blazed into every corner of the dim cloakroom, and Callista quickly shut her eyes, trying to look like a woman enjoying the attentions of a man.

Trouble was, she didn’t know what that looked like. She placed a tentative hand upon his waist, but that seemed so intimate somehow. So possessive. Not that lips were less intimate, but somehow offering him encouragement made it real and not the act it was.

“Oh!” Lady Fowler exclaimed waspishly. “Second cousin indeed.”

This was where St. Leger would break away to offer his apologies or make some flippant joke to turn the woman’s wrath aside. Callista would be left to gather her damaged pride and her shattered nerves.

Instead, his hold on her tightened, his free hand cupping her cheek to tip her face up to his, the kiss spinning deeper.

Relax, Fey-blood.

Relax? She was trapped against his chest, the heat off his body singeing her insides as his lips moved warm and soft against hers. Yet her shoulders did seem to be inching down from around her ears with every second they remained locked together, and that strange influenza-like fluttering had begun again in her stomach. She didn’t seem able to help herself. It was as if her body had mutinied. It knew what it wanted, and what it wanted was more of this delicious heat worming its way through her until even her toes curled with delight.

She found herself answering the slow movement of his mouth, and her hand moved from his waist up his ribs to his shoulder and then to the stubbled strength of his jaw. She’d never felt a man’s face before. It was so different from a woman’s. All hard bony angles and jumping tension.

Through the roaring in her ears, she heard Lady Fowler’s snappish voice turn suddenly muted. In the dim recesses of her captive brain, she knew the curtain had dropped back in place, and the two of them were once more alone, the immediate danger passed. But the kiss didn’t stop. David cupped her face gently in both his hands as she melted into him, her knees now dangerously weak, her heart drumming. His tongue slid along the seam of her lips, and she felt herself unconsciously opening to him; letting his tongue dip within, slide against hers in a teasing, tasting dance she found herself answering. Her breasts tightened as the fluttering in her stomach sank between her legs, and she tilted her head back as his kiss deepened and grew more powerful, almost hungry. The hand that had caressed her cheek dropped to trace the length of her throat, glide along the collar of her gown, brush her painfully sensitive nipples through the serviceable fabric.

This was nothing like the rushed groping of the fair men she’d spent years dodging. Nor was it the crude ugly fury of Corey. This was a shimmering tingling buzz of anticipation. This was light and fire and joy and laughter. As natural as breathing.

“Beautiful Callista. Theosai nostimmeth,” he murmured as his kissed moved to her cheeks, her eyelids, behind her ears.

“David . . .” Her voice barely more than a gasped breath.

Her grip on the bag unclenched. It slithered off her shoulder toward the floor, and before her mind even registered what her body was doing, her eyes flew open and she jerked loose of his embrace. The bag hit the floor with a startling clanking thud.

And the moment ended.

* * *

“I’m sorry. I don’t . . . that is . . . I never . . .” She inhaled a shuddery breath, confusion stammering her