Moonlight Masquerade by Kasey Michaels Read Free Book Online Page A

shadows. “Your truth, Christine. You spoke
your truth. Not mine. I overestimated you. You are nothing but a
romantic child, with a head filled with nothing more than childish,
romantic dreams. Once this storm is over your aunt should take you
back where you came from before it is too late. You will be eaten
alive in London.”
    Christine’s next words stopped him in his
tracks. “A child, am I? Is that why you hid in the shadows to watch
me in my bath? Because I am a child ?”
    She watched as he approached the bottom of
her bed, his body still in shadow but his hand visible as his
fingers lightly traced the intricate lines of one of the sculpted
wooden posters. The movement was caressing. Hypnotizing. “You’re a
beautiful child, Christine. Beauty such as yours fascinates me, for it can hide so many ugly, unlovely flaws. What secrets do
you hide with your beauty, little one?”
    “Secrets?” Christine echoed dully, not
understanding. “I have nothing to hide. Whatever would make you
think such a silly thing?” She snapped herself to attention,
purposefully tearing her gaze away from his stroking fingers to
stare down at her own tightly clasped hands. “I can’t believe we
are having this conversation. You are just an evil man, amusing
yourself at my expense. You were right. Please go now. I want you
to leave.”
    Hawkhurst laughed, but it wasn’t a pleasant
sound. “Never to darken your door again, Christine?”
    Where she summoned her courage from
Christine would never know, but suddenly she heard herself saying,
“Not in this clandestine way, no. Even a romantic child knows not
to entertain gentlemen in her bedchamber. But surely we will see
you tomorrow evening at dinner, my lord? After all, you are our
host.”
    The hand was withdrawn. The earl’s voice was
muffled, and Christine knew he had turned his back to her. “I dine
alone. It is—easier. But if you wish to flaunt convention and join
me in my study once your aunt is abed, we might talk a bit more, or
perhaps play a game or two of chess.”
    “I—I’d like that,” Christine answered,
fighting the urge to leap from the bed and pursue him into the
darkness. “I’d like that very much.”
    “Now, sleep, Christine. Your aunt is
correct. You need your rest.”
    She merely nodded, knowing she was already
alone. Leaning back against the pillows, she debated whether or not
she should take up her candle and try to discover the entrance to
the passage the earl had used, but in the end she decided to wait
for morning before undertaking such a project. She was really very
tired, she convinced herself, unwilling to think she was respecting
the privacy of a man who, so far, refused to respect hers.
    “Now, if only I knew how to play chess,” she
mused aloud, snuggling beneath the covers.

    As the three-sided mantel clock struck the
hour of four, Vincent once again used the passageway leading from
his quarters to the guest bedchamber in which Christine Denham lay
sleeping. He had resisted temptation for as long as he could, but
he was a man, with a man’s weaknesses, a man’s desires.
    The single bedside candle had long since
guttered in its holder, but moonlight streaming through the window
Christine had left undraped, as was her custom, cast a many-paneled
quilt of illumination across the width of the high-poster bed,
lending a soft, almost ethereal glow to Christine’s still
features.
    What was he doing here? Why was he torturing
himself this way—and torturing this innocent young girl with his
unwanted attentions?
    Christine murmured softly, stirring in the
bed, then was still once more. He moved closer, knowing he
shouldn’t. She was so small lying there, her hair so very dark
against her pale skin. So very lovely. And so unlike the tall,
blonde Arabella.
    Arabella. Vincent closed his eyes tightly
against the pain the thought of her evoked. She had been so
beautiful, so gentle, so unspoiled. So trusting.
    And he had killed her just as surely as