Moonlight Masquerade by Kasey Michaels Read Free Book Online Page B

if
it had been his hand that had held the knife that had opened her
veins.
    Vincent rubbed at the left side of his face,
his fingers having long since memorized every inch of skin below
his cheekbone. He had been punished for his stupidity, his vanity,
his selfish love. Punished first by Fletcher, Arabella’s brother
and once his best friend, Fletcher Belden—who’d had every right to
want to see Vincent suffer—and then, for more than four years, by
himself, when Fletcher’s revenge had served to do only half the
job.
    Vincent lived in a prison of his own making,
unable to forgive himself, ashamed to go on living while Arabella
lay in a cold, unyielding grave. He had borne his penance silently,
even gratefully, for a little over four years, feeling he deserved
it. But now the pain, at last beginning to ease, had suddenly come
back to him twofold.
    For now there was this small, dark-haired
girl lying in a bed in his house, filling his mind with thoughts he
believed he would never have again. Filling him with desire, with
longing, with dreams that could never come true.
    “Christine,” he whispered hoarsely, holding
out his hand as he came alongside the bed. “Have I been alone so
long that I will dream dreams about any female who happens to
stumble unwittingly into my path?”
    His hand settled lightly on her hair, its
warmth like a living thing beneath his fingers. She slept on
peacefully as he gazed his fill of her, tracing the shadows her
absurdly long lashes cast on her cheeks, devouring her soft mouth
with his eyes.
    Could he dare? Would she wake as she had
that first time, her liquid blue eyes filled with horror, to scream
and scream and scream? By what right did he think to use her this
way? But he had to try, he had to know.
    His breathing ragged, Vincent slowly lowered
his face to hers, the hood he still wore from his earlier stroll in
the garden concealing his features. His lips brushed hers lightly,
tentatively, then withdrew, only to claim her mouth again, hungry
for just one more sweet taste of her.
    Christine moaned almost inaudibly, her
breath sighing into his mouth, and he hastily backed away, his
entire body racked with desire—and something more than desire.
Something good, something wondrous, something he knew he did not
deserve. She sighed, a slight smile forming on her lips, but she
did not open her eyes.
    Vincent turned on his heels and fled from
the room, back to his own chamber, to fling himself into the chair
that sat in front of the fire.
    He had been in prison for over four
years.
    Now he was in hell.

Chapter 9

    “O h, dear, it looks
perfectly dreadful out there, doesn’t it? So desolate, so eerily
bright even at this late hour. Just how deep do you think the snow
is now, Lazarus?” Aunt Nellis Denham asked fretfully, peering out
one of the floor-to-ceiling drawing room windows, a worried frown
on her usually frowning face.
    The servant, busying himself with placing
the gigantic silver tea tray on the table in front of a settee and
then setting out two cups, one for each of the Misses Denham,
replied absently, “It’s hard to say exactly, ma’am. What with the
wind blowing about and all, the snow comes to m’knees in some
places and to my rum—” he broke off, then jerked to attention to
finish—“er, that is to say, even higher in other places.”
    Christine lifted a serviette to her mouth to
cover her smile. Little did Lazarus know, but the word knees was normally more than enough to send her aunt into spasms. The
woman must have a lot on her mind not to have already launched
herself into a homily on the evils of using familiar terms in
female company.
    “All in all then, Lazarus,” she said
helpfully, seeing the man’s distress, “you would say there is quite
a bit of snow on the ground. Isn’t that correct?”
    “Yes, miss,” the servant answered, shooting
her a grateful look as he handed her a cup of hot tea. “His
lordship said just tonight as I took his evening