Explosive. Charlotte MedeЧитать онлайн книгу.
She finished to a stunned and thundering silence before launching into the first movement of the Waldstein, an unleashing of demoniac forces that swept the ballroom like the strongest gale. She played with an abandon immodest in its intensity and no man could tear his eyes from the young pianist, her movements a seductive invitation into a world mysteriously closed to them.
Devon played with no respite until the last echoes of the “Sonata in C Major, the Waldstein, slowed to greet another astonished silence from the audience. The lit tapers had burned down with the approach of midnight and Le Comte watched as Devon rose from the bench as if awakening from a deep reverie. The slightest pink tinged her cheekbones, and the emeralds around her throat winked in the candlelight. Her gaze swept the ballroom briefly, but she acknowledged neither her benefactor nor her audience. Cool and distant, without saying a word, she rested a pale hand on the gleaming rosewood of the pianoforte. Then a small, enigmatic smile tilted the corner of her full lips as she stepped away from the instrument and dissolved from the ballroom like a goddess slipping into the night.
But Le Comte knew better. Devon Caravelle was no goddess. She wasn’t slipping away into the night’s ether but toward a hard and inescapable reality in the form of the Marquess of Blackburn. Not even the threat of a torturous death for his brother had brought the proud and incorruptible Marquess to his knees, his self-control and iron will impenetrable.
The Broadwood piano gleamed under the light of the flickering candelabra. He now had the Marquess exactly where he wanted—under the spell of Devon Caravelle. Together they were an unmatchable combination, the only combination that would deliver into his hands the formula for a weapon that would make him the éminence grise of the most powerful emperor the world had seen since ancient times—Napoleon Bonaparte.
By resurrecting Napoleon from St. Helena and by unleashing the terrifying prospect of destruction upon Europe and beyond, Le Comte would reclaim a hundredfold the power, riches, and prestige lost by his family during the Revolution.
Just bring him to me, Devon, the one man who stands in my way.
His fingers gripped the fine stem of his crystal glass in obsessive anticipation.
Devon glanced over her shoulder in the shadowy hallway outside the ballroom, looking for Blackburn—before he came looking for her. The corridor stretched in front of her like a board game with its neatly formulated black and white marble tiles. She stifled the urge to run from all of this, damning the thinness of her gown, the delicacy of her slippers, the parody of a recital. Unlike the usual feelings of euphoria that floated over her after a concert, she felt ready to jump out of her skin. From the sense that the Broadwood was tuned slightly off-key to the loose piano pedal that had vexed her like a pebble in a shoe throughout the concert, she was relieved that at least one concert was over for the night.
Act Two involved a performance for the Marquess, albeit from a script that she had yet to compose. Feeling uncharacteristically agitated, her nerves on alert, she could sense somehow that he’d already arrived. She pictured him in her mind’s eye, his broad-shouldered form moving through the crowd, his dark blue eyes hunting her down. Hunting her down for that elusive, potentially explosive score.
Which she didn’t have.
Seduce Le Comte, Blackburn had ordered. Leaning onto the cool wall for support, she squeezed her eyes shut at the horror of the thought, her throat constricting in panic.
But then again, what would it feel like to hang? Unconsciously fingering the emeralds lacing her neck, she cursed both the Marquess and Le Comte for the tenth time that day.
From the top of the stairs, the cringe of hinges and a door opening and closing. She made herself deliberately small, observing from the corner as a tall man strode down the stairs, his face thrown into sharp relief by the glare of light from the crystal chandelier overhead. Devon would have recognized that strongly etched profile anywhere and, pulse accelerating, she grabbed the gossamer of her skirts, holding her breath, wondering if he would pass by. It was as if, ridiculous notion, they had somehow catapulted into one another’s orbit, destined to collide.
The flicker of recognition was immediate, a lightning charge in the quiet corridor. Dark and supremely elegant in his evening clothes, Blackburn unerringly found his way to her side, like a bullet to a target. His hair was disordered, slanting over his ears and forehead, and his formal dress did absolutely nothing to conceal the breadth of his shoulders, the lean musculature of his body. Her nerves rattling, Devon tried to deny that in addition to being lethal, the man was stunningly, disastrously handsome.
“Mademoiselle Caravelle.” The low words were a growl. His smile wasn’t a nice thing and sent fingers of awareness tripping up her spine.
“I was searching for you,” she tried, her voice a low whisper. Her blood pumped fiercely at the prospect of his dragging her from a London ballroom to a prison when he discovered that she didn’t have the Eroica. “I thought that I might find you here.”
“In a shadowed hallway?” His eyes were a cold blue and locked into hers. He was standing so close that she could breathe in his warm scent. It was an outrageous thought, but if she reached out she could trace the faint lines bracketing his wide mouth, stroke the hard line of his jaw. She was mesmerized, on the brink of a strange madness.
“You do have a marked preference for the dramatic I’ve noticed in our brief acquaintance, Mademoiselle.”
“Believe me, not by choice.” She tried to keep her voice calm, and as an outlet for her nervousness, she took a look over his shoulder and down the still deserted corridor.
“I don’t believe you. In any case, the truth is rarely helpful in these instances.” His eyes skimmed her body. “Although I’ll admit you’ve chosen well—an out of the way spot to hand off the score.” His glance took in her scantily clad form, lingering on the emerald choker around her neck. “But it’s obviously not on your person.”
“A brilliant deduction,” she said defensively, studying the blinding whiteness of his cravat to slow her pulse. They were entirely alone and it would take nothing to have him haul her off to some dank cell at Newgate to await the hangman. She was seconds away from full-blown panic.
Swallowing the lump in her throat, she had to remind herself to keep breathing, the air was so thin between them.
“Look, I don’t have the score…” The words left her lips in a rush and she wished desperately that he wouldn’t stand so close to her. She felt his incredible heat as he leaned in toward her, saw his nostrils flare, and heard his indrawn breath. She found herself staring into his dark eyes and, inexplicably, a sense of female boldness filled her, a form of insanity, she was convinced, almost obliterating her panic.
Blackburn crossed his arms, his face wiped clean of expression save for a cynical curve to his lips. “That’s not what I came to hear. You really leave me with no choice.” His voice was dark and Devon waited, shivering with dread and a strange, unwelcome desire.
“I tried…” she said, turning away.
One step and he had her, pulling her up rough and hard against his chest. “Trying’s not good enough, Devon.” His intense scrutiny was a slow burn on her skin. Shadows glanced across the bridge of his nose, his wide mouth, and the angle of his jaw.
“Give me more time, then.”
“Time was never an option.”
She was unyielding, stiff in his arms and he waited a moment to see what she would do. From what seemed a long distance away came the chime of crystal and laughter. Devon glanced furtively over her shoulder, the black and white tile swimming before her eyes, before she returned to Blackburn’s suffocating gaze and embrace. “This isn’t the right time or place for this discussion,” she said pushing away from him.
He let her go, but she could see the effect of her words in the darkening of his eyes, his mood dangerous. “I’ll make myself clearer, then. I’m not interested in further discussion and there’s no use putting off the inevitable, Mademoiselle.” His smile was deadly as he