a dark brown. No one had black eyes, save for Linwood...and the devil.
‘Two o’clock,’ she said, then lowered her lashes and made her way to the front door that stood open for her entry. She did not look back at him, just let Albert close the door and kept on walking all the way up to her bedchamber where she stripped off her gloves and moved to the shadowed edge of the window. Linwood had climbed back into his landau, but it had not yet drawn away.
Even from here she could feel the danger that exuded from him...and the attraction. As if sensing her focus, Linwood glanced up at the window and, even though she was hidden, his eyes seemed to meet hers, as if he could see her as clearly as if she stood in full brazen view. Her heart stumbled. She held her breath until he turned away and gave the order to drive on.
She watched the landau and the dark figure within until she could see it no more, wondering at how much she had told Linwood, she who normally told little of the truth. This was turning out to be a game like no other she had played. A game of higher stakes and one in which she must reveal more of herself that she was used to. But sometimes to breach an opponent’s defences it was necessary to lower a few of your own. A very dangerous game indeed. And one she knew she had to win.
* * *
Linwood dreamed of the charred remains of Rotherham’s house that night. And of the fires that had transformed it from a fine mansion to the black skeleton it now was; flames that had illuminated the London night sky for miles around and generated a heat that had smouldered for a week. It was a dream that had haunted him often, but this time it was different. This time, the dark figure by the window, the figure that he always willed in his heart to be Rotherham, seemed to shimmer and morph amidst the golden roar of the fire. He strained forwards, his eyes stinging and raw from both the smoke and the heat, desperate to see Rotherham burn, but it was not the duke he saw standing there, but a woman, a woman with dark hair and a white slender neck, a woman whose lips had so often teased and enticed with the hint of a smile, and whose eyes, so pale and so beautiful, only hinted at the woman within. The woman was Venetia Fox.
She stood there calm and still as if she accepted her fate was to burn, but in her eyes he saw fear. He was running towards her, running to save her, running so hard that his lungs were bursting and the coppery taste of blood was in his throat and on his lips. But it was too late and, as he watched, the flames exploded to consume all around them and he knew with a terrible certainty that he had destroyed her. And in his chest were the same feelings of anger and worry and loss that he could not rid himself of.
He woke with a start, the sheets and bedclothes twisted around his legs, his skin beaded with sweat even though the room was chilled. He was breathing hard and his stomach was balled with dread and with fear. The dream had felt too real and more disturbing than those that usually troubled his nights. He threw the covers aside, climbed from the bed and moved to the window, where he opened the curtains, staring out over the darkened street. The street lamps had guttered to nothing and the moon had long since set. He stood watching until the frenzied thump of his heart had slowed to its normal pace and the sweat dried cold upon his skin. Venetia’s appearance in the dream was no doubt due to their being stopped outside the burnt remains of Rotherham’s house that day, and the subsequent conversation that had ensued. He supposed that her interest in Rotherham was only natural, but that knowledge did not make him feel any better. Linwood did not return to bed, only found the bottle of brandy and poured a stiff measure, then sipped it until the dawn light crept across the sky.
* * *
When Venetia came off-stage the next night a flurry of flowers were delivered to her dressing room. There was an enormous bunch of lilies, large