Bloodlust Denied by Christina Phillips Page A

about, disoriented by his sudden appearance, by the fact she hadn’t been aware of his approach.
    Her heart continued to spin as she surreptitiously drank in his height, his breadth and the strangely endearing way his hair fell across his brow.
    His smoky gaze captivated her as surely as the silken bonds had earlier.
    “Thank you for the gown.” Her voice was breathless. Perhaps he wouldn’t notice. “It’s a perfect fit.”
    For a brief moment, surprise flared in his emerald eyes. It was clear her thanks were the last things he had expected.
    “Your own gown is ruined. It’s the least I could do.”
    She held out one arm. “And the diamonds?” She twisted her wrist and mystical rainbows sparkled in the light from the chandeliers.
    He took her hand. His grip was firm, confident and sent tremors of need racing through her blood. “I had a notion to see you wearing them.”
    She imagined wearing them and nothing else. His eyes darkened, as if his thoughts ran along similar lines. And then he glanced beyond her, to the portrait of the seventeenth-century golden goddess and an extraordinary flicker of emotions flashed across his autocratic features.
    Yearning. Defiance. Guilt ?
    A fist tightened around her heart. Was he in love with a painting? With the image of his long dead ancestor?
    Was that the reason her portrait held pride of place?
    He led her into a sumptuous dining room and pulled out her chair to the smothered consternation of the liveried footman. He behaved like a true gentleman and accorded her the courtesy of addressing her as a gently bred noblewoman. Even if this was only a game, only a fleeting interlude, it didn’t matter because she would treasure every moment, secretly savoring that he had chosen to show her the respect she craved.

Chapter Ten
     
    Morana sat at the foot of his table, looking as if she had been born to the position. He tried not to stare, but found it increasingly difficult because the longer she remained under his roof the more intriguing he found her.
    He’d expected her to be sulky or perhaps haughty, but instead she was behaving like the perfect guest.
    Somehow he didn’t think the diamonds had a lot to do with her attitude, although he’d offered them as a token of atonement. Not that he’d ever admit that. Or even admit he had anything to atone for.
    “You have a beautiful home.” She sounded genuine. He wondered if she would still think it beautiful if she knew of the secrets it kept.
    “And where is your home, Morana?” He doubted she was related to Lady Harriet but her bearing suggested she was used to the trappings of wealth. Yet if she was a member of the aristocracy, he would know of her, no matter how secluded her upbringing.
    Unless she was the product of an illicit liaison between the classes and her father had decided to secretly acknowledge her. That would account for both her refined education and the fact he’d never before come across her in Society.
    It didn’t, of course, explain that night in the alley. Unless she truly was a spy for England and willing to do anything for the love of her country?
    She looked him full in the face. “My home is with Thanatos.”
    Thanatos. The name she had murmured as she’d woken from her slumber.
    “The fiddler?” He kept his voice languid, as if the answer didn’t matter, and it shouldn’t matter because why should he care? And yet a jagged edge raked through his gut at the thought of Morana sharing her body with that shadowy musician.
    A fleeting frown marred her brow. He lounged back in the chair, maintaining eye contact and daring her to contradict him.
    “Thanatos is a virtuoso.” Her tone suggested she thought his intelligence lacking for not recognizing the man as such.
    “And you live with him.”
    She inclined her head as the footmen served the soup. “I do.”
    He picked up the heavy silver spoon, dipped it into the steaming liquid. Prepared to once again go through the illusion of eating and