His Dark Desires

You are in danger. Trust no one. The terrifying words from a mysterious letter echo in Juliet Bucheron’s mind. Destitute ever since her husband disappeared in the Civil War, Juliet has turned her New Orleans ancestral home into a boarding house–despite the rumors of ghosts, the whispers of scandal, and the stain of murder. But even more unsettling is Juliet’s new tenant, a handsome stranger named Stephen Trevelyan. Wealthy, educated, and seductively compelling, Stephen fills Juliet’s heart with uncontrollable longing–and her head with suspicion. Something, she senses, is lurking beneath the surface. And someone is stalking the hallways after midnight. As the danger draws nearer, Juliet wonders if she can really trust Stephen. But as he pulls her closer, she knows she cannot resist him…no matter what the price.

Less relaxed than normal, I donned my nightdress, robe and slippers, and as I left the bath, I searched the pockets of my dress for the telegram. They were empty except for Mr. Trevelyan’s card. My stomach sank when I dug into the pockets of my robe and found them empty, too.

I must have dropped the note somewhere in the house. Grabbing a lantern, I retraced my steps on the third floor. After finding nothing in the corridor or in Andre’s room, I hurried down the stairs. A quick scan of the kitchen and the butler’s pantry turned up nothing, but the tinkling of glass from the direction of the parlor brought me to a halt in the center hall. I swung around, my pulse leaping as I realized I was not alone downstairs. The parlor seemed dark and unwelcoming for the first time in my life. I snuffed out the light and tiptoed to the doorway.

Given Mr. Trevelyan’s habit of being where I least expected, I shouldn’t have been surprised to see his unmistakable form standing at the window. Oddly, he had his glass held up to a swatch of moonlight and appeared to be staring at it. After a long moment, he slowly took a sip, swore harshly then dumped the rest of the glass’s contents on a nearby potted plant.

I winced that he’d found our spirits so unpalatable even as the thought of pickled geraniums irked me. “I daresay Mama Louisa has already watered the flowers today.”

He swung around and I smiled, pleased that I’d caught him off guard.

“Did I wake you?” His voice grated harshly, as if he wrestled with things greater than the night.

“I’m looking for a paper I’ve lost.” Instead of escaping quickly to my room as I’d planned, I moved to the nearest lamp and lit it, casting the shadows from the room, but not the intimacy of being alone at night with him. He turned from the light, moving to the mantle where he set his glass.

“A telegram, perhaps?” he asked with his back to me.

“You found it?”

He faced me then, his expression shadowed. “After dinner, on the floor of my room.”

I swallowed the hard lump in my throat, my relief short lived. “I must have dropped it when showing you to your room.”

“And I must have missed seeing it before dinner,” he said softly as he crossed the room, moving toward me. The look in his eyes told me he didn’t believe a word of what we’d just said. He stopped only inches away from me, so close that I could feel the warmth of his body as well as the heat of his raking gaze. The thin cotton of my nightdress and the silk of my robe were little protection from the force of his interest. I tugged the lacy edges of my robe closer together and he smiled, slowly, lifting his gaze back to mine. A dark desire smoldered in his eyes.

“The telegram, monsieur?” I held out my hand.

He reached into his coat pocket, pulling out the telegram. Instead of putting it into my open hand, he brushed my cheek with the edge of the paper and trailed it down to the neck of my gown. My pulse pounded so loudly in my ears that I knew he had to have heard it too. Bolts of heat shot through me, curling in my center, awakening sensations I’d never known, dangerous ones.

My lips parted in surprise, and his gaze dipped lower for a long moment.

“I suggest you be more careful,” he murmured. When he slid the paper a fraction below the neckline of my gown, I caught my breath and grabbed the telegram from him.

“You have a way of making me forget things that I shouldn’t,” he said softly then turned to leave. “Good night, Mrs. Boucheron.”

He had a way of making us both forget things that we shouldn’t. Somehow, I gathered my thoughts enough to douse the parlor light and dash to my room, firmly shutting the door. I didn’t light my lamp. I crawled into bed, unable to face what I knew had to be lingering in my own eyes–a yearning response to the desire in his eyes. I didn’t know him, he was a stranger, but he attracted me as no one had before and that frightened me more than the warning telegram or the murder in town.

© 2009 Jennifer St. Giles | All Rights Reserved