Chapter Fourteen
“Tableau vivant,” Amy said in a torturous French accent, “is like charades, but we play living statues. Sometimes we mimic artworks, but tonight I suggest we act out scenes from literary works.”
Lady Balmossie peered up from her needlework.
Seated beside his aunt on the sofa, Aedan smothered a smile.
When Amy had suggested parlor games after dinner, he wanted to flee to his study.
Her parlor games could be tedious, but the temptation of playing a game with Christina Blackburn there overruled his usual habit of avoiding Amy’s games.
“The hallway will be the stage, and the doors can be the curtains. When your tableau vivant is ready, knock and we’ll open the door.
” Amy waggled a slip of paper. “We all drew partners and literary assignments from the papers I handed out. I wish there were more of us to play, but I am so glad that Mr. Blackburn has returned from Edinburgh.”
She smiled at John, who nodded. “I would not have missed this,” he said.
Hearing his jovial tone, Aedan suspected he was being polite, poor lad. Amy Stewart could be a bit too enthusiastic for anyone’s taste.
“Cousin Aedan, I believe you and I have the first turn,” Amy said.
Aedan glanced at two slips of paper in his hand. One held the name of a Shakespearean play and the other named his partner—Christina Blackburn. Pleased with his good fortune in the draw, he looked up. “According to this, cousin, I am partnered with Mrs. Blackburn.”
Amy’s brow puckered. “But you and I were supposed to draw the same—oh, mine says John! Very well.” Amy had the grace to smile at Blackburn. “Aedan and Christina will go first, then.”
Aedan rose, as did Christina. She blushed as she went to the door with him. Aedan turned. “Give us a few minutes,” he said. “We will sort it out.” He opened the double doors and ushered her through.
Lady Balmossie grumbled as he closed the doors. “Rob Campbell, you and I will be partners. We may as well forfeit, for I am terrible at playing taboo.”
“Tableau,” Amy corrected effusively. “Aedan! Do not take too long, or forfeit, and stand in the corner until someone gives you a kiss to set you free!”
“Silly rules for a silly game,” Aedan said as he slid the pocket doors firmly shut.
He turned to Christina, keenly aware that they were alone in the lamplit hallway.
“What are we supposed to do?” she asked. “I have not played this before.”
“This is our assignment,” he said, showing her the paper. “Romeo discovers Juliet in her tomb. Not very merry, I’m afraid. But Amy loves a dramatic tableau, so there it is.”
“Perhaps she wanted to be your partner to pretend to faint in your arms.”
“You know my cousin well already. But you’ve practically done that, madam. Was it worth the trouble?” He cocked a brow.
“Possibly.” Her blue eyes twinkled. “We’d better hurry or pay the forfeit.”
“We will win. I never lose.”
“Never? You must have been insufferable as a lad.”
“Possibly.” He looked around. “Shall we use that bench for Juliet’s tomb?”
“Can we use a piece of furniture, according to Amy’s rules?”
“According to mine, we can.” He stepped away and carried back a small bench covered in red brocade. He set it down, sat, and reached out. “Sit here and lean against me.”
“Oh, I cannot—”
“My dear Mrs. Blackburn, what is otherwise frowned upon is encouraged in silly parlor games. That is why they are so tediously common. Lean on me, madam.”
She sat, spreading her skirts of lavender blue around her like an airy, billowing cushion over the crinoline beneath. Frothy petticoats peeked out at the hem. Shifting, she leaned back against him somewhat stiffly.
“I doubt Juliet reclined like a Roman empress taking dinner,” she said.
“Relax, madam. Come closer. That’s it,” he said as she shifted so that her head tucked against his shoulder. He slid his arm around her waist. “Comfortable?”
“Quite.” She tilted her head, closed her eyes.
“I doubt Juliet wore spectacles, my lass.”
“Oh!” She slipped them off, and he took them, tucking them in his coat pocket.
“Are we ready now?” she asked.
“Not yet. We must set the mood. Oh, Juliet,” murmured. “Now you. Oh, my dear Romeo, and so on.”
“I cannot speak, I’m dead.”
“But you look fit as a fiddle.”
“That is not very flattering,” she laughed.
“Fit and enchanting,” he murmured, pressing her waist, feeling the taut corset beneath, fingers resting below the lacy bodice of her gown. A downward glance took in the upper swell of her breasts where a waterfall of lace hid his hand.
A lightning strike of desire tore through him. He drew a breath against its power, closing his eyes, sensing the gentle rise and fall of her breathing.
Her hair brushed his cheek, her face was mere inches from his. Holding her against him on the bench, he vied inwardly for control, staying still. He had promised to act with better chivalry. He had tried to be impassive toward her.
But he wanted desperately to kiss her, hold her, and so much more. Each time she was close, each time he surrendered and kissed her, more than lust drove him. What rushed through him had all the force of desire, yet was deeper, profound. He feared to name the heat that stirred his very soul.
Love, he thought, and sighed. Love like a hearth’s glow, like a blanket surrounding him with warmth, fire, and comfort. He could not stop the feeling once he acknowledged it. And that was alarming.
She wriggled, settled, tipped her head back. Her breath was sweet and gentle on his cheek. He wanted to taste her mouth, her creamy skin, round his hands over her soft breasts. Holding her, even innocently for this silly game, worked hot magic on him.
“Romeo, are you ready? Shall we call out to them to open the doors?”
He could not answer. She curled close enough to kiss, mouth luscious, breasts rising, falling provocatively under lace. “Nearly,” he said hoarsely.
She sagged against him, feigning death, one arm trailed down, head tilted. “Here lies your Juliet, awaiting your heartbroken soliloquy,” she whispered.
“Dear God,” he whispered, unable to think of a single quote. Playing this game with her had been a mistake. He should have begged off.
Christina shifted again. The sweet quiver of her breasts sent desire plunging through him. “Romeo, stop scowling.”
“Juliet, stop twitching and chittering like Miss Thistle.” His acerbic tone was not enough antidote, but would do.
“Hmph,” she huffed, scowling too.
He kissed her brow. Safe enough. “Ready?” he murmured.
She glanced up. Aedan noticed then that her pose resembled that of the girl in the painting.
But she was not that girl—she was part of him somehow, increasingly dear.
She tilted her head, her neck swanlike and beautiful.
Her throat, her cheeks blushed. She was twitchy, innocent, and alluring all at once, and he was very nearly done in.
“Romeo, try to look impassioned,” she whispered.
Passion. He was filled with it, dark and strong and ripe with it. She roused and haunted him as no woman ever had. But he could never fall in love with her. Never.
“Miss Burn,” he growled, “you know not what you ask of me.”
“Just tell them to open the doors,” she said, misunderstanding. “And say this—’O my love! my wife! Death, that hath sucked the honey of thy breath, hath no power yet upon thy beauty!’”
“In tableau vivant, we are silent. Thank God,” he added in a hoarse whisper.
“What?” she asked, gaze widening.
A knock came on the sliding doors. “Ready, you two? We are waiting!”
“One moment,” Aedan growled, as Christina adjusted her pose, eyes shut. He shut his eyes too, and kept motionless.
The doors slid open. Amy and the others batted their guesses about, laughing over whether the tableau represented Tristan and Isolde, Lancelot and Elaine, or some other tragic literary couple.
Aedan held Christina in the shadowed hallway, breathing in tandem with her.
He hardly listened to their banter, for he had come to a staggering conclusion.
Despite his resistance, despite the curse, the laird of Dundrennan was falling dangerously, disastrously, in love.
“Romeo and Juliet at the tomb!” John cried out.
Aedan shifted, helped Christina sit forward. She smiled as they clapped. Aedan could not smile, beckoning to Amy.
“Shut the doors so we can clear the space for the next couple,” he said curtly.
“You are such a grump!” Amy said, laughing as she slid the doors closed again.
He sat with Christina in silence for a moment. She sat forward, smoothing her gown.
“That was lovely.” She smiled, turning to him, bright as a candle. He melted.
“Aye,” he growled, and kissed her.
She made a little sound, twisting to curl her arms around his neck, opening her mouth under his, and he felt her hunger match his own. Wrapping her close, moving his lips over hers, seeking, he felt himself fill to bursting, body and soul, felt his heart awaken.
She shifted in his arms, and he slid his hand, still at her waist, upward to touch the swell of her breast. She moaned, undulated, deepened the kiss.
Another knock sounded. Christina gasped, jerked away, stood hastily. “Dear God,” she said raggedly, “what is this between us?”
“I do not know.” Standing, he picked up the bench and carried it back to its place. Amy called and knocked again, threatening forfeit.
“Next!” Christina called, and the doors slid open. She stood several feet away from him, brushing at the lace waterfall and sweeping back tendrils of her mussed hair.
He followed her into the drawing room and sat beside her on the sofa. His smile was tight and false as others praised Romeo and Juliet; her smile was sweet but faint. Heart thumping, he felt stupefied by Christina Blackburn’s extraordinary effect on him.
He felt lost, yet somehow found, and did not know what to do about it.
*