Notes: I've been having something of a hard time with this – I've never
written a story in parts before. Usually I just write everything at once,
but I figured if I did that, you wouldn't see it for several months. Also,
I have no beta-readers, so if any spelling/grammar mistakes slip through, I
apologize. (I found two in the prologue after I submitted it.) Mmm, and
I'm Canadian, so I spell some words differently, like colour and
favour…those aren't typos.
C&C desperately desired…I'll even take flames, if they contain good grammar.
Chapter One – Old Friends
Lady Lucy Fairchild took pleasure in two things.
The first was her ability to throw the best parties in London. No other hostess could boast a better supper table, a more lavish ballroom, or, most importantly, a more cosmopolitan guest list. Lady Fairchild befriended them all: French émigrés, Russian nobles, Italians and Spaniards, Arabs and Indians. A great traveler in her youth, age and ill health had curbed her wandering ways, and so she was forced to draw the far parts of the world to herself. And while her exotic guests might not be welcome in the drawing rooms of most of the aristocracy, none of the Upper Ten Thousand would dream of refusing an invitation to one of Lady Fairchild's soirees.
The second thing she took pleasure in appeared at first to be one of those exotic guests.
He sat beside her in companionable silence, and she took the opportunity to study him, as she had many times during their acquaintance. His dark hair hung about his face, looking as though he had just run his hands through it, even though she knew she hadn't seen him touch it the entire evening. She had often heard the young misses who flocked about him describing it as "chocolate" coloured, which made her laugh. Chocolate, indeed. His hair was brown, and if she were forced to use a flowery descriptive adjective, she would say "mahogany", like the desk in her late husband's study. Plain, but elegant.
"What are you thinking about, Lucy?" His voice was cultured, free of any trace of an accent. On one level, it was the type of voice a person might hear in any drawing room in London, but on another…She shivered at the thoughts the husky voice conjured in her. On that other level, her companion's voice was something that ought to be restricted to a bedroom: teasing and coaxing and compelling all at once.
"You, of course, my darling," she murmured provocatively. He turned his gaze toward her, his delicate almond shaped eyes searching hers. "I am wondering how you can sit here beside me so calmly, when there are hunters abroad." She leaned slightly towards him. "You know that they're out for blood tonight…"
"I haven't the faintest idea what you mean, Lady Lucy," he said, flushing slightly.
"I think you do, my darling." She lowered her voice. "I know that you can feel them around you…watching you. Their hunger is almost tangible. How can you bear to sit beside me with such a threat hanging over your head?"
He shifted uncomfortably. If he hadn't been aware of the presence of the hunters before, she had made him most painfully aware. She smiled, a devilish light in her eyes.
"Oh, they want more than just your blood, my pet. They want your body, too. That lean body, those whipcord muscles, those 'chocolate' eyes…you are an addiction." She leaned back in her chair and snapped open her fan. "They begrudge the time you spend here with me. I've felt their eyes burning me for the past half hour."
"Surely you exaggerate, Lucy," he said, his tone coloured slightly with impatience. "These hunters you speak of are nothing I would concern myself with."
"You should, my darling. Across the entire world, I defy you to find adversaries more dangerous than those who have gathered in my ballroom tonight. I defy you to find hunters more persistent, more daring. Particularly in this house, which is known by all to operate under more…flexible rules than most of society."
"Are you telling me that you consider them to be a threat to me?" His voice was amused, incredulous. "To me, of all men?"
"To you, of all men, indeed. Foreign, mysterious, and most of all," her voice dropped to a whisper, "forbidden. Their minds tell them 'No', but their hearts and their…hearts tell them 'Oh, yes, yes, yes'…" By the telltale flush that covered his cheeks, she could tell that he knew exactly what she had meant with her talk of hearts and hearts. He shifted uncomfortably in his chair again. She decided to take pity on him. She rose.
"Will you accompany me to the garden, Mr. Hidaka," she said in a slighter louder voice than they had been using. "I simply must show you how the tree you suggested looks." He rose, and offered her his arm, and they made their way through the throng to the French doors that led into the garden.
She led him deep into the garden, through decorative hedges and past small fountains, to a small clearing. The moon cast its light upon them, limning the contours of a small statue and bench and the leaves of a small maple tree that stood beside the statue.
"And here I thought the tree was just an excuse to be alone with me," he teased. "I didn't realize you had actually planted one."
"I had it imported from Japan, after hearing you talk about them. I look forward to seeing the colours in the fall," she said, leaving her hand on his arm. "I wish that I could have seen it in its original home, though. I should have liked to have seen row upon row of Japanese maples. Actually," she corrected herself, "I should have liked to have seen Japan."
His voice was soft, caressing. "I think you would have liked Japan."
"But would Japan have liked me? The conflict there, the civil war. The whole business of 'Revere the Emperor, expel the barbarians'? I think that, as a foreigner, I would not have been welcomed readily." She sighed deeply. "I shall have to content myself with making it as far east as India, and let the matter rest."
He smiled. "In the Japan of my childhood, in my small village, you would probably have been called a demon woman. Skin as pale as the moon, hair as bright as the sun, eyes like grass…oh, yes, they would have called you a demon."
"Youkai onna, ne?" she said, laughter bubbling within her as she slipped easily into Japanese. "Well, then, it wouldn't have been very different from here, would it? No different from the days when Damon and I were 'Demon' Fairchild and his devil bride…"
"Demon and Lucifera," he laughed. "The Unholy Pair…"
"It's almost impossible to believe that it was so long ago." She snuck a sidelong glance at him. "Do you know what today is?"
"Of course I do," he replied, turning to face her directly. "Forty years ago tonight, I met you and Damon for the first time."
She smiled. "Forty years ago, on a night like this, under such a moon…in a garden in Italy." She laughed. "We thought that the world was too small to contain us, that eternity stretched out at our feet. Meeting you seemed to prove it." Her smile faltered slightly. "But of the three of us, only you stood outside of time."
A flicker of pain crossed her features, and she pressed her free hand against her side. He noticed the subtle motion, and coaxed her to sit on the bench. As she released his arm, he asked, "Are you alright?" She nodded, keeping her head down.
"Sometimes I hate to have you look at me," she said quietly.
"You hate me?" he asked, confusion painted across his face.
"No, my darling," she murmured. "It's not because I hate you, but because I hate to think of you looking at what I have become, what time has done to me." She sighed, raising a hand to her cheek. "Forty years ago, I was a slender girl with golden hair and red lips, with a loving husband and a future to look forward to. What do you see when you look at me now?" She laughed again, but it was bitter and pained. "A pudgy, grey haired, childless widow, whose only claim to fame is the number of scandalous parties she throws."
"Lucy…Don't you know what I see when I look at you?" he asked, lifting a hand to her chin, raising her face. "My truest friend and confidante…sheltering arms and a comforting shoulder. You accept me for what I am, and you do not shrink from me. In all the years I have spent in this shadow world, you are the only person who has done so."
He moved his hand to brush over her hair. "And in this garden, under this moon, you look exactly like the girl I met in Italy. The moonlight gilds your hair in the same way; it gleams on the mischief in your eyes in the same way. I see my friend Damon's bride."
"What else do you see?" she whispered, turning her cheek into his palm.
"I see you in a moonlit bedroom," he murmured. "Dressed in a silk nightgown with your hair loose about your shoulders. Your eyes were teary, like dew on the grass, but your smile was warm." She turned her face slightly, pressing her lips against his palm. "After Damon died, when you sought comfort in my arms."
"Did you think it wrong of me?" A secret shame, a burden of guilt kept silent for twenty-five years.
"No, my angel…I never thought it wrong." He rubbed his thumb across her cheek, along the trail of an unshed tear. "I only wished that there was more I could have done for you both."
She raised her head sharply, looking directly into his eyes. "We wouldn't have accepted, Ken. You know that."
It was his turn to sigh, as he seated himself beside her on the bench. "I know, Lucy, I know. And I wouldn't have offered before…but seeing your grief, knowing that I could have done something to prevent pain for both of you…"
"We were mortal, my darling. Death is the natural outcome of life." She lifted her hand, cupping his cheek as he had done to her. "And once Damon died, I had no desire to live forever."
"But you are in pain now," he said. "I see how they come upon you, the spasms and dizziness. I know about the drugs your doctor gives you. I could have spared you that."
"I welcome the pain, Ken. I know I do not have much longer to live. And when Lady Death comes for me, I will welcome her with open arms, because Damon will be with her." She turned his head to her, and pressed a kiss on his forehead. "I am not afraid."
He smiled, but his eyes remained dark. "Would Lucifera admit to being afraid of anything?"
"My one fear is a vain one," she replied softly. "I am afraid of being forgotten." His gaze became more intense as he watched her. "If we had had children, we would have had continuity. Our grandchildren would have been told about us, as would their grandchildren. But, when I am gone, I am afraid we will be forgotten by the world."
"You will not be forgotten," he said, lifting her hands to his lips. "I will ensure that your names are not forgotten, that your graves are not abandoned."
"Morbid, my darling, very morbid," she teased, hiding how deeply she was touched under a veil of mockery. "How many other women have you made that promise to, I wonder?"
As soon as the words left her mouth, she wished she could take them back. The only sign that he had heard her flippant remark was a slight tightening of his fingers on hers, but she knew how acute his hearing was. Deftly, he turned the conversation to other topics, and she responded with half her attention on him.
It had been terribly tactless of her to mention death and other women in the same sentence, and she berated herself soundly for it. It had been six months since the death of Rachel Greenwood, daughter of the Earl of Greenwood. Rumour had it that the circumstances surrounding her death were shady and scandalous; the casket at her funeral had been closed, and no one had seen the body. It was a well-known fact that Miss Greenwood and that foreigner Hidaka had an understanding, and that their engagement was to have been announced at the end of the season.
It was easy to forget the loss that he had suffered, when he attended parties and flirted politely with the women around him. She cursed herself again for her tactlessness, knowing that he hid his true emotions behind a pleasant mask. She had known him, in various guises, for longer than anyone else; she should have guarded her tongue.
It took a moment for her to realize he had posed her a question and was waiting for a reply.
"I'm sorry, darling, my mind was wandering. What did you ask me?" she said, flushing slightly.
"I actually asked you what you were thinking about. I could tell you weren't paying any attention to me, since you agreed that Lady Wagnall's three daughters look like monkeys and that Lord Trumble is a bagpipe." He grinned at her discomfort.
"You are a wicked tease, Ken," she muttered, rising from the bench. "I don't think I will tell you what I was thinking."
He rose as well. "Please?" he asked, boyish charm fairly exuding from his eyes.
"I should like to see you happy, Ken." Her voice was serious, all traces of teasing erased. "I hate to think of you wandering the earth, alone, until the end. I should like very much to see you mated." He lowered his head, breaking eye contact.
"Rachel is dead."
"I know, and I grieve at her loss, but you know as well as I do that your time together would have been brief. She would have died eventually, my darling." He raised his eyes to hers, some unnamed emotion rising within them. "You wouldn't have taken her as your mate for all eternity. You didn't love her that deeply."
"Perhaps I didn't offer her the choice because I loved her." His voice was hard, haughty. For a moment, she was cowed. This was the voice of the hunter, the beast, the immortal who stood outside the reach of time. But beneath the flinty tones, she heard the recognition of the truth she had spoken.
"However much you loved her, you didn't offer her the choice. I think you realized that she wouldn't have been strong enough. The things that you loved about her belonged to the light; I think that the weight of the shadows would have been too much for her. What you loved about her would have disappeared under them." When he said nothing, she continued. "Rachel was a lovely woman, but she would never have truly been a partner for you. Even though she accepted what you were, she would not have been happy living the life you do. I want you to find a partner…"
"Like Damon was to you?" he asked in a normal tone, hiding the beast again.
"Exactly. I should like to know that you have someone you can lean on when I am gone," she said firmly.
He lifted both of her hands to his lips again. "I shall always endeavour to please you, my lady." She laughed, as he intended her to, and rested her hand on his arm again. "Shall we return to the ball, my lady?"
"Lead the way, good sir."
They made their way back into the ballroom, and were attacked almost at once by the group of debutantes that Lucy had jokingly nicknamed "The Hunters". The young girls flanked him, twittering and giggling and generally making spectacles of themselves. They were full of questions for him: had he been invited to Lady Ellis' musicale, would he be attending the fireworks at Vauxhall Garden the next night, had he attended the horse race the day before.
The cacophony they created increased, as each girl raised her voice to be heard over her neighbour. Lucy could see the scandalized looks on the faces of the matrons nearby; this was a serious breach of manners on the part of the young ladies, and the matrons placed the blame at her feet. A Fairchild soiree was always the scene of a scandalous lack of manners. She was about to claim the rights of a hostess to spirit Ken away, when the majordomo announced a group of latecomers.
"Sir Edwin Rutherford and company."
Lucy grimaced internally, but kept her face carefully polite. Truth be told, she detested Rutherford, and had only issued him the invitation because she was certain he was still traveling. How like the man to return a week early and inflict his unctuous presence on Polite Society.
He stood on the small platform at the entrance to the ballroom, a tall, painfully skinny man dressed all in black. His black hair had been pomaded, and added to the general air of greasiness he always gave off. The people with him were, for the most part, minor members of the nobility; none of them were of the higher echelons. But the other two…
Ken drew his breath in sharply at the sight of the two foreigners in Rutherford's party.
One was a stunningly beautiful woman, with dark hair piled ornately atop her head and fixed in place with lacquered skewers. Her skin was pale with powder, and her eyes were dark and unreadable. She wore a blood red kimono embroidered with silver flames, and a black obi.
The other was a warrior.
His clothing was very familiar to Ken. The young samurai, with his hakama and gi, daisho slipped through his sash. His scarlet hair was caught up in a warrior's topknot, but, rather than the traditional shaved forehead, he had jagged bangs that trailed down into two thin braids on either side of his face. His skin was pale as the moonlight that had recently illuminated Lucy's face, and his eyes…
Unless it was some trick of the light, the samurai's eyes were the same violet as Rachel's.
They contained none of her warmth or openness; indeed, they were hard and icy, but they were the same shade. A chill raised the hairs at the back of Ken's neck, seeing his dead lover's eyes in the face of a warrior.
And the samurai's frozen eyes were trained directly on him…
C&C desperately desired…I'll even take flames, if they contain good grammar.
Chapter One – Old Friends
Lady Lucy Fairchild took pleasure in two things.
The first was her ability to throw the best parties in London. No other hostess could boast a better supper table, a more lavish ballroom, or, most importantly, a more cosmopolitan guest list. Lady Fairchild befriended them all: French émigrés, Russian nobles, Italians and Spaniards, Arabs and Indians. A great traveler in her youth, age and ill health had curbed her wandering ways, and so she was forced to draw the far parts of the world to herself. And while her exotic guests might not be welcome in the drawing rooms of most of the aristocracy, none of the Upper Ten Thousand would dream of refusing an invitation to one of Lady Fairchild's soirees.
The second thing she took pleasure in appeared at first to be one of those exotic guests.
He sat beside her in companionable silence, and she took the opportunity to study him, as she had many times during their acquaintance. His dark hair hung about his face, looking as though he had just run his hands through it, even though she knew she hadn't seen him touch it the entire evening. She had often heard the young misses who flocked about him describing it as "chocolate" coloured, which made her laugh. Chocolate, indeed. His hair was brown, and if she were forced to use a flowery descriptive adjective, she would say "mahogany", like the desk in her late husband's study. Plain, but elegant.
"What are you thinking about, Lucy?" His voice was cultured, free of any trace of an accent. On one level, it was the type of voice a person might hear in any drawing room in London, but on another…She shivered at the thoughts the husky voice conjured in her. On that other level, her companion's voice was something that ought to be restricted to a bedroom: teasing and coaxing and compelling all at once.
"You, of course, my darling," she murmured provocatively. He turned his gaze toward her, his delicate almond shaped eyes searching hers. "I am wondering how you can sit here beside me so calmly, when there are hunters abroad." She leaned slightly towards him. "You know that they're out for blood tonight…"
"I haven't the faintest idea what you mean, Lady Lucy," he said, flushing slightly.
"I think you do, my darling." She lowered her voice. "I know that you can feel them around you…watching you. Their hunger is almost tangible. How can you bear to sit beside me with such a threat hanging over your head?"
He shifted uncomfortably. If he hadn't been aware of the presence of the hunters before, she had made him most painfully aware. She smiled, a devilish light in her eyes.
"Oh, they want more than just your blood, my pet. They want your body, too. That lean body, those whipcord muscles, those 'chocolate' eyes…you are an addiction." She leaned back in her chair and snapped open her fan. "They begrudge the time you spend here with me. I've felt their eyes burning me for the past half hour."
"Surely you exaggerate, Lucy," he said, his tone coloured slightly with impatience. "These hunters you speak of are nothing I would concern myself with."
"You should, my darling. Across the entire world, I defy you to find adversaries more dangerous than those who have gathered in my ballroom tonight. I defy you to find hunters more persistent, more daring. Particularly in this house, which is known by all to operate under more…flexible rules than most of society."
"Are you telling me that you consider them to be a threat to me?" His voice was amused, incredulous. "To me, of all men?"
"To you, of all men, indeed. Foreign, mysterious, and most of all," her voice dropped to a whisper, "forbidden. Their minds tell them 'No', but their hearts and their…hearts tell them 'Oh, yes, yes, yes'…" By the telltale flush that covered his cheeks, she could tell that he knew exactly what she had meant with her talk of hearts and hearts. He shifted uncomfortably in his chair again. She decided to take pity on him. She rose.
"Will you accompany me to the garden, Mr. Hidaka," she said in a slighter louder voice than they had been using. "I simply must show you how the tree you suggested looks." He rose, and offered her his arm, and they made their way through the throng to the French doors that led into the garden.
She led him deep into the garden, through decorative hedges and past small fountains, to a small clearing. The moon cast its light upon them, limning the contours of a small statue and bench and the leaves of a small maple tree that stood beside the statue.
"And here I thought the tree was just an excuse to be alone with me," he teased. "I didn't realize you had actually planted one."
"I had it imported from Japan, after hearing you talk about them. I look forward to seeing the colours in the fall," she said, leaving her hand on his arm. "I wish that I could have seen it in its original home, though. I should have liked to have seen row upon row of Japanese maples. Actually," she corrected herself, "I should have liked to have seen Japan."
His voice was soft, caressing. "I think you would have liked Japan."
"But would Japan have liked me? The conflict there, the civil war. The whole business of 'Revere the Emperor, expel the barbarians'? I think that, as a foreigner, I would not have been welcomed readily." She sighed deeply. "I shall have to content myself with making it as far east as India, and let the matter rest."
He smiled. "In the Japan of my childhood, in my small village, you would probably have been called a demon woman. Skin as pale as the moon, hair as bright as the sun, eyes like grass…oh, yes, they would have called you a demon."
"Youkai onna, ne?" she said, laughter bubbling within her as she slipped easily into Japanese. "Well, then, it wouldn't have been very different from here, would it? No different from the days when Damon and I were 'Demon' Fairchild and his devil bride…"
"Demon and Lucifera," he laughed. "The Unholy Pair…"
"It's almost impossible to believe that it was so long ago." She snuck a sidelong glance at him. "Do you know what today is?"
"Of course I do," he replied, turning to face her directly. "Forty years ago tonight, I met you and Damon for the first time."
She smiled. "Forty years ago, on a night like this, under such a moon…in a garden in Italy." She laughed. "We thought that the world was too small to contain us, that eternity stretched out at our feet. Meeting you seemed to prove it." Her smile faltered slightly. "But of the three of us, only you stood outside of time."
A flicker of pain crossed her features, and she pressed her free hand against her side. He noticed the subtle motion, and coaxed her to sit on the bench. As she released his arm, he asked, "Are you alright?" She nodded, keeping her head down.
"Sometimes I hate to have you look at me," she said quietly.
"You hate me?" he asked, confusion painted across his face.
"No, my darling," she murmured. "It's not because I hate you, but because I hate to think of you looking at what I have become, what time has done to me." She sighed, raising a hand to her cheek. "Forty years ago, I was a slender girl with golden hair and red lips, with a loving husband and a future to look forward to. What do you see when you look at me now?" She laughed again, but it was bitter and pained. "A pudgy, grey haired, childless widow, whose only claim to fame is the number of scandalous parties she throws."
"Lucy…Don't you know what I see when I look at you?" he asked, lifting a hand to her chin, raising her face. "My truest friend and confidante…sheltering arms and a comforting shoulder. You accept me for what I am, and you do not shrink from me. In all the years I have spent in this shadow world, you are the only person who has done so."
He moved his hand to brush over her hair. "And in this garden, under this moon, you look exactly like the girl I met in Italy. The moonlight gilds your hair in the same way; it gleams on the mischief in your eyes in the same way. I see my friend Damon's bride."
"What else do you see?" she whispered, turning her cheek into his palm.
"I see you in a moonlit bedroom," he murmured. "Dressed in a silk nightgown with your hair loose about your shoulders. Your eyes were teary, like dew on the grass, but your smile was warm." She turned her face slightly, pressing her lips against his palm. "After Damon died, when you sought comfort in my arms."
"Did you think it wrong of me?" A secret shame, a burden of guilt kept silent for twenty-five years.
"No, my angel…I never thought it wrong." He rubbed his thumb across her cheek, along the trail of an unshed tear. "I only wished that there was more I could have done for you both."
She raised her head sharply, looking directly into his eyes. "We wouldn't have accepted, Ken. You know that."
It was his turn to sigh, as he seated himself beside her on the bench. "I know, Lucy, I know. And I wouldn't have offered before…but seeing your grief, knowing that I could have done something to prevent pain for both of you…"
"We were mortal, my darling. Death is the natural outcome of life." She lifted her hand, cupping his cheek as he had done to her. "And once Damon died, I had no desire to live forever."
"But you are in pain now," he said. "I see how they come upon you, the spasms and dizziness. I know about the drugs your doctor gives you. I could have spared you that."
"I welcome the pain, Ken. I know I do not have much longer to live. And when Lady Death comes for me, I will welcome her with open arms, because Damon will be with her." She turned his head to her, and pressed a kiss on his forehead. "I am not afraid."
He smiled, but his eyes remained dark. "Would Lucifera admit to being afraid of anything?"
"My one fear is a vain one," she replied softly. "I am afraid of being forgotten." His gaze became more intense as he watched her. "If we had had children, we would have had continuity. Our grandchildren would have been told about us, as would their grandchildren. But, when I am gone, I am afraid we will be forgotten by the world."
"You will not be forgotten," he said, lifting her hands to his lips. "I will ensure that your names are not forgotten, that your graves are not abandoned."
"Morbid, my darling, very morbid," she teased, hiding how deeply she was touched under a veil of mockery. "How many other women have you made that promise to, I wonder?"
As soon as the words left her mouth, she wished she could take them back. The only sign that he had heard her flippant remark was a slight tightening of his fingers on hers, but she knew how acute his hearing was. Deftly, he turned the conversation to other topics, and she responded with half her attention on him.
It had been terribly tactless of her to mention death and other women in the same sentence, and she berated herself soundly for it. It had been six months since the death of Rachel Greenwood, daughter of the Earl of Greenwood. Rumour had it that the circumstances surrounding her death were shady and scandalous; the casket at her funeral had been closed, and no one had seen the body. It was a well-known fact that Miss Greenwood and that foreigner Hidaka had an understanding, and that their engagement was to have been announced at the end of the season.
It was easy to forget the loss that he had suffered, when he attended parties and flirted politely with the women around him. She cursed herself again for her tactlessness, knowing that he hid his true emotions behind a pleasant mask. She had known him, in various guises, for longer than anyone else; she should have guarded her tongue.
It took a moment for her to realize he had posed her a question and was waiting for a reply.
"I'm sorry, darling, my mind was wandering. What did you ask me?" she said, flushing slightly.
"I actually asked you what you were thinking about. I could tell you weren't paying any attention to me, since you agreed that Lady Wagnall's three daughters look like monkeys and that Lord Trumble is a bagpipe." He grinned at her discomfort.
"You are a wicked tease, Ken," she muttered, rising from the bench. "I don't think I will tell you what I was thinking."
He rose as well. "Please?" he asked, boyish charm fairly exuding from his eyes.
"I should like to see you happy, Ken." Her voice was serious, all traces of teasing erased. "I hate to think of you wandering the earth, alone, until the end. I should like very much to see you mated." He lowered his head, breaking eye contact.
"Rachel is dead."
"I know, and I grieve at her loss, but you know as well as I do that your time together would have been brief. She would have died eventually, my darling." He raised his eyes to hers, some unnamed emotion rising within them. "You wouldn't have taken her as your mate for all eternity. You didn't love her that deeply."
"Perhaps I didn't offer her the choice because I loved her." His voice was hard, haughty. For a moment, she was cowed. This was the voice of the hunter, the beast, the immortal who stood outside the reach of time. But beneath the flinty tones, she heard the recognition of the truth she had spoken.
"However much you loved her, you didn't offer her the choice. I think you realized that she wouldn't have been strong enough. The things that you loved about her belonged to the light; I think that the weight of the shadows would have been too much for her. What you loved about her would have disappeared under them." When he said nothing, she continued. "Rachel was a lovely woman, but she would never have truly been a partner for you. Even though she accepted what you were, she would not have been happy living the life you do. I want you to find a partner…"
"Like Damon was to you?" he asked in a normal tone, hiding the beast again.
"Exactly. I should like to know that you have someone you can lean on when I am gone," she said firmly.
He lifted both of her hands to his lips again. "I shall always endeavour to please you, my lady." She laughed, as he intended her to, and rested her hand on his arm again. "Shall we return to the ball, my lady?"
"Lead the way, good sir."
They made their way back into the ballroom, and were attacked almost at once by the group of debutantes that Lucy had jokingly nicknamed "The Hunters". The young girls flanked him, twittering and giggling and generally making spectacles of themselves. They were full of questions for him: had he been invited to Lady Ellis' musicale, would he be attending the fireworks at Vauxhall Garden the next night, had he attended the horse race the day before.
The cacophony they created increased, as each girl raised her voice to be heard over her neighbour. Lucy could see the scandalized looks on the faces of the matrons nearby; this was a serious breach of manners on the part of the young ladies, and the matrons placed the blame at her feet. A Fairchild soiree was always the scene of a scandalous lack of manners. She was about to claim the rights of a hostess to spirit Ken away, when the majordomo announced a group of latecomers.
"Sir Edwin Rutherford and company."
Lucy grimaced internally, but kept her face carefully polite. Truth be told, she detested Rutherford, and had only issued him the invitation because she was certain he was still traveling. How like the man to return a week early and inflict his unctuous presence on Polite Society.
He stood on the small platform at the entrance to the ballroom, a tall, painfully skinny man dressed all in black. His black hair had been pomaded, and added to the general air of greasiness he always gave off. The people with him were, for the most part, minor members of the nobility; none of them were of the higher echelons. But the other two…
Ken drew his breath in sharply at the sight of the two foreigners in Rutherford's party.
One was a stunningly beautiful woman, with dark hair piled ornately atop her head and fixed in place with lacquered skewers. Her skin was pale with powder, and her eyes were dark and unreadable. She wore a blood red kimono embroidered with silver flames, and a black obi.
The other was a warrior.
His clothing was very familiar to Ken. The young samurai, with his hakama and gi, daisho slipped through his sash. His scarlet hair was caught up in a warrior's topknot, but, rather than the traditional shaved forehead, he had jagged bangs that trailed down into two thin braids on either side of his face. His skin was pale as the moonlight that had recently illuminated Lucy's face, and his eyes…
Unless it was some trick of the light, the samurai's eyes were the same violet as Rachel's.
They contained none of her warmth or openness; indeed, they were hard and icy, but they were the same shade. A chill raised the hairs at the back of Ken's neck, seeing his dead lover's eyes in the face of a warrior.
And the samurai's frozen eyes were trained directly on him…