The Scoundrel’s Daughter by Anne Gracie
Chapter Twelve
It was the night of Lady Peplowe’s masquerade ball. Alice had donned her flowing blue-green gown and her maid, Mary, had dressed Alice’s hair in what she imagined was an Egyptian style—close around the head, then flowing loose with beads and gold cords plaited in. She’d also painted Alice’s face with crimson lips and shadowed, almond-shaped cat’s eyes.
The woman in Alice’s looking glass didn’t look much like her at all. She looked glamorous and mysterious.
“You look gorgeous, Alice,” Lucy said, entering the room. “Here’s the rest of your outfit. Mary, that hairstyle is perfect—the headdress will fit over it beautifully.”
Alice stared at the gleaming gold headpiece, armbands and belt Lucy had brought in. “These look wonderful, Lucy—just like new. However did you do it?”
Lucy grinned. “Oh, papier-mâché is easy. I couldn’t afford proper gold leaf, but eventually I found some paint that produces a very good imitation. The shine won’t last long, but that won’t matter for something you wear once or twice. And if in five years’ time you want to wear it again, I’ll just paint it again. Now try it on.”
Mary carefully fitted the headpiece on Alice. The thick gold band, embossed with Egyptian-style motifs, enclosed her head. On her forehead was a large jewel glittering in the center of a sunburst shape entwined with snakes.
“It’s perfect and lighter than I remember,” Alice said, adjusting it slightly. She slipped the snake armbands on and fastened the belt of Egyptian-style medallions around her waist. It, too, had new glittering “jewels” glued on. There was also an elegant gold mask with large cat’s-eye eyeholes with gold ribbons to tie it on.
She turned to Lucy to thank her again and frowned. “You’d better hurry and get dressed. I hoped we’d leave in half an hour.” Lucy was wearing a wrapper, and she hadn’t even dressed her hair.
Lucy dimpled. “Don’t worry, I’ll be ready. I just need Mary’s help with a few things.”
Mary smiled. “Be with you in a minute, miss.” Lucy danced out, and the maid added, “If that’s all right with you, m’lady?”
“Of course. You’re enjoying yourself, aren’t you, Mary? Dressing us up like dolls.”
“I am and all, m’lady. This old house has really come to life since that young miss came to live here. Her, and having Lord Tarrant’s little girls come to visit. Like a breath of fresh air, it is, having young life about the place.” As she was leaving, she turned in the doorway and said, “And you, m’lady, I can tell you’re happier—you look ten years younger. And dressed like that you look . . . stunning. Lord Tarrant’s eyes are going to fall right out when he sees you.”
“Oh no, you’re mistak—” But Mary had gone.
Alice viewed herself in the looking glass. Mary—all the servants—had the wrong idea about Lord Tarrant and her. They were all expecting a betrothal announcement, and that wasn’t going to happen.
She wasn’t dressing for him, she really wasn’t. She was dressing for herself. And so that the night wouldn’t be spoiled for Lucy. And Lady Peplowe. And because this was the only costume she had.
Besides, she wasn’t even sure he was coming. Lady Peplowe might not have invited him.
She stood in front of the looking glass and swished her skirts gently back and forth. A smile slowly grew. She did look quite unlike her usual self.
She tied on the slender gold mask. Her eyes glinted mysteriously through the cat’s-eye slits. Her smile deepened.
He probably wouldn’t even recognize her. If he came, that is.
Half an hour later, Alice watched Lucy coming gracefully down the stairs. “You look wonderful,” she exclaimed. “I would never have recognized that as my old muslin dress.”
Lucy, smiling, pirouetted on the landing, skipped down the last few steps and made Alice a deep curtsy. She was clearly looking forward to the ball.
The dress was pure white—Mary had worked wonders—and it seemed looser, floatier and less structured than the dress Alice remembered. A Grecian-style pattern had been stenciled around the hem in gold, and gold braid sewn around the neck. Gold buckles were fastened at the shoulders, to which a length of gauzy, gold-edged fabric was fastened, floating about her, adding to the impression of a statue come to life.
Around her waist Lucy wore a braided girdle of gold rope, with ivy and other creepers from the garden woven in. Her tawny hair was arranged in a vaguely Grecian style, loosely pulled back and bound in places with more gold rope. A headband made of fresh leaves crowned her brow. She wore a pair of light sandals and carried a simple white satin mask. Alice noticed with a jolt of shock that her toes were bare and her toenails were painted gold. It was very daring and wonderfully bold.
The difference between this young, happy, excited girl and the sulky, badly dressed creature she had first encountered was heartwarming. It might have started as blackmail, and Alice still fretted about the consequences of that, but she couldn’t regret having Lucy come to live with her. Mary was right: Lucy had brought life and liveliness to all their lives.
“You’re so clever! I never could have created such a costume,” Alice exclaimed. “You could have stepped straight out of a mural in a Greek temple. And you look beautiful.” It was true, too. Lucy glowed with health and youth and excitement.
“We both look beautiful,” Lucy said.
Alice helped Lucy tie on her mask and arrange her cloak over her costume, being careful of all the greenery, then they climbed into the carriage and were on their way.
* * *
Alice looked around her. There was no doubt about it, Lord and Lady Peplowe knew how to throw a ball. Carriages lined the street, waiting to drop off their occupants. The front of the house was lit with blazing brands tended by liveried footmen, the dramatic leaping flames lighting up the night. A temporary porte cochere had been erected in case of rain, and a red carpet laid from inside the house to the edge of the road, ensuring that neither hem of dress nor sole of shoe need touch the common pavement.
Inside people milled about, passing their cloaks and hats to servants—though not those people wearing dominos, who were mostly men. The crowd moved slowly up the stairs, where they were greeted by Lord and Lady Peplowe.
Lord and Lady Peplowe looked magnificent dressed as an oriental potentate and his queen, in sumptuous colorful silks and satins, glittering with gold and jewels. Both wore large, splendid turbans, and Alice felt a little dull by comparison, but Lady Peplowe was extremely complimentary. “The perfect partner for you is waiting inside, Queen Cleopatra,” she said with a wink to Alice. “And any number of young gentlemen will be lining up to dance with this lovely Greek goddess.”
Alice hoped so. Bamber’s deadline was creeping ever closer.
They passed the receiving line, entered the ballroom and stopped to admire the scene. It was decorated with colorful silks draping the walls, potted palms and sprays of greenery placed at intervals around the room, and pierced-brass lanterns studded with colored glass throwing patterns of colored light across the crowd beneath.
“Isn’t it wonderful?” Lucy breathed. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”
Alice had to agree. The Peplowe ball was going to be talked about for months to come. It was already “a sad crush”—the ultimate accolade.
People were dressed in every variety of costume one could imagine. There were harlequins and pirates, knights of old, several devils with horns, Cossacks and Turks, Neptune with his trident, ladies in last century’s fashions, with high powdered hair and wide pannier skirts, creatures from mythology with strange heads and human bodies, jesters, medieval ladies with high pointy headdresses, Spanish ladies in mantillas, and dainty milkmaids and shepherdesses.
Lucy leaned over and murmured in Alice’s ear, “No self-respecting shepherdess or milkmaid would be seen dead in an outfit like that.” Then she added with sardonic humor, “Maybe I should have come as a goose girl.”
Alice followed her gaze and saw her nephew, Gerald, threading his way through the crowd toward them, a grim expression on his face. Not another quarrel, not again, surely?
“Greetings, O divine lady goddess.” A young man dressed as a medieval page bowed to Lucy. His outfit was an unfortunate choice: his legs, clothed in white hose, were bandy and very skinny. But what he lacked in musculature, he made up for in confidence. “Grant me a dance, O Fair One. Are you Athena, perhaps, or maybe Aphrodite?”
Lucy shook her head.
“Artemis, perhaps? Or Venus?”
“Venus was Roman, you cloth-head.” Another young man in a Viking outfit joined them. He bowed to Lucy. “Would you be Hebe, perhaps, goddess of youth and beauty?”
At that point, Gerald, who was dressed as a Spanish bullfighter, arrived, just as the first young man said to Lucy, “I give up. Tell us, O Fair Lady, which goddess you are. And then grant me a dance.”
Lucy pretended she was answering her pageboy admirer, but she looked straight at Gerald as she said, “I am no goddess, good sirs, but a priestess of Apollo.” Her gaze clashed with Gerald’s. “I am Cassandra of Troy, cursed to speak the truth but never to be believed.”
Gerald’s jaw tightened. “About that, could I have a word, please?”
“Hey, we were first,” the two young men objected.
“Indeed you were,” Lucy cooed, and ignoring Gerald completely, she placed a hand on each young gentleman’s arm, and they strolled away.
Gerald watched them disappear into the crowd, then turned to Alice. “She’s never going to forgive me, is she, Aunt Alice? Perhaps you could intervene on my behalf.”
“You are mistaken in me, young man,” Alice said, a little irritated that she’d been so easily recognized. She supposed being with Lucy had given her away. But she didn’t want to intervene on Gerald’s behalf, so she clung to her current identity. “I am Queen Cleopatra, aunt to no one here, and you must sort out your own tangle.”
“Indeed you must,” said a deep, amused voice behind her. “Take yourself off, young fighter of bulls, and make your own amends to yon cold and angry lady. I have an appointment with my queen.”
“You have no such—” Alice began, turning. Her words dried up at the sight that greeted her.
A tall Roman soldier bowed. “Mark Antony at your service, Queen Cleopatra.”
Over his mask, he wore a gleaming gold helmet topped with a crest of red feathers. Over a short red tunic, he wore a leather cuirass that was molded to his powerful chest and hard, flat belly. A symbolic gold eagle covered his heart.
Instead of trousers he wore a kind of kilt made of strips of leather studded with brass medallions. It ended at his knees—his bare, brawny, naked, masculine knees.
She dragged her eyes away, but couldn’t help wondering whether Roman generals wore the same thing under their tunic as Scotsmen were reputed to. She clamped down on the thought. She should not be thinking of such things.
A short red cloak hung from gold buckles at his shoulders, dangling rakishly behind him. His tanned, powerful arms were bare, and a broad gold armband was clasped high on one muscular arm, while thick leather bands encircled his wrists. On his feet he wore red three-quarter-length boots.
He looked powerful, barbaric and magnificent. The sight of him took her breath away.
Mark Antony, Cleopatra’s famous lover. He couldn’t have known what she was wearing to the ball, could he? That gleam in his eyes told her otherwise.
“Who told you?”
He pretended puzzlement. “Told me?”
“What I was going to be wearing tonight.”
He laid a dramatic hand over the eagle on his breastplate. “There was no need for anyone to tell me, O Queen. It was in the stars—we are fated to be together.”
“Nonsense.” She told herself he was just playing a part, but there was a note underneath the playfulness that sounded worryingly sincere. “It can’t be a coincidence. Somebody must have told you what I was wearing tonight.”
“You’re right. It was a little bird.”
“What little bird? Not Lucy?” She’d be very disappointed if it were.
“No, your goddaughter didn’t give anything away, not knowingly at least.” He tucked her hand in the crook of his arm, and they strolled around the room.
“If you recall,” he continued easily, “you had a troop of small visitors the other day—it is very kind of you to allow them to visit the garden whenever they want, by the way—and they saw certain gold-painted items drying in the summerhouse. Later, when they told me about their visit, they asked a lot of questions. Questions like ‘Who was Cleopatra, Papa, and why would she wear snakes on her head and arms?’ Which was interrupted by, ‘Shhh, it’s supposed to be a secret!’ which received the indignant rejoinder, ‘I’m not talking about the costume, just the lady. It’s history. We’re supposed to learn about history!’ ”
She couldn’t help smiling at his vivid re-creation of the scene. “And so you put two and two together.”
“And sent my valet out to scour London for a costume. You will be astonished to learn that uniforms for Roman generals are quite thin on the ground.” He glanced around and murmured in a secretive tone, “Don’t tell a soul, but this costume is actually Caesar’s.”
She laughed. And feeling bold, she directed a pointed glance at his legs in the short tunic. “Don’t you find it rather drafty? That short skirt thing.”
“Skirt thing?” He leaned back in feigned horror. “Would you call a proud Scotsman’s kilt a ‘skirt thing’?”
She shrugged. “If I didn’t know what it was called, probably.”
“This”—he touched the red fabric—“is called a tunic.” He paused. “And these dangly leather straps are called, I believe, ‘dangly leather straps.’ The official term, you understand.”
“Ah, I see,” she said, attempting solemnity through a bubble of laughter.
“As for whether I find it drafty, I don’t, here in this crowded ballroom—though I suspect it might be wise to eschew the more vigorous of the country dances. But on a windy day I suspect these dangly leather straps would come in handy. Protection in more ways than one.”
They strolled on. “Do ladies find them drafty?” he asked. “Dresses, I mean.”
“Our dresses are much longer.”
“So they are, but what about ladies who have not yet adopted the newfangled underwear our late, lamented princess popularized . . .”
Alice felt her cheeks warm. Princess Charlotte had scandalized some and thrilled others when she’d adopted the wearing of drawers. Most ladies wore them these days, but not the old-fashioned types, or those whose parents were rigid moralists, like Papa. The church considered the wearing of drawers by ladies as scandalous and immoral, drawers being items of clothes designed for men.
Then there were people like Thaddeus, who subscribed to the medical opinion that drawers overheated ladies’ female parts and thus made it more difficult for them to conceive.
Alice had worn her first-ever pair of drawers to Thaddeus’s funeral.
“I have no idea,” she murmured. Deciding this conversation was heading into awkward areas—she still didn’t know what he was wearing under his tunic and wasn’t going to ask, and she wouldn’t put it past him to ask whether she was wearing drawers or not—Alice glanced around in search of some distraction.
“Fretting about young Cassandra?” he asked. “That has to be a first.”
“What is?” She constantly worried about Lucy.
“Cleopatra playing chaperone to a priestess of Apollo.” He smiled. “Don’t worry, that young lady is more than capable of looking after herself.”
“That’s not the point,” she began.
“Looks like she’s occupied with young Thornton.” He nodded to one of the balconies at the back of the room, where Lucy and Gerald were standing, face-to-face, radiating tension. As they watched, Lucy flung up her hands and stormed off, leaving Gerald staring after, frustration evident in every line of his body.
“Oh dear, I’d better go and—”
A large hand closed around her forearm. “No, leave them to it. They’ve been circling around each other forever. Best let them get it out in the open.”
“Forever?”
He shrugged. “It feels like that anyway. Now come, let me procure you some refreshment, and then we shall dance.”
“Shall we?” she said dryly.
“Shall we not, my queen? And why would that be? Have I stepped on your toes in some way? Do you fear my tunic flying up? Worried about my dangly bits?” How she knew he was quirking an amused eyebrow at her under his golden helmet she couldn’t say, but she was sure he was. His dangly bits indeed.
She wished she knew how to flirt back at him and maintain a witty, lighthearted conversation, but instead all she could do was blush and feel hot and flustered. But was determined not to show it. “A lady likes to be asked.”
“Of course.” He swept her an instant bow. “My dear Queen Cleopatra, would you grant a humble soldier a dance?”
She looked around. “I might. Where is he?”
He snorted. “Minx. Very well then, will you grant me a dance?”
“Yes. Which dance would you pref—”
“The first waltz. And the second.”
“But—”
“I would take every dance, except there is some stupid rule about limiting oneself to two dances with one lady.”
Alice decided not to argue.
* * *
Lucy prowled through the crowd furiously, peering between the clumps of gorgeously attired people, looking for the culprit. Hah! There he was, the arrogant beast, in his sinfully tight black breeches and his glittery matador’s coat, thinking he looked so fine, surrounded by ladies all cooing and gushing. She marched up and poked him in the shoulder—hard. “How dare you drive away my partners!”
Lord Thornton turned, rubbing his shoulder. “I didn’t!”
Aware of his circle of admirers avidly listening, she allowed him to steer her a short distance away.
“You didn’t, eh? Then why did Mr. Frinton and Mr. Grimswade both come to me in the last half hour and withdraw from the dances they had reserved?”
He shrugged. “How would I know?”
“Liar!” she snapped. “They both told me it was at your request—as my guardian’s nearest male relative!”
He didn’t answer, didn’t even look the slightest bit guilty.
She poked him again, this time on the bead-and-sequin-covered chest. Matador indeed! She could happily throw him under a bull right now. “Understand me, Lord Thornroach, you have no authority over me. None whatsoever, and if you ever try to arrange my dances or any other aspect of my life again—”
“What else was I to do? You refused me even one dance earlier.”
“As is my right!”
“I only took your waltzes.”
Such smugness. She wanted to hit him. “They were my waltzes to give!”
He shrugged again. “You don’t have permission to waltz yet.”
“So? I planned to sit them out with the partners of my choice.”
He snorted. “You planned to sit one out with Corney Frinton and what—talk?”
“Mr. Frinton can talk. Sometimes. Anyway, what business is it of yours how we pass the time? I’d rather sit in total silence with Mr. Frinton than with an arrogant lord who thinks he knows everything.”
He cocked an unimpressed eyebrow. “And what did you plan to do with Tarquin Grimswade? Listen to his poetry? I can assure you, it’s utter drivel.”
“You introduced me to both those gentlemen as potential husbands. So what has changed? Or is it just a case of dog in the manger?” Hah! He looked uncomfortable at that little gibe. The hypocrite.
“I simply wanted to talk to you. I’ve been trying to talk to you since that drive in the park, but you’ve been avoiding me—”
“I can’t imagine why, when you’re such delightful company.”
“And then tonight, when you refused me even one dance—” He broke off as the opening bars of a waltz sounded. “Let’s go outside,” he said, “where I can say my piece, you can berate me in relative privacy, and then we’ll be done.”
Cupping his hand around her elbow, he escorted her across the railed terrace and down into the courtyard. Wought iron chairs and tables were arranged around the perimeter, large potted palms and other plants had been clustered to give privacy to the tables, and multicolored lanterns were hung here and there, giving the scene a softly foreign appearance. Everyone had made their way inside for the much-anticipated first waltz of the evening. The courtyard was deserted.
“Well?” She turned and faced him, her arms folded across her chest. “What is it you are burning to tell me? More disgraceful family secrets you have unearthed about me? More slanders against my character? More baseless accusations about how I’m plotting with my father to ruin Alice?”
“No.” He ran a finger around his tight matador collar, and swallowed. “I want to apologize.”
Lucy blinked. “Apologize?” It was the last thing she’d expected.
“You’re right. I did suspect you of working with your father, of plotting against Alice and taking advantage of her kind nature.”
“Did?”
He nodded. “I don’t think that now. You . . . you convinced me of your innocence that day in the park.”
She raised a cynical brow. “So I told you I wasn’t working with my father and you believed me, just like that.”
He looked uncomfortable. “More or less.”
She snorted. “I don’t believe you. You’ve uncovered more dirt on Papa, haven’t you? Something that exonerates me, isn’t that it?”
A small nerve in his jaw twitched rhythmically. He eyed her grimly as he considered her question. “More or less. I learned about your school experiences.”
Her stomach clenched. “What school experiences would those be?”
“Five—or was it six—different schools in how many years? And you never went home for the holidays.”
She lifted an indifferent shoulder, but a sour taste flooded her mouth.
“And then you were sent to live with some old German opera singer for a year, and then that French comtesse with the goose for another year. Although whether you were a guest or a maidservant isn’t clear.”
Because, depending on the comtesse’s whim, she was both. “I suppose Alice told you all this.” It was a painful betrayal, but Lord Thornton was, after all, Alice’s nephew. She supposed Alice’s first loyalty must go to him. Even knowing that, it hurt, more than she would have imagined. Which made no sense. She didn’t even know Alice until a few weeks ago.
He shook his head. “No, Alice is ridiculously closemouthed about your background. All she will ever say is that you are her goddaughter—though how that came about is still a mystery to me.” He eyed her speculatively and waited.
Lucy pressed her lips together and looked away. She wasn’t going to enlighten him. If Alice wanted to tell him, that was her right.
A burst of laughter floated out from the ballroom. Strangely, it emphasized their isolation. “You haven’t lived with your father for more than a few days at a time, have you? Not since your mother died.”
Lucy gave him a flat look. “So what if I have? What business is it of yours? Why are you so interested in my history?”
He frowned. “Don’t you know?”
“Know what?”
“Your father has been threatening Alice again. I’m trying to trace him.”
Lucy blanched. “Threatening her?”
He nodded. “I gather she didn’t tell you.”
“Not a word.” She felt sick. How dare Papa threaten Alice? She was doing all she could to help Lucy find a man she could happily marry.
She sank onto one of the chairs. As she had dreaded from the start, this latest scheme of Papa’s would result not just in her own mortification and ruin but in Alice’s as well.
And the terrible irony was that the very woman her father was blackmailing and threatening was trying to protect Lucy.
She took a deep breath and hoped her voice sounded calm. “What is he threatening her about?”
The furrow between Lord Thornton’s brows deepened. “About you, of course. He’s complaining that Alice isn’t doing what he asked—arranging your marriage to a member of the nobility. Apparently someone has been reporting back to him that you’ve only been seen accompanied by men with no title or any expectation of one.”
Her fingers turned into a fist. “I’ve told him and told him that I hate the very idea of marrying a lord!” She looked up at Lord Thornton and said bitterly, “Alice was sure that what my father really wanted was for me to be secure and settled happily, that the title didn’t really matter.”
She smacked her knee. “Like a fool I allowed her to persuade me. I should have known better. Papa is stubborn, and foolishly pretentious. Being related to a title obviously matters far more to him than my happiness.”
Lord Thornton said nothing.
Inside the ballroom the last strains of the waltz finished. Lucy rose, feeling weary and disheartened. “I have to go. My partner for the next dance will be looking for me.”
She took a few steps toward the terrace and the French doors leading into the ballroom, then turned back to face Lord Thornton. “There’s really no point in looking for my father. He’s as slippery as an eel. I’ve never known how to contact him, and you won’t be the only person trying to trace him, I’m sure. If you really want to help Alice and get Papa off her back, there’s only one thing you can do.”
“What’s that?”
“Find me a lord to marry. Any lord, I don’t care which. He can be a hundred years old, for all I care.”
His frown deepened. “But you said yourself that it was the last thing you wanted.”
“It is.”
“Then why would you do such a thing?”
She looked at him. “For Alice, of course. Why else? Alice is a darling, and I won’t let Papa ruin her.”
* * *
The orchestra played the introductory bars of the waltz. Gentlemen led their partners onto the dance floor. Lord Tarrant held out his hand—his bare hand. Unlike English gentlemen, Roman generals wore no gloves at a ball.
Neither did Egyptian queens.
His hand was big and warm and strong; hers felt cold. The sensation of skin against skin was thrilling. He held one of her hands in his and placed his other hand on the dip of her waist. She hesitated about where to place her hand and decided that the safest option was on his epaulettes, or whatever Romans called them.
The dance began, and he swept her into it with complete assurance. It was far from her first waltz, and though he was holding her with perfect propriety, he felt very close, much closer than she’d expected. All that bare masculine skin . . .
The scent of him wrapped around her, the sharp tang of his shaving cologne, the earthy scent of leather and, beneath it all, his own distinctive clean masculine smell. Soap and man—this man.
It was disconcerting to realize that she’d probably recognize him blindfolded and in the dark by his smell alone. His enticing masculine smell.
He twirled her around, his big, powerful body dominating hers, the two of them moving as one to the music. She felt as though she were flying. It didn’t feel safe. It was exhilarating.
Inch by inch, he drew her closer. She felt the press of his thigh against hers. Heat sizzled through her—and it wasn’t because of the dancing. She felt breathless—and it wasn’t because of the dancing.
Every inch of her was aware of him. The heat of his body, the powerful arms, his hand on her waist, his bare thighs beneath the short tunic. She clung to him, allowing herself to simply twirl and spin to the music as he willed it. She felt almost dizzy and yet sharply, gloriously alive.
“And they say the waltz is a scandalous dance,” he murmured. “Such nonsense.”
She glanced up at him. Didn’t he feel it?
His eyes danced with knowing laughter, his mouth curved, and he drew her even closer.
He felt it. She closed her eyes, unable to meet the intensity in his, and gave herself up to the music, the dance and the man.
Eventually the waltz ended, and he led her to a seat. “Thirsty?”
She nodded.
“Ratafia, lemonade or champagne?”
She was already intoxicated and she hadn’t had a drop of wine, but she found herself saying, “Champagne, please.”
She watched as he crossed the room in search of refreshments, his stride powerful and easy, his shoulders broad and almost bare. He was magnificently at home in his costume.
She shivered, unable to drag her gaze off his long, muscular legs in that short, red tunic. Waves of heat rippled through her. So this was desire . . .
She’d felt pale echoes of it before, but nothing like this, never anything this strong. It had been building between them, she realized, ever since that first kiss. No, even before that.
Women generally find sexual congress pleasurable . . .
She couldn’t stop thinking about it.
He disappeared into the crowd, and she sat and watched people enjoying themselves. The masks and costumes seemed to have encouraged more overt flirting, and some were definitely stepping very close to the line. If not over it, she added mentally, noticing one of the shepherdesses slide her hand into the folds of a Roman senator’s toga.
She blushed and looked away, feeling a little out of her depth. How many of the ladies here enjoyed sexual congress? The ones who flirted? Was that why she didn’t know how to flirt? Because she had disliked the marriage bed?
Oh, how could she be so old and still feel so ignorant? Lucy was better at this than she was, and Lucy was half her age.
Lady Peplowe, superb in her enormous turban, moved among her guests, talking and chatting, bringing people together and effortlessly putting them at ease. She was a superlative hostess and very popular.
As Alice watched her, a thought sprang to mind.
Perhaps a decade or so older than Alice—Penny was the youngest daughter—Lady Peplowe was plump, casually elegant and very sophisticated, but Alice had always found her comfortable to talk to. She wasn’t an intimate friend, but she had shown a great deal of kindness to both Alice and Lucy.
She would surely not mock Alice for her ignorance and lack of sophistication.
Alice waited until Lady Peplowe began to move from one group to the next. She hurried across the floor and intercepted her. “Lady Peplowe,” she began, suddenly breathless.
Lady Peplowe’s brows rose. “Is there something the matter, my dear?”
“No, no, it’s a lovely party. It’s just . . . May I call on you tomorrow? There is something particular I would like to discuss with you.” She was blushing, she knew.
“Of course. Only make it later in the day—say, five o’clock. I intend to sleep very late tomorrow.”
“Oh, yes, sorry. I didn’t think. Would you prefer me to come the following day?”
She smiled. “No, I can see it’s something that won’t wait.”
“It will, of course, it’s just . . .”
Lady Peplowe patted her hand. “Tomorrow at five will suit me very well, Lady Charlton. You can explain it all then. In complete privacy.” She glanced over Alice’s shoulder. “Now, there’s a handsome Roman general waiting with a glass of champagne for you. Better go and relieve him of it before some other lady snaps it—and him—up. He’s a delicious sight in that costume, barely there as it is. I do like a man with a good pair of legs, don’t you? And as for those gloriously muscular upper arms . . .” She fanned herself briefly, winked at Alice and glided away.
* * *
It was time for the second waltz of the evening. Lucy watched as Alice stepped onto the floor with Lord Tarrant. Hers weren’t the only eyes that watched their progress with speculative interest. They made a handsome couple.
Lucy glanced around the ballroom. Which of these extravagantly dressed people was reporting back to her father? The thought made her simultaneously furious and sick. The sooner she married some lord, the sooner this whole ghastly thing would be over.
Lord Thornton appeared at her elbow. “Shall we sit this one out in the courtyard, Miss Bamber?” It was very warm now in the ballroom, with all the lanterns and candles burning and the press of overheated bodies, so she nodded.
Outside it was blissfully cool, the night air fresh with a soft breeze stirring the leaves overhead. “You’re not cold, are you?” Lord Thornton asked. He gestured to his matador’s jacket with a wry smile. “I’d offer to give you my coat, but I doubt I can remove it. It took all my valet’s efforts to get it on. Do you have a shawl I could fetch?”
Lucy shook her head. “I’m quite comfortable, thank you.” It wasn’t quite a lie. She wasn’t cold, but something about sitting out here alone with Lord Thornton, not to mention the intense way he kept looking at her, made her feel a little on edge. As for his coat being tight, his whole outfit, especially his breeches, outlined his lithe, lean, muscular form almost indecently.
She could hardly drag her eyes away.
They sat for a few moments in silence, listening to the music floating from the ballroom. Then he said abruptly, “Did you mean what you said about marrying a lord, any lord?”
She looked at him in surprise. “Yes.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.” She didn’t see any other way out of the fix Papa had trapped her in.
“Even an old man?”
She nodded. The very idea appalled her, but even worse was the knowledge that if she didn’t, her father would ruin Alice. Besides, she might not have to endure an old man for long. Which was a horrid thing to think.
“What about a young man?”
She shrugged. “As long as he’s titled, it makes no difference. Now can we stop talking about it, please? I’d rather just enjoy the night and keep these depressing realities for the cold light of day.” The moon was out, hazy, lopsided and serene. The scent of flowers perfumed the air. And the music only added to the magic.
“You like this music, don’t you?” he said after a moment.
“Doesn’t everyone?”
He gestured to her sandaled feet. “Your feet are dying to dance. They’re tapping along in time with the music. I like those gold toenails, by the way. Dashing, as well as pretty.” He rose to his feet. “Shall we dance?”
She blinked at the unexpected request. “But I can’t.”
“You can’t waltz, or you don’t have permission?”
“I know how to waltz, of course, though I’ve never danced it in public. But I don’t have permission. For some reason I’m only allowed to waltz after one of the patronesses of Almack’s gives me permission. Seems ridiculous to me, but that’s what I was told.”
“I see. And that’s why you were prepared to sit them out in wallflowery boredom with Messrs. Frinton and Grimswade.”
“Both gentlemen to whom you introduced me,” she reminded him acidly.
“Then let me atone.” He held out his hand. “Will you do me the honor of dancing this waltz with me, Miss Bamber?”
She hesitated and looked around. The courtyard was still deserted, as was the terrace overlooking it. “Nobody will see,” he said, his voice low and deep. “Come on, you know you want to.”
“Very well.” She rose and took his hand. It was warm and firm. No gloves on matadors or priestesses. His other arm wrapped around her waist.
He danced well, swirling her around with grace and assurance. Dancing alone in the courtyard, in the moonlight, with the lanterns creating pools of light among the shadows—it felt strangely intimate, as if they were alone instead of only a few yards away from the loud, colorful throng inside.
Too intimate. She could smell his cologne, feel his breath against her hair. She was achingly aware of how his costume hugged every line of his lean, lithe body. And that her costume was too loose, too floaty and insubstantial. And that she was pressing up against him in a way that would not be approved of in polite circles.
She had to break this feeling of . . . intensity. Conversation, that was the thing. “What made you dress as a matador?” she asked.
He shrugged infinitesimally. “There was a costume in the shop. And I liked it. I saw several bullfights in Spain.”
“Weren’t they very terrible?”
He smiled. “For the bull, yes, but very exciting to watch.”
She shuddered. “I could never watch such a thing. You were in Spain for the war, weren’t you?”
“Yes.” After a moment he added, “I’d like to go back there one day, now that peace has come. It’s a fascinating country.”
“You want to travel again?” It surprised her. Most Englishmen she’d met—admittedly not all that many—seemed to dislike the idea of foreign travel.
He appeared to think it over, then gave a decisive nod, as if he’d just made up his mind. “Yes. I do. I have a mind to join the diplomatic service.”
“Really? Don’t you have responsibilities here? I mean, isn’t there an estate or something you’re supposed to look after?” Not that she knew anything about a nobleman’s duties.
“My father controls all that. There’s nothing for me here.” They circled the courtyard again, and he added, “What about you? If you had the opportunity to travel, would you take it?”
In a heartbeat, Lucy thought. But it was not to be. “I’m marrying a lordly octogenarian, remember?” she said lightly. “I doubt I’ll get to travel.”
“About that. I think I have the solution to your problem.”
She looked up at him. “Oh yes?”
For a minute or two he said nothing, just twirled her around in the moonlight. Then, just as she was sure he wasn’t going to speak, he cleared his throat and said, “Become betrothed to me.”
She dropped his hand and stepped away. “What? No. Marry you?”
He held up his hands pacifically. “Calm down. I didn’t say ‘marry me’—I said ‘become betrothed.’ ”
“No. That’s ridic—”
“Hear me out. You don’t want to marry a lord, isn’t that right?”
“Yes, but—”
“But in order to save Alice from whatever your father has threatened her with, he needs to believe you are going to marry a lord.”
She frowned. “Ye-es.”
“A formal betrothal would convince him, would it not? If it was officially announced in the Morning Post and the Gazette, and the banns called in St. George’s, Hanover Square.”
She thought about it. If Papa believed it was a done deal, and he probably would, with it being all formal and official, it could, just possibly work. Though he did say he’d come to her wedding. “Maybe.”
“Then you and I will announce our betrothal.”
She shook her head. “But you can’t! You don’t want to marry me!”
“Don’t worry. We can call it off as soon as Alice gets those letters back from your father. Actually you will call it off. A gentleman cannot honorably withdraw once the announcement has been made.”
“Why not?”
“A gentleman cannot break his word.”
She snorted. “Rubbish. Men break their word all the time.”
“Perhaps, but not if they’re gentlemen. I should have said a gentleman cannot honorably break his word. A gentleman’s promise—his word of honor—is the foundation of his status as a gentleman.” Seeing her skepticism, he continued, “That’s why gambling debts between gentlemen are called ‘debts of honor’—and are paid before any other kind of debt. It’s also why being caught cheating at cards will result in a gentleman being expelled from his club, disgraced in society and, in some cases, banished by their family to another country.”
“What about ladies? Isn’t a lady’s word of honor just as important?”
“No, ladies aren’t expected to keep promises. Being the weaker sex, it is a woman’s prerogative to change her mind.”
She bristled. She hated that term, the “weaker sex”, but she’d struggled with enough lustful lords to know it was true enough, physically, at least. It had been her brains and agility that had kept her safe, not her physical strength, not to mention her willingness to kick a man in his cods—a strategy taught to her by the father planning his absence. “You’re saying that women have no sense of honor?”
“Y—no, well, not exactly. It’s just, girls are raised differently and not taught about—I mean, there’s no blame—” He was getting more and more tangled. “It’s not what I believe, but it is how the world sees it.”
The idea that only she could call off the betrothal because women were regarded as indecisive ninnyhammers was insulting. But she didn’t have to like it. There were many aspects of society she didn’t like. “So what you’re saying is that once our betrothal is announced, I can call it off, but you can’t?”
“Exactly.”
There was a short silence while she thought it over. “You’d be taking a big risk, wouldn’t you? What if I didn’t call it off?”
“I’d be relying on your sense of honor.” His eyes glinted with wry humor. “Not to mention your well-known antipathy to marrying a lord.”
This suggestion of his, coming out of the blue, on the one hand seemed like a clear and simple solution. On the other, it worried her.
All the time she’d known Lord Thornton, they’d been at daggers drawn. But tonight, not only had he gone out of his way to apologize—and she was sure that didn’t come easily to a man of his pride—now he was proposing. All right, so it was only a pretend betrothal, but just days ago he’d been certain she was in league with her blackmailing father. And now he was relying on her so-called honor not to trap him into marriage? She didn’t trust such an instant about-face.
“Why would you do such a thing? Be willing to put yourself in my hands?”
He met her gaze squarely. “Aunt Alice was very good to me as a child. She’s my favorite relative. My parents have done nothing to help her since her husband died. Now she’s in trouble, and I’m determined to help her however I can.”
He sounded sincere. She was inclined to believe him. Almost.
The idea was tempting. A public betrothal to a viscount who was also heir to an earldom might just bring Papa out of the woodwork. And save Alice from any further distress.
“And you would trust me to break the betrothal?”
“I would. But I should also warn you that if you did, there might be unpleasant repercussions for you. You’d need to be prepared for that.”
She knew it. Because people would be furious that a girl of no background had played fast and loose with the son of an earl. “I don’t care. I never set out to hook a husband in the first place. It was all Papa’s idea.”
He frowned. “The idea of social disgrace doesn’t worry you?”
She shrugged. “They’re not my people.” She’d never belonged anywhere, so being pushed out of the ton would be nothing new. She’d miss Alice, though, and Lord Tarrant’s little girls. And Penny Peplowe and some of the other friends she’d made. Thinking about it, it occurred to her that she’d made more friends than she’d realized.
Oh well, it was a risk she’d have to take. No matter what society believed, women did have honor, and she owed it to Alice to free her from Papa’s entrapment.
Emerging from her reflections, she looked up to see Lord Thornton regarding her with a curious expression. “Who are your people?”
“Gypsies, who do you think?” She had no “people.” Only Papa.
He eyed her shrewdly, but all he said was, “So, do you agree that a false betrothal is the solution to our problems?”
She took a deep breath. “All right. I’ll do it. And there’s no need to worry—I promise you that I won’t hold you to it. If you can believe the promises of a blackmailer’s daughter, that is.”
“I have every faith in your honor,” he said softly, and for some reason she felt herself tearing up. She turned away, blinking furiously.
He went on in a brisk voice. “I’ll put notices in the Morning Post and the Gazette. Shall we keep it quiet until then, or would you like me to arrange an announcement tonight, at this ball?”
His mother was at the ball, Lucy recalled. She’d be bound to make a horrid fuss—a public fuss—and she’d blame Alice. “No, let’s keep it secret until the announcement in the papers.”
He nodded. “Just don’t tell Alice it’s a false betrothal.”
“But—”
“I’m very fond of Alice, but she’s a hopeless liar. She’d hate having to keep it a secret—and she’d probably botch it. Which would upset her very much.”
He was right. “Very well,” she agreed. “We’ll tell nobody the betrothal is a stratagem.”
Inside the ballroom the waltz was just finishing. “I’d better go in,” she said, rising to her feet. “I promised Mr. Grimswade I’d take supper with him.”
“Just one more thing.” Lord Thornton reached out and detained her with a light touch. “This agreement between us, there won’t be any kind of document to sign.”
“No, of course not.”
“So we’d better seal it in the time-honored way.”
“What time-honored—mmph!”
His mouth came down on hers, firm, warm and possessive. She was so surprised she couldn’t move or even think. She gasped and his tongue entered her mouth, hot, spicy and demanding.
By the time her brain had recovered from the shock, her body was pressing itself against him, her arms were twined around his neck, and she was kissing him back. He cupped her face in his hands, angling her mouth the better to explore her, to taste her.
Heat streaked through her in waves, pooling deep within her body.
Without warning he released her abruptly. She staggered back, struggling to gather her scrambled wits. It wasn’t the first time she’d been kissed, but she’d never experienced anything like . . . like that.
Her whole body was tingling. She was panting, as if she’d run a mile instead of standing in a secluded corner.
His chest was heaving, too, she noticed. At least she wasn’t the only one.
Had he felt what she did? There was no way of knowing. His eyes were in shadow, dark, intense and unreadable. Her gaze dropped to the firm, unsmiling masculine mouth. Who knew that he could kiss like that?
As the silence between them stretched, broken only by their heavy breathing and the distant hum of people talking in the ballroom, all Lucy’s old insecurities came surging to the fore. Before tonight—even an hour ago—she would have sworn this man, this lord, disliked her. Only days ago he’d accused her of plotting against Alice. Then suddenly, tonight, he was talking false betrothals and trusting her. And now this?
A kiss too far?
Striving to sound calm and unflustered, she said, “What was that about?”
He said coolly, as if the answer were obvious, “As I said, it’s a time-honored way of sealing an agreement.”
His words, like a dash of cold water, brought her to her senses. This was what lords did. Take what they felt like, no care for anyone else. “Hah! So you kiss your horse coper like that when you buy a horse, do you? Or your wine merchant when he agrees to deliver wine?”
“Of course not. Men usually shake hands on an agreement, but ladies”—he grinned, a purely wicked grin—“ladies don’t shake hands with gentlemen, do they? So what else was I to do?”
She couldn’t think of a response. Truth to tell, she was still dazzled by the effects of his kiss. She tried for a withering look, but he stood there looking smug, handsome and annoyingly unwithered.
The buzz of conversation inside suddenly rose. Laughter and exclamations floated out onto the night air.
“The unmasking has begun,” he said. “I’ll go inside first. Wouldn’t do for us both to appear together, especially with you looking as though you’ve just been thoroughly kissed.”
She rubbed at her mouth as if he’d somehow branded her. What did “thoroughly kissed” look like anyway? She pressed her hands against her hot cheeks to cool them.
At the steps leading up to the ballroom, he turned and looked back. “And by the way, that permission-to-waltz thing? I’m fairly sure it applies only to Almack’s, not at a private ball.”
“Now you tell me—” she began wrathfully, but he was gone.
She sat back down, not yet ready to return to the ballroom and play her part. Some people had come out onto the terrace to cool down after the dance, but most would be going in to supper.
She was betrothed. To Lord Thornton.
It was the last thing she’d expected. No, the kiss was the last thing she’d expected. Why had he done it?
She removed her mask, ran her hands lightly over her hair and the circlet of vines, and checked the rest of her costume. She appeared to have lost a few leaves, but other than that, everything seemed quite intact.
Taking a few deep, steadying breaths, Lucy returned to the ballroom.