Melting the Snow Queen

by Mary Lancaster

  “You seem surprised.”

  “Oh no, very little surprises me. Except you.”

  He blinked. “Me? How?”

  “I’m not sure yet.”

  He stepped forward in the dance, moving her backward, and as they turned, he held her closer than before. The heat of his body combined with his clean, earthy male scent. The arm around her was strong, his bare fingers rough against her fine gloves, like the hands of a working man. And yet he spoke like a gentleman, a bare hint of soft Scots in his accent. Even as he intrigued her mind, desire thrummed through her, hot, insistent.

  “Then I ask again,” he said softly. “How may I serve you?”

  Keep dancing with me, unmask me, kiss me in the moonlight… Sweep me off my feet and into bed… And God, he would be good. Passion, wild and untamed, blazed in the intensity of his eyes, lurked behind every controlled movement as he stepped and turned.

  Control. A twinge of fear twisted through her, for she sensed that with this man, she was not in control. Self-preservation dragged her back to reality. This was not an attraction she should indulge. It should remain mere fantasy.

  She drew in her breath, remembering why she was here. “Perhaps you might indeed help me. You’re a man who sees through disguises, after all. When our dance is finished, could you possibly introduce me to Mr. Robert Ogilvy?”

  Finally, she had surprised him. He blinked, and let a full second pass before he said, “What do you want with him?”

  “Then you know him?”

  “Aye.”

  “Is he a friend of yours?”

  “God, no.”

  Etta frowned. “You don’t like him much, do you?”

  “He’s nobody. Why would you want an introduction?”

  “I have a proposition for him.”

  The man stared at her. He stopped dancing just as the music came to a close, though Etta wasn’t sure the two events were connected. He didn’t release her. If anything, his fingers tightened on hers. It was she who, baffled, stepped away from him.

  And then two men almost hurled themselves between them, both pleading for the next dance, until a third appeared and begged her to ignore them and accept him instead. And when she had an instant to look for her erstwhile partner again, he had vanished.

  Chapter Two

  I have a proposition for him.

  No doubt, the first meaning Robert Ogilvy attributed to those words said more about his own lustful thoughts than the lady’s reputation. Because, of course, the famed beauty was hardly so short of conquests that she needed to make men offers. And even if she were, why would she pick a stranger, a nobody with little wealth, land or influence? She wouldn’t, of course, and so her proposition had to involve something other than her bed, although dancing with her—just looking at her—had driven most other ideas from his head.

  Rob Ogilvy had never been short of female companionship when he’d wanted it. He liked women in every way, from friends like the Roxburgh ladies, to mature seductresses and willing young maids. They’d understood his intentions perfectly, and vice versa. But as the throng of male admirers separated him from Henrietta Derwent, he felt as though the ground of his certainties were rocking beneath his clumsy feet.

  He turned on his heel and walked away, trying not to wish that her gaze followed him across the floor. She had no reason to look at him.

  No, her proposition had to be something else entirely, more likely something to do with George Beddow. She must have known of George’s connection with him and want to buy his silence, or his support. He was almost sure her surprise upon seeing George during the waltz had been genuine. Except she’d taken it all in her stride, as if her lover’s presence here was of no great moment. Which was not what Euphemia’s letter had implied, at all. Which meant either he understood nothing, or Lady Derwent was a far better actor than most.

  And what the devil did it matter? He should never have gone near her in the first place, except that Chastity, the Duchess, had let slip the identity of the lady in the blue domino, holding her own against the formidable Mrs. Ross. When he’d caught sight of her again near the refreshment table, he’d been curious enough to approach her. He’d been aware only of a trim figure and a manner at once vivacious and graceful, which had made him wonder at Mrs. Ross’s interest in such a woman.

  Until she’d spun right into his path and he’d gazed down at her masked face. Her large, lustrous eyes had sparkled with anger, her luscious lips slightly parted to release her quickened breath. In barely suppressed fury, she was magnificent, but it was the genuine distress he read in her eyes that truly caught his attention. And then, masked or not, her beauty had slammed into him, knocking aside his wits, and he’d understood perfectly how this woman had eclipsed George Beddow’s duty to some insipid debutante barely out of the schoolroom. After all, she was pretty much eclipsing Rob’s own duty to his sister.

  No, he shouldn’t have gone near her. He should have stuck to his original plan of collaring George and sending him back south. He’d even asked the Duke to point him out with that very intention.

  A hasty glance found George restoring his erstwhile waltz partner to her mother and then swerving almost immediately toward the ante-room where card tables had been set up. Purposefully, Rob followed him, determined not to let his eyes stray to Lady Derwent. His encounter with her had left him surprisingly rattled.

  Although not a great socializer, Rob recognized many of the masked card players whom he’d known since childhood. Some, of course, were more easily identified, since, away from the ballroom, they’d torn off their masks to play in comfort. One of those was George, who lounged at the faro table, smiling, his mask dangling from his careless fingers as he watched the play.

  Rob strolled closer, in time to hear one of the younger men say, “I had the pleasure of dancing with your wife earlier, Beddow. You are a lucky dog.”

  Rob stared. Wife? His fingers curled into fists at his side. Dear God, he was too late. Beddow had not just ruined his chances with his heiress, he’d married the widow! He couldn’t quite understand his fury at that, for it really had nothing to do with him. Yet somehow, the idea of that beautiful woman married to this smug little fatwit was an abomination that he took personally. No wonder she hadn’t looked too pleased to see George. She’d probably discovered what a disastrous mistake she’d made.

  “Oh, I am,” Beddow agreed. “Ten thousand pounds, I assure you. And not only that, I’ve just seen the divine Henrietta under this very roof. I am indeed blessed.”

  Ah. So, he’d married the heiress, not the widow. But distaste at George’s attitude drowned Rob’s inexplicable relief before it was properly born. He acted from sheer instinct, even as one of the young men said admiringly, “On your wedding trip, too. You are a bounder, Beddow.”

  Rob pushed forward and grasped George by the shoulder. “What a pleasure,” he said with barely disguised sarcasm. “I’m your kinsman, come specially to make your acquaintance.” He hauled the stunned young man to his feet.

  “Kinsman?” George said in alarm. “Sir, I don’t—”

  “Let us become acquainted,” Rob said between his teeth, marching George away before he could collect his scattered wits. After a stunned few trotting steps at his side, George pulled back, but Rob merely tightened his grip. “Don’t, or I’ll throw you across the room and be done.”

  “Sir, I don’t know who the devil you are, but you are no kinsman of mine!”

  “I only wish that were true.” Still holding his arm, Rob pushed open the hidden door in the ante room wall and dragged George through. He hadn’t run wild about this house with the Roxburgh children for nothing.

  “Oh God, are you some relative of Amelia’s?” George said in dismay as Rob shoved him along a narrow passage and into a half-lit room used by the servants. “It was only jest, you know. I’d never so dishonor my wife. I assure you, I’d never touch another lady in these circumstances, not even the divine Henri—”

  �
�You,” Rob interrupted with contempt, “are too damned free with lady’s names.” With which, he swung back his fist and struck his nephew in the face. “Watch your mouth.”

  George staggered back and fell against a sideboard, rattling crockery and trays full of glasses. As Rob followed purposefully, George raised his hands in terror. “Wait, wait!” he pleaded.

  Rob bent and wrenched the black domino off George’s person. “Only until tomorrow morning, when you and your wife will leave here. Go north or south, I don’t care which. But trust me, if you remain anywhere near Inverness, you’ll be sorry.”

  With that, Rob strode from the room. How had Euphemia managed to bring up such a paltry little dirty dish? She hadn’t, of course. Lord Beddow was to blame. At any rate, Rob was fairly certain he’d taught him one lesson at least… But damn Euphemia, did she have to sit on her letters for so long before sending them? Couldn’t she have written another to tell him the wedding had actually taken place?

  As for Lady Derwent… Had she really hoped to use him to facilitate her liaison with George? What the devil did she see in the boastful little bounder?

  Rob reached the main part of the house, which was quiet since everyone was in the ballroom. Still carrying George’s bundled domino, he strode into one of the smaller reception rooms. There, the old Duke had always kept writing materials for callers to leave messages when the family was not at home. Thankfully, the tradition remained.

  On some level, Rob was aware he should stop and think. He wasn’t consciously planning any of this and he knew from experience that this was how he landed himself in all sorts of trouble. But he had no desire to stop now. He wanted to hurt himself. Or the seductive widow. Both. And he had no idea why.

  ***

  Free of the quelling Mrs. Ross, Etta’s evening improved dramatically. She was in her element, dancing and chatting and flirting. And if the odd, abrupt stranger in the red domino troubled her thoughts too often, well that was exciting, too. Despite her knowledge that it was impossible in this too-close-knit community, she craved a little dalliance…although she had the feeling that there would be nothing “little” about any dalliance with that particular gentleman.

  A frisson of desire and fear shook her. But she knew an intrigue with him was only fantasy, a delicious background to her enjoyment of the evening, the company and the dance. She would not indulge her attraction here, though she might well have been tempted to do so in London. The Scottish Highlands just did not supply the necessary anonymity for an affaire.

  The unexpected presence of George Beddow was the one blot on Etta’s evening. Once, she’d found his mixture of youth and confidence charming and compelling. She’d even contemplated a night of love with him, until she’d discovered his engagement. But her rejection hadn’t stopped him from spreading rumors of his imagined conquest, and Etta had absolutely no desire to cause the new Mrs. Beddow embarrassment. Fortunately, she saw no more of him after he entered the card room, so she felt quite at liberty to enjoy herself.

  She had just finished a dance with a rather charming if impudent gentleman in a fawn mask when a liveried footman presented her with a glass of champagne and a folded note. He looked quite disapproving—which was a fault in a footman—but she took the glass and the note with a careless word of thanks. Immediately, she retreated to a quieter corner, well away from Mrs. Ross, who seemed now to be watching the ballroom door.

  Setting her glass on a window sill, she turned her back to the company as though admiring the view of the gardens and the hills beyond—which, in fact, she did while casually unfurling her note. This was what she had always found to be the fun part of clandestine liaisons…

  Except the note struck her like a bucket of cold water in the face.

  Come to the summer house at the end of the terrace path at a quarter to midnight. Yours always, George B.

  She crumpled the paper. Damn him… Although she positively itched to slap him—or even better, give him the verbal thrashing of his life—she couldn’t possibly commit the indiscretion of going. His poor wife was here and Etta would give the gossips nothing more to beat her with.

  A quick glance over her shoulder at the ornate clock on the ballroom wall showed her that it was already half past eleven. The supper dance, the last before the unmasking, was about to begin and several men were closing in on her. None of them wore a red domino and black mask. Which hardly mattered.

  Hastily, she stepped into a throng of very young girls who seemed to know each other well, and with a murmured apology, walked through them to the matrons beyond and from there, slipped through the terrace door into the blessed cool of the evening.

  Fanning herself, she hid from casual glances behind a pillar, and leaned against the balustrade that enclosed the terrace. Thus, she turned her back on the formal gardens—and the path that led to the summer house—and instead admired the view of untamed forest and hills silhouetted against the clear sky. It was undoubtedly beautiful here. She was almost sorry not to have a reason to return.

  Slowly, she tore George Beddow’s note into smaller and smaller pieces until they were like crumbs which she let blow away in the breeze.

  “Do you think to cast me away so easily?” a male voice whispered behind her.

  She stiffened, for it could only be George. He must have followed closely enough to see that she hadn’t gone to the summer house.

  “Go back inside,” she said without turning.

  “Or what?”

  “Or I will.” She turned to face him. As expected, she faced a tall man in a black mask with a black domino billowing slightly in the wind. The mixture of moonlight and the candlelight spilling through the ballroom windows cast a strange glow, making him somehow unfamiliar.

  “Are you afraid of my wife?” he mocked.

  “No, but I think you are, since you’re whispering. Don’t make such a cake of yourself, George. Go away.”

  “You’re angry with me.” Even whispering, he sounded surprised.

  “Merely irritated,” she snapped. “You’re beginning to spoil my evening.”

  “Then let me make it better.” He took a step closer. “Come with me. Let me…indulge you.”

  Etta laughed.

  His mask shifted slightly, as though his eyebrows shot up in surprise. “You don’t care to be indulged, to be lost in pleasure?”

  In spite of herself, his low, seductive voice touched a chord deep within her and she shivered. As if he sensed weakness, he took another step. “Let me give you that. I’ll make you scream with joy.”

  Etta had heard enough. Shaken, she hurried forward, intending to swerve around him, as angry with herself as with him.

  But damn the bounder, he was still talking in that deep, seductive whisper. “One more night of love. I’ll make it beautiful.”

  She halted. Having drawn level with him, she turned her head slowly, staring at the masked face. “What did you say?”

  He was taller, bigger than she remembered. The light from the terrace lamps flickered across his lips. They quirked, curving into a smile. “I offered you a night of love.”

  “No, you offered me one more night of love.”

  He stood very still, watching her from eyes that were surely much darker than George’s. His hair was longer, too, strands of it lifting in the night breeze.

  Fresh anger propelled her closer. “Who are you?” she demanded. “Who do you imagine I am?” For she recognized he’d been trying to deceive her, deliberately disguising his voice in the damned, seductive whisper to make her believe he was George. Only, he’d made a mistake with one more night of love. There had never been a first.

  George had never written that note. Someone had set a trap for her, to disgrace her, which was almost as despicable as the adultery he clearly believed of her.

  Worse, there was something familiar in this man’s stillness, in the dark eyes that met hers, unflinching. She didn’t want to think it was him, to discover it was him. She jerked away, toward the
ballroom, but he seized her naked forearm.

  “I imagine,” he said, low, “that you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”

  “What?” She paused in the act of trying to pull free, her arm frozen at a peculiar angle as she stared up at him, baffled. His head lowered.

  She had time to avoid the kiss. Her very real anger demanded that she do so. And yet, she stood rooted to the spot as his mouth closed on hers.

  He released her arm, but only to cup her masked face as he kissed her. His lips, warm and sure, moved on hers, caressing, coaxing. A host of butterflies seemed to take flight within her stomach. She’d almost been in this position before, when she’d waltzed with him. Her body recognized his before her mind accepted the hurtful truth that it was he who’d tried to deceive her, for what ends, she couldn’t imagine. She wanted to hit him, to walk away with her head held high. And yet she melted to the touch of his body, his mouth, like a young girl receiving her first kiss.

  He raised his head, his gaze flowing slowly from her lips to her eyes. “I made a mistake and I’m sorry.” His hand fell away. “I wish you were mine.”

  He turned and walked away, not into the ballroom, or even up the path to the summer house, but around the outside of the house until he vanished into darkness.

  GET YOUR COPY HERE

  To learn keep up on Mary’s great books and other Scarsdale releases join our NEWSLETTER