by Shirl Henke
“No, I was but making a jest. Please forgive me for oversetting you.” He was finding that Verity Chivins possessed less sense of humor than a turnip.
After a few more desultory exchanges about the ladies’ gowns, the heat, and speculation about whether Prinny would favor the Chitchesters with his presence, several of her father’s Tory friends joined them. The baroness excused herself for a trip to the ladies’ retiring room, obviously as bored with her father and his cronies as was Rob.
The usual arguments about taking harsher measures against the Luddites and keeping the lower classes in their place droned on. Rob made no comment, but instead found his attention drawn to the glow of pale green silk. The blonde stood across the floor, surrounded by several young gentlemen vying for a dance while her escort beamed approval. She accepted an invitation from one thin toff in a yellow satin jacket that clashed distressingly with his sallow complexion.
As they whirled around the floor, Rob again felt that frisson of recognition. Then he realized that she looked and dressed much the same as Fantasia. The hair was wrong, but…No, surely he was mistaken. Then she changed partners, laughing and bantering with her admirers. After observing her exchange bon mots with several more toffs, he knew he was not mistaken. The delicious joke almost made him laugh aloud. If only the proper ladies gossiping around the room knew how truly they had struck the mark!
His amused reverie was broken when the baroness returned. She took hold of his arm, smiling guilelessly up at him. If she was distressed to catch him watching the “Cyprian,” she hid it well. “I fear Papa feels quite overcome by the heat. We must leave, Lord Barrington. It has been quite delightful dancing with you,” she added demurely.
As was proper, he had escorted her out for one dance, not daring a second, which would have given notice that he was courting her. Two months ago he would have done it. Now he held back. “The pleasure was all mine, Lady Oberly,” he said, giving her gloved hand a chaste salute. “I am sorry your father is not feeling quite the thing. A pity you must depart so early.”
In fact, the earl was relieved. When she and her father were announced, he realized that he was obligated to socialize with them. His only reason for attending the ball had been to discuss a key political matter with several members of Lords. He never intended to stay after he spoke with them.
The baroness sighed. “I do so miss dancing…” she hinted broadly. When he merely smiled and made no comment, she nodded graciously, saying, “Perhaps another time?”
“I shall look forward to it,” he replied evasively.
As Amber waltzed with Sir Toby, she caught sight of the earl kissing a lady’s hand. Although her back was turned, Amber was certain the voluptuous little blonde in the turban was his baroness. Rob’s simple black mask could not conceal his identity, not with that slightly overlong dark hair waving around his hawkishly handsome face. In his plain black jacket and breeches, he looked like a sleek panther set loose in a roomful of peacocks. The white cravat at his neck emphasized his swarthy complexion, and the very severity of his wardrobe showed his tall, slim body to excellent advantage. Even his waistcoat of dark green brocade was an understatement amid the multicolored florals and purple and puce satins favored by most of the ton’s “tulips.”
What was he doing at a frivolous event such as this? When she agreed to Grace’s plan, it never occurred to her that Barrington might be here, or that his baroness would be stalking him. So much for an evening to take her mind away from him! Surely he would not recognize her. No, she quickly dismissed that possibility. Masked and wearing a wig, not even her own mother would have known her. She focused on what her dance partner was saying, trying not to look at Rob again.
Across the room, the baroness’s father harrumphed loudly and said, “I feel light-headed, m’dear. We must be off. Barrington.” The old viscount bowed bruskly in farewell to Rob, then turned away. His daughter was swept along as he stalked toward the entry.
Rob forced himself not to look toward the dancers, but instead watched Verity Chivins. Her gown of pale rose was the latest fashion, with ruffles at the hem and around the neckline. She wore a turban with several matching rose feathers on it. Her taste was perfectly suitable for the occasion, but he had noted that since her coming out of mourning, her wardrobe was fussier and less appealing.
Why am I now so critical of a woman I had every intention of marrying? He knew the answer.
As soon as she and her father were gone, he felt the pull of Fantasia and turned to the ballroom floor once more. She danced a far more sedate quadrille with yet another “pink” while her escort looked on. Was he a patron of her establishment? A relative, perhaps her father? No, Rob dismissed that idea. What male relation ranking high enough to receive an invitation to this event would countenance a daughter in her profession?
Whatever was going on, he felt irresistibly pulled to find out, even though he knew there would be consequences when the gossip reached the baroness. His step never faltered. Was he mad? When the music ended and she made her curtsy to her partner, Rob reached her side. Her back was to him, but she must have sensed his presence.
Amber turned abruptly and looked into green eyes that glowed merrily from behind his mask. How could he possibly have recognized her? Then another even more distressing question flashed into her mind—had he recognized Gaby? With a calm she was far from feeling, she asked, “Have we met, sir?”
Rob bowed politely and placed her arm over his, leading her out as the music resumed, relieved that her escort made no objection. “The wig fooled me for a bit, but now that I’ve scented your rose fragrance, I know we have met, m’lady,” he said as he took her in his arms and they began to waltz.
She glanced about the room. “Where is your baroness?”
He chuckled. “So you do admit we have met. As to that lady, she has gone home with her ailing father.”
“You must know the gossip will reach her.”
He shrugged. “Perhaps. I could always say I recognized my distant cousin from Kent. It would be rude not to ask you to dance, after you have just come out of mourning.”
“But only one dance. We would not wish to give the appearance of impropriety, after all,” she replied, charmed by his teasing.
“Do you think the duchess would force us to wed if we danced a second time?”
“No, she would simply have me tossed out, once she learned my identity.”
“If Her Grace learned your identity, she would know more than I do.”
Ignoring his barb, she said, “Your friends in Parliament will be scandalized.”
“Those who attend soirees such as this are not counted among the Saints.”
“My, you have fallen from grace, then, to no longer consider yourself one of them. Should I feel guilty?”
“Not at all. I never counted myself among them, but came here to discuss Mr. Peel’s police proposals with Lord Treving and Sir Philip Ridgeway. That done, how could I resist the opportunity to learn more about you?”
“You know where we met, m’lord. That is sufficient,” she replied. To deflect his probing questions about her past, she asked, “How did such a serious reformer learn to dance?” She sensed the stiffening of his body before he replied.
“It was to please my first wife, who is now deceased.” His voice was flat.
Only Gaby knew of Credelia. Amber said, “I am sorry, m’lord. Please accept my apology for bringing up such a sad matter.”
“It was a long time ago,” he replied thoughtfully, realizing that memories of his dead wife no longer had the power to wound him. Was it because he had cleansed his soul with Gaby? He held Fantasia in his arms, not Gaby, he reminded himself. But some connection between them niggled at the back of his mind. He tried to focus on the way she moved with him through the waltz, wishing he could close his eyes and savor the feeling of holding her. But that was something he could not do on the crowded floor.
I dare not stay in his arms a moment longer. Amber could
sense that he was comparing her to Gabrielle. He had never held Fantasia this way. Her relief was palpable when the dance ended. “Let us speak of happy things such as what a splendid group of musicians the duchess has employed,” she said as he escorted her to back to her elderly companion.
Ignoring her gambit, he asked, “Happier things such as why you are here, surrounded by drooling young pups?”
“As long as the drooling young pups can dance without giving me fleas, they are tolerable enough,” she replied.
“You counter every move without giving away anything. I should think you would be a formidable chess player, m’lady.”
“I am. Would you like a match, Barrington?” some insane urge made her ask.
“Yes, I would enjoy that a great deal.”
“Shall we say tomorrow…at one?”
He had a political meeting in the morning, but it would end by midday. “I will see you at one, then.”
She attempted to take her leave, but he insisted on returning her to Burleigh. There was no help for it. She would have to introduce them and hope for the best. The baronet bowed politely to the earl after being presented, one white eyebrow raised subtly.
Knowing from Grace exactly who Barrington was and how Amber came to meet him, Chipperfield remarked, “You have previously met…” He leaned forward and added in a very low voice, “At the House of Dreams.” His eyes twinkled.
Rob did not know whether to be appalled or to laugh out loud. He chose the latter. “Are you a patron living out a fantasy here, perchance?” he countered.
“What better one could there be for a crusty old fellow like me? I am the envy of every man in the house. I have brought the most beautiful lady in London to the ball.”
“Spanish coin, Burleigh,” Amber protested. “Consider all the young ladies in the bloom of their first season.”
“He does not give you false flattery. None compare to you,” Rob said. “You are the most beautiful lady in London—in spite of a wig concealing your magnificent hair.” The moment the words escaped his mouth, Rob knew he had revealed too much…and betrayed Gaby, whose face he would never see.
As Lady Fantasia, Amber had schooled herself never to blush, but she could not control the heat tingling on her face. “Now we move from Spanish coin to court holy water,” she said with a low chuckle. But her gaze locked with his and she saw the blaze of desire in his eyes. They played with fire…and both of them would be burned before this was finished.
Burleigh watched their exchange with a troubled expression. He would have to discuss this with Grace. Unless his eyes were deceiving him, the two young people were falling in love. And neither was free to love the other.
Rob finally broke away from her and turned to the older man. “A pleasure to meet you, sir. Enjoy the evening and your fantasy. You could not have chosen a more worthy lady to share it.” To Fantasia, he said, “Until tomorrow at one?”
When she nodded silently, he kissed her hand and walked away.
Burleigh watched her stare after the earl. Perhaps my little joke on the ton has proven more costly than either of us imagined, child.
Chapter Thirteen
Rob spent a restless night filled with strange dreams that awakened him repeatedly. At one moment he would feel Fantasia in his arms as they glided in a waltz, the lights blazing all around them. Next, he would be loving Gaby in the darkness. Next he would light a candle and find Fantasia’s cherry-red hair spread across the pillows…as if they were the same woman. The images twisted and merged over and over until he finally tossed aside the covers and got out of bed. He paced across his large bedroom, naked in the moonlight that poured through the open draperies.
He had never slept without a nightshirt in his life until he made love to Gaby. Now he could not sleep with one. He pulled on a light robe and stood staring out at the small courtyard fountain in the rear of his city house. Combing his fingers through his hair, he cursed, trying to sort out the dreams. What the hell did they mean—if anything?
His French lover was nothing like the cool, calculating madam. Whatever her mysterious past, Fantasia was English to her fingertips, keen witted, practical, even lethal when the need arose. If she knew a word of French, she had most probably picked it up from that French courtesan he had encountered in “Sherwood Forest.”
Gaby’s French was far too natural for even the most exclusively educated English finishing school miss to emulate. Her gentle spirit had been grievously wounded, yet her inherent sweetness and honesty shone through. That could be no act. Fantasia parried every question he asked with another of her own. She traded barbs with him rather than exchanging confidences. On the other hand, Gaby invited open conversation, speaking of her tragic past and drawing out his own unhappy experiences. She healed. Fantasia, he was certain, could wound. She would fight like a wild creature and give no quarter if cornered.
Then why did he suddenly feel as if they were the same woman? How absurd to flatter himself by thinking a woman who had built such a lucrative business would choose to bed him when she had dozens of employees to perform the task. No, Fantasia had selected Gabrielle because he and the émigré had both been scarred by their first sexual experiences. He, not Fantasia, had proposed that the lessons be in darkness. She had only agreed that Gabrielle would probably be more comfortable that way, too.
He knew the scent of each woman intimately, Gaby’s soft lilac, Fantasia’s much bolder attar of rose. Even more primal, he knew the female essence that defined each, something intangible but most certainly distinct. It made no sense for Fantasia to perform such an elaborate charade. What possible motive could she have?
“None,” he muttered. “’Twas nothing more than the nightmare, making you muzzy-headed.”
Below the open window, the fountain tinkled musically, as if laughing at him.
Amber knocked on Grace’s door discreetly, knowing that Burleigh had spent the night. But he never dallied once the sun rose. Grace had requested that she come here at ten. Her mentor called out for her to enter. After her night with Burleigh, Grace had a satiated glow about her, but Amber could see that she felt troubled in spite of it.
“Please have a seat. I had Bonnie send up a tray for us,” Grace said, gesturing to the comfortable rose damask chair across from hers. Between them on the low table sat two pots, one of tea, one of coffee, and a basket filled with the cook’s delectable croissants.
“Have you summoned me to account for how I cavorted with Burleigh last night?” she asked, smiling as she sat down and poured herself a cup of steaming coffee.
“The dear man told me everything,” Grace said, her expression devoid of all humor as she sipped her tea. “You waltzed with Barrington.”
“The earl recognized me and whisked me onto the floor before I could protest. There was no harm in it,” she replied.
“You know otherwise. I can see it in your eyes. Burleigh, bless him, is a very shrewd judge of people, one reason he has sat on the assizes for so many years. He is certain that you and the earl are in love.”
Amber almost dropped the cup. Instead, she set it in its saucer with an unseemly clatter. “That is absurd. If he’s in love with anyone, it’s Gaby, not I.”
“The earl could tell from across the crowded ballroom that you were the woman he knows as Fantasia. He came directly, as you put it, to whisk you onto the floor because he could see through your very good disguise. Burleigh observed the way the two of you laughed and talked and danced…how you exchanged glances when you parted. You are in love with him. He with you.”
“We already discussed this when you convinced me to invite him riding. I admit that I am guilty about deceiving him as Gabrielle…and, yes, I have come to greatly enjoy making love with him. But I have no illusions about a permanent relationship. Nor does he, either with Gabrielle or Fantasia.”
“But you are in love with him.” It was not a question.
Amber sighed. “Yes, I suppose I am,” she finally admitted aloud. “The
re is nothing to be done about it. You of all people understand that.”
“Will he marry his baroness?” Burleigh had also observed a bit of interplay between Barrington and a woman wearing “a turban larger than herself,” as he described the widow.
“I am no longer certain. Ironic that he should have come to Gabrielle to learn how to please the woman he intended to court. Now it seems he finds her less than a paragon. But that does not mean he is in love with Gaby.”
“He has confessed this dislike to ‘Gaby,’ has he not?”
“He merely told her—me—that they have little to discuss besides fashions and ton gossip. She has no interest in his work.”
Grace brightened. “Yet he delights in verbal fencing with you, and you’re certainly in agreement about political reforms.”
“With the exception of bordello closures,” Amber replied wryly, rubbing her temples as a headache came on.
“Can you not see it? His Gaby is the perfect lover and confidante in bed. You are the perfect politician’s wife, an informed, witty English noblewoman. Such a combination is every intelligent man’s dream.”
“Are you not leaving out one or two small problems—such as the fact that I am already married and the proprietor of a notorious house of courtesans? Not to mention that if he ever learns how I have deceived him, his male vanity will make him hate me.” No, not his vanity, but the violation of his very soul!
Grace leaned back in her chair. “I doubt he could ever hate you once he understands the reasons you became Fantasia and Gaby.”
“But I am Amber Leighigh Wolverton. Not Fantasia! Not Gaby!” The headache throbbed wickedly now, in full bloom. “We can never marry.”
“Not as long as Eastham is alive…”
Amber’s head jerked up. “What are you suggesting—that we murder him to free me?”
“He has attempted to kill you twice in the past fortnight. Now that his spies have found you here in London—”