At the moment there was nothing unsuccessful or especially loverlike about the way Glengarry was managing to drag her backward through the crowd. His size was great enough, and the expression on his face sufficiently ferocious, that no one protested when he elbowed them aside.
Forcing his way through the crowd with considerably more difficulty, Billy soon joined Nicholas, who was standing near the door. Reinforcements would probably not be needed, however. Glengarry appeared to have the situation well under control.
Billy emerged into the cool night air in time to see the baron toss Dorie up onto a large horse, which he then mounted also. From the way she was struggling to get down, it was obvious she was still spitting mad, but Glengarry was able to control both her and the horse, and seconds later the beast, which Billy recognized as coming from his own stable, was trotting down the street, its hooves striking sparks off the cobblestones.
* * * *
Dorie finally ceased to struggle. It was pointless, because Glengarry had his arm locked around her waist, again efficiently trapping both her arms at the elbows, so she could do little more than wiggle ... which she lost all interest in doing once she realized what, or rather whom, she was wiggling against.
Unfortunately, Glengarry had her pulled back so tightly against him, she was virtually sitting on his lap, and the way he was holding her, she could feel every movement of the muscles in his legs. It was quite different from waltzing with a man, and she rather suspected it more nearly resembled making love.
The idea had unexpected appeal. There was nothing foppish or weak about the arm that was holding her, nor was there anything the least bit soft about the chest pressing against her back, and despite her normal contempt for the baron, she felt an unexpected and totally new response deep inside her.
The only thing soft about him, in fact, was the words he was speaking, which were in Gaelic, and which sounded to her uncomprehending ears rather like a lover’s honeyed phrases.
She strongly suspected they were curses rather than endearments, and she wished she had the Gaelic, so she could answer him in kind. Somehow, compared to the fluency with which his words were now pouring over her, everything she could think of to say in English sounded rather weak and trite, so she held her tongue.
Which made it all the more unfair when Glengarry, reining in the horse in front of her mother’s house and dismounting, finally spoke in English. “If you say one word, I swear I shall beat you.”
Immediately indignant, she retorted, “So beat me. But I am still going to point out that it will be better by far if we enter from the stable side of the house, since I have a key to that door, and we shall thus not have to wake any of the servants.”
He reached up and pulled her down off the horse, and for a moment she was in his arms—for too long a moment. He stood there holding her pressed up against him, and it was much worse than if he had beaten her.
She tried to resist—tried to remind herself that this was a man with no conversation, no wit, that this was a man who could not walk across a dance floor without stumbling—but there was nothing either weak or clumsy about him tonight. Slowly he tilted her chin up and lowered his head until she could see nothing but his face above her, his features shadowed in the moonlight, his expression inscrutable.
Spellbound, she waited for him to kiss her, which she knew he was going to do. Bemused, she realized she was going to let him, and the only protest she uttered, in fact, was a soft sigh, which did nothing to deter the man.
Before she could disgrace herself completely, however, the silence of the night was broken by the sound of another horse rapidly approaching. Startled, she pulled her head away far enough that she could look around her captor and see the newcomers. Even in the poor light she recognized her cousin Nicholas, and the boy hanging on behind him was Billy. At the sight of them, all thoughts of meek compliance went out of Dorie’s head.
Until now, there had been something almost romantic about the way the baron had found her and carried her off on his horse into the night. It had, in fact, reminded her of the tales of gentlemen highwaymen, and Glengarry himself had seemed almost like a hero in one of Mrs. Radcliffe’s novels.
But discovering her cousin and a groom were involved in this expedition to drag her home reduced this evening’s adventure to the level of men once again deciding for a woman what she should and should not be allowed to do. And Glengarry, she realized, was nothing more nor less than a tiresome spoilsport.
“Unhand me at once,” she said, “or I shall scream so loudly the neighbors will think they are all about to be murdered in their beds.”
“It is not ended between us,” he replied, his voice low and his words for her ears only.
“There is nothing between us to end,” she retorted, deeply ashamed of the way she had almost given in to him, but proud that at least now, when everything was over, there was not the slightest hint of feminine weakness in her voice.
* * * *
Nicholas was bone-tired. Billy had taken the horses back to the stables, Dorie had been sent off to bed—recalcitrant to the end—Alexander had drunk a much-needed glass of brandy with him and then departed for his own lodgings, and now at long last, undoubtedly a good hour before the milkmaids would begin to deliver their wares, Nicholas wearily climbed the stairs to his own bed.
But the night’s adventures were not yet over. Someone else was waiting for him in the corridor outside his room. A dear little someone, an enchanting someone, who appeared not to realize how tempting she looked gazing up at him so trustingly—how enticing she was with her adorable little toes peeking out from under the bottom of her robe.
Oh, Joanna, Joanna, you should be safe in your bed with your door firmly bolted against men like me, who are too tired to play the gentleman, he thought. Do you not know that fatigue weakens a man? Makes him more susceptible? More vulnerable?
“I wanted to ask you,” she whispered, and her soft voice promised him a haven from all the cares of the world, “if you found Dorie in time? She was not hurt in any way, was she? I could not sleep without knowing, but her door is locked, and she would not answer when I knocked and called to her.”
Nicholas shuddered with the effort it took him not to pick Joanna up in his arms and carry her off to his bed. He was so tired, all he wanted to do was wrap himself around her and go to sleep, but in the end he was a gentleman, although the pain of restraint cut deep.
His voice was harsh with bitterness when he finally answered. “No, she is all right. No one had discovered her identity.”
Tiredly he leaned against the door to his room, shutting his eyes to close out the vision standing before him. Gradually all his noble resolve melted away. Whatever the price he would be called upon to pay, he was going to hold his love in his arms again before this long night was over, even if only for a few minutes.
“Joanna, I love you—I need you,” he whispered, extending his hand toward her.
There was no answer, and his arms remained empty. When he finally and with great reluctance opened his eyes, the corridor was deserted. The question that haunted him and kept him tossing in his lonely bed for an endless time before sleep claimed him was: Had she slipped away from him before he confessed his love ... or after?
* * * *
The room was overcrowded, the heat was intense, the same faces swirled around her in frenzied motion, the same voices uttered the same vacuous remarks, and her partner was a provincial hick striving unsuccessfully to make it appear that he possessed a modicum of town bronze. Dorie had such a strong sensation of being trapped by inanity—hemmed in by fatuousness, stifled by trivialities—that she could hardly finish the dance without screaming.
Such feelings were quite familiar to her, however, occurring more and more frequently of late, and she had, of necessity, devised her own stratagem for coping. After her success at defying Nicholas by dancing with Lieutenant Gryndle, she had adopted the habit of entering a fictitious name on her dance card, ther
eby giving herself a few minutes of privacy in the middle of the evening.
At the present moment she had about reached the end of her patience, so it was fortunate that her next partner was the mythical Mr. Stuart, named for the deposed kings, and conversely, it was equally unfortunate that she could not fill her entire dance card with the names of men long dead. They would undoubtedly make more entertaining partners than the ones who were her normal lot.
Timing was everything in maintaining the illusion of a fictitious dancing partner, she had discovered. Returned to her mother’s side by one man, she waited until the dance floor was partially filled; then, availing herself of the fleeting opportunity when her mother’s head was momentarily turned, she quickly slipped away to whatever bolt-hole she had earlier searched out. This evening she was indeed fortunate, because the ballroom was on the ground floor of a house some few miles outside of London, and the French doors led out onto an open terrace.
Apparently few were brave enough this evening to risk the dangers of the night air, and Dorie found herself completely, blessedly alone. She drank in the cool air, as refreshing after the stuffy atmosphere in the ballroom as a glass of cool spring water on an August afternoon.
“Slipped your leash, have you?”
The mocking words came out of the shadows behind her. It would appear that she was not quite as alone as she had thought.
Excitement already beginning to race through her veins, she turned to face the stranger, careful to keep all trace of emotion off her face. The voice had held a note of challenge, and if they were to engage in a duel of wits, it would not do to give any advantage to the man, whoever he might be.
The infamous Earl of Blackstone strolled close enough that she could recognize him even though they had never been introduced. The proscribed Earl of Blackstone, she should have said, since his name headed the list of men she was forbidden to associate with.
Dorie studied the earl carefully, curious to know how he had gained his reputation as a man too dangerous for respectable women to associate with. He was younger than she had anticipated, and his features were handsome but not startlingly so. His light brown hair and less-than-imposing stature did not fit the image of the devil incarnate ... but yes, in his eyes she could see the secret of his attraction.
They were world-weary eyes, filled with a lazy boredom that was an automatic challenge to a woman. Are you the one woman in the world who can interest me? they seemed to ask. Who can stimulate my jaded senses? The one woman who can excite me? Provoke me? Rouse the sleeping beast in me?
Dorie fought back the urge to ask him how long he had needed to practice in front of a mirror before he was able to achieve such an effect, which obviously was more difficult than learning to tie his cravat in the most intricate style.
“Alas,” he said, “I fear she has already been warned against me, for the lady answereth not.”
So deeply meaningful was the look he gave her, it was all Dorie could do not to giggle. Really, if this was the most dangerous rake London could produce, it was a wonder any woman was tempted to stray. But she must not laugh in the man’s face, or he might take offense and leave her, and he was at least amusing, even if she could not quite take him seriously.
“I do not believe we have been properly introduced, my lord,” she replied with mock seriousness. Or even improperly introduced, she wanted to add. It was, in fact, highly unlikely that anyone with the least shred of decency would dream of introducing a hardened rake to a young lady in her first Season, more was the pity.
“But if you call me ‘my lord,’ you must have some idea who I am,” he replied.
“But of course. You are the infamous Lord Blackstone, nicknamed by some Lord Blackheart.”
He actually preened, as if she had given him a great compliment. Really, the man was too droll.
“Indeed, my lord,” she said, barely able to maintain the note of seriousness this melodrama called for, “your name heads my list of men I am forbidden to talk to, so what are we to do? I fear we may be at an impasse.”
“If we cannot speak with one another, then there is nothing left for us but dancing in silence,” he said with a longing in his voice that was apparently supposed to sound romantic, but which made him sound more like a second-rate actor fresh from the provinces.
“But I am afraid that my dance card is already filled for this evening, and my cousin keeps such close watch over me, he would tear me from your arms, were we to try such a thing.” There, that should be dramatic enough for such a posturing performer.
“Four days from now, on the night of the full moon, there is to be a masquerade at Vauxhall Gardens,” he said, truly catching her interest for the first time. “We shall dance with each other there, with no one to guess our identities or forbid us our pleasures.”
Although dancing with him was not particularly alluring, the idea of attending a masquerade was positively breathtaking. To wear a disguise, to escape for an entire evening from her watchdogs—it would be the most exciting thing she had ever done!
On the other hand, there might be a few trifling problems. For one thing, it was immediately obvious to her that Nicholas would become irrational at the mere mention of a masquerade, which meant she would have to sneak away.
“Oh, how enchanting that sounds,” she said, playing to the hilt her role of a simpering miss being tempted into naughtiness. “But I greatly fear that my cousin will be unwilling to escort me to such a havey-cavey affair.” Would the infamous earl take the hint? she wondered. Would he go so far as to actually propose an illicit assignation?
He stepped closer, and instinctively she stepped back, then caught herself. It would never do to act too coy, or he might lose interest, and then she would end up at the Seftons’ soiree instead of at Vauxhall Gardens.
“I can arrange everything,” he said in such dramatic tones that she almost felt called upon to applaud. “At eleven o’clock I shall be waiting in a carriage around the corner from your house. Do not fail me. But hark, someone comes.” Dramatically he vaulted over the low stone parapet, leaving her alone.
She could not believe he had actually said “hark,” and she was smiling when she turned to see who else had decided to take a turn in the fresh air.
To her dismay, it was Glengarry, the other of her two self-appointed guardians. She had still not forgiven him for dragging her away from the cockfight, and she was not about to allow him to keep her from attending the masquerade. The question was, how much had he seen? If he even suspected she was again up to some kind of mischief, her chances of success would plummet.
The best defense was a good offense, or so she had heard. “Are you following me, my lord?”
He bowed formally, then said, “This is our dance, and not finding you inside, I sought you out here. Forgive me if I have offended you.”
After the posturing of the earl, the baron’s quiet dignity should have been a relief, but it only made Dorie feel guilty that she was planning to deceive him—that is to say, that she was planning to deceive her cousin. This man standing here had no rights over her—no rights at all, because she had given him none—so it was no business of his how she behaved or where she went or whom she went with.
He stepped closer to her, his eyes shadowed, his expression inscrutable. Somehow she could not think he ever practiced in front of a mirror.
Reaching out with one hand, he ran his fingers lightly down her cheek, then touched her lips with his thumb. She felt an intense longing to move forward one more step, which was all it would take for her to be in his arms—arms that had held her so strongly once before.
“There is much I would tell you,” he said. “Much that is in my heart.”
Suddenly remembering Blackstone hiding behind the low wall, undoubtedly listening with amusement to everything they were saying, she jerked away from the Scotsman’s touch. The guilt she had felt earlier now overwhelmed her. She could not—she absolutely could not allow him to speak to her in such an inti
mate manner when they had an unseen audience.
No! As much as she disliked Glengarry, she could not allow him to appear foolish before another man, especially not a posturing codfish like Blackstone.
“Leave me,” she said curtly. “I do not wish to dance. I wish to be alone.”
For a moment she feared—hoped?—he would pick her up in his arms and carry her away as ruthlessly as he had the night of the cockfight, but after a long moment when the issue stood in doubt, he turned on his heel and walked away without a backward glance.
She put her hand up to her face where he had touched it, and found her cheek was wet. She was crying. She never cried, not since her father had died. Why did she now feel as if she had suffered another great loss?
Wiping her face with the back of her hand, she stiffened her spine, expecting at any moment to hear the wicked earl’s scoffing voice. But the night was quiet around her—no mocking words broke the stillness, no rustling sounds of anyone moving. Turning, she leaned over the balustrade and peered all around. No one crouched in the darkness. Blackstone was gone.
Which meant she had deliberately offended Glengarry and sent him away from her side, and all to no purpose.
* * * *
Joanna had been ready to go to the soiree for a good half-hour, and even Aunt Theo, who’d had to return to her room three times to retrieve items she had forgotten, now appeared to have herself entirely collected. Only Dorie had yet to put in her appearance, and Nicholas could scarcely curb his impatience.
He had not been sleeping well the last few nights, and he knew his temper had become ragged. Even acknowledging that it was not entirely his cousin’s tardiness that was aggravating him did little to help. He still snapped at Dorie when she finally descended the stairs to where they were all waiting.
The Resolute Runaway Page 16