by Brenda Hiatt
Lady Pearl's heightened color and arrested expression left no doubt she recognized him as well, and for a moment he thought she might either faint or give him the cut direct. But after a hesitation not quite long enough to be considered rude, she inclined her head.
"I am delighted to make your acquaintance, Mr. di Santo. Have you been in London long?" Her eyes held a subtle accusation that no one but he could have noticed.
"I arrived at Lord Marcus's house only two days since," he said with perfect truthfulness. He doubted the accusation in his own eyes was as subtle. His deception had been nothing to hers!
Lord Marcus stepped in before unwise questions could escape him. "Indeed, we'll have to civilize him all over again, I fear, he's so rarely in Town. He came to us at Oxford after being largely raised abroad, and since then he's been splitting his time between the Continent and the countryside. It's not often you'll find someone so cosmopolitan who is so unfamiliar with London and its ways," he concluded with a chuckle.
Luke politely echoed the chuckle, as did Lady Pearl —and hers sounded as forced as his own.
"I presume the cosmopolitan Mr. di Santo has had opportunities to polish his social skills in other milieux." Though she spoke casually, even flippantly, Luke could see the intensity behind her gaze.
He swept her a bow that would not have been out of place in the courts of Spain or Italy. He'd made a point to learn that Continental flair, though of late he'd had little opportunity to practice it. Dash, he had discovered, could compensate for a variety of social sins.
"I am willing to let you put my skills to the test, my lady," he said, hoping for a chance to discover more about her.
She raised one delicate brow. "Are you indeed? Perhaps I should present you to my father. He is said to be most discerning." A test indeed.
"I would be most honored," he replied with another half-bow. He may as well brazen the game through, and this might be the opportunity he needed to speak with her alone.
The curiosity in her eyes now tinged with alarm, Lady Pearl inclined her head. "Let me make my excuses to my current partner, and I will take you to meet my father and the Duchess."
Marcus shot Luke a questioning glance as she turned away, but he merely shrugged, having no wish to be drawn into explanations. Pearl spoke briefly to a supercilious stick of a man, accepting a glass of lemonade from him before returning to Luke's side.
"Mr. di Santo?"
He extended his arm and she placed her fingers upon it, sending a shaft of pure desire straight to his vitals. Stunned and, yes, betrayed as he felt at discovering his "poor" Purdy's true identity, Luke found his physical attraction to her as powerful as ever.
This vision in satin, lace and jewels seemed impossibly far removed from the girl he had rescued, far above the touch of a mere mortal like himself. Still, he was determined to breach the wall of reserve their changed circumstances had erected, and get at the truth.
"It appears your straits were not quite so dire as you led me to believe," he murmured as they traversed the edge of the ballroom.
"Nor yours," she returned, just as softly. "Which story—" She broke off as they were accosted by an overblown matron in yellow and green silk.
"Lady Pearl, my darling dear!" the woman gushed. "The Duchess, precious Obelia, tells me the gossips were all put about for nothing. I'm so excessively relieved for you!" The enormous chartreuse feather topping her turban bobbed violently as she nodded her head.
"Thank you, Lady Varens. I assure you it was all a tempest in a teapot —a simple matter of miscommunication. I went to visit my old nurse, who is ill, but my message was garbled. Next time I shall write it out myself, or speak to my father personally."
So that was the cover story for her absence. Luke burned to know what she had really been doing in the Mountheath kitchens that evening, since the story she had given him was clearly moonshine. Spying on a social rival, perhaps?
After a few more inanities, Lady Varens allowed them to progress, but before he could revive their interrupted conversation, Lady Pearl stopped before a handsome older couple that could only be the Duke and Duchess of Oakshire.
"Father, your grace, I'd like to make known to you Mr. Lucio di Santo, an old friend of Lord Marcus Northrup."
She stepped aside, and Luke bowed low, as he had before, keenly aware of her watchful eye upon him—no doubt waiting for some monumental gaffe.
"It is above all things an honor to put myself at your service, your graces. I apologize if I do wrong to intrude upon you in this way. I find some things are done a bit differently in Italy."
The Duke, an imposing man with sandy hair touched by gray at the temples, smiled affably. "Pleased to make the acquaintance of a friend of one of Marland's lads, of course. My Pearl will see you introduced about, won't you, my dear?"
The Duchess extended her hand then, simpering a bit, as ladies frequently seemed to do upon meeting him. "I'm charmed to make your acquaintance, Mr. di Santo. You have spent much time on the Continent, I presume? It is quite a dream of mine to travel, I confess."
Luke was now forced to lie outright, something he'd hoped to avoid in front of Purdy, er, Lady Pearl— though why, he didn't know, as she'd scarcely been honest with him.
"I spent several years in Italy, under the guardianship of my uncle, the Conte di Santo," he said, giving the story known to all of his Society acquaintances. "My mother's family is English, and insisted I receive a proper English education, but my manners have been largely shaped abroad."
"And charming manners they are," the Duchess assured him with a flirtatious flutter of her lashes. Her eyes, a paler blue than Lady Pearl's, held a calculating gleam he'd never seen in her daughter's. "Pearl," she continued, "pray be certain to save a dance for Mr. di Santo. It will make him feel more welcome in England."
Luke dared a quick glance at Lady Pearl, and caught what looked like the ghost of a grimace, though it was quickly concealed. That evidence of her reluctance struck him like a blow.
"I'm certain Lady Pearl's dances are all engaged by now, but I am honored by the sentiment," he said quickly.
The Duchess' smile held more than a hint of malice, he thought, as she responded, "Oh, I'll warrant her waltzes are yet free—are they not, Lady Pearl?"
The beauty at his side stiffened slightly, but did not allow her social veneer to crack. "They are indeed, your grace—and I would be honored, sir." Though her smile did not quite reach her eyes— those remarkable violet-blue eyes he remembered so well— Lady Pearl concealed her feelings better than the Duchess did.
Taking leave of the Duke and Duchess, he led her back toward the buffet tables. "You needn't dance with me, of course," he said stiffly, the moment they were out of earshot. "It's clear you would prefer not to."
Her expression, since the first shock of meeting him, had been almost blank, but now she turned to him with a rueful smile and suddenly she was his Purdy again. His hurt and resentment began to melt away, and he had to fight a sudden, mad urge to take her in his arms.
"It's not that. Obelia knows I never waltz, and this is just one more way she's found to punish me."
"I could see that there was some friction between you and your mother—"
"Stepmother," she corrected quickly.
Ah. "But I have no desire to be an instrument of punishment." Did he? "It has been some time since I've danced, in any event," he concluded truthfully. Not since his last brief stint as di Santo last Season, in fact. Still, to touch her again . . .
"I do not mind, truly. If I can appear to enjoy myself, it will rob the Duchess of her victory. Besides," she added with an all-too-familiar smile that disordered his thoughts, "a waltz is likely to be our best chance for uninterrupted conversation this evening, and I imagine you have as many questions to ask me as I have to ask you."
Indeed he did. Her smile set his senses stirring, even as he told himself he must forget his feelings for this woman he had thought was his destiny. Everything she had told him
before was a lie—but why?
He bowed. "Then I shall look forward to our dance," he said with perfect sincerity. In the meantime, he had a few questions to ask Marcus, who seemed to know quite a lot about the Lady Pearl.
* * *
Pearl watched Luke's retreating back with a bemused smile. What was it about this man that could so thoroughly undermine her defenses even when she knew he had been completely dishonest with her? She didn't know, but found herself, for the first time in her life, anticipating a waltz with pleasure.
It wasn't the first time Obelia had trapped her into a waltz, though this instance had to be from pure spite, as the nephew of a minor Italian noble would scarcely meet her exacting standards for a suitable match. Though Obelia had seemed impressed, if only by Luke's appearance and manners. Pearl wished her father were not so blind to his Duchess's flirting.
Still, in this instance she could hardly blame her. Dressed in the height of fashion, Luke was a sight to turn feminine heads young and old. Again she felt a delicious thrill go through her at the thought of dancing in his arms. To think, only half an hour earlier she'd been fantasizing about him being a part of her world! And now—
"My lady?" Lord Hardwyck broke into her thoughts. "I believe this is my dance."
She went with him without protest, though in truth the middle-aged earl always made her uneasy. His manners were polished, but there was a certain ruthless self-assurance about him that chilled her.
Though nearly as rich and powerful as her father, he coveted her fortune and the prestige she could bring him, she knew. He had yet to abandon his suit, even though she had twice refused him. Luckily, he was far from a favorite with her father, as they often found themselves on opposite sides of political issues.
"You appear to be in excellent health tonight, my lady," he commented as they took their places for the cotillion. "It would seem your recent, ah, adventure agreed with you."
Pearl forced a trill of laughter. "Adventure? Hardly that. Simply a visit to my old nurse, and a missent message. But I thank you for the compliment."
His dark eyes slid over her speculatively, possessively. "Health is always attractive in a young lady. It adds a luster to her other charms."
To her relief, the music started then and the movements of the dance precluded further conversation. Lord Hardwyck was a highly regarded member of Society, she knew, but there seemed something almost oily about him at times. This led her thoughts back to Luke, of course. Why did she not distrust him as she did her current partner, even though she knew for a fact he had lied to her on at least one occasion? She honestly couldn't say.
At last the dance ended, and she scanned the crowd, experiencing a moment of panic when she didn't see Luke anywhere. What if his appearance here had merely been part of some scheme, and he had already vanished, as he had from the Mountheaths'?
Lord Hardwyck spotted him before she did. "That fellow there, coming this way. Do you know who he is?" he asked her.
She turned, and nearly sagged with relief. "A Mr. di Santo, newly arrived from the Continent, I'm told," she responded evasively, wondering at the intensity in the older man's gaze. "Why?"
He blinked, and seemed to recall himself, turning to her with an ingratiating smile. "For a moment he reminded me of someone, that is all. But the name means nothing to me. Until we meet again, my lady." He lifted her hand and kissed it lingeringly. With one last, frowning glance in Luke's direction, he turned on his heel and disappeared into the throng.
She was just as pleased to see him go. An instant later, Luke was at her side. "My promised waltz, I believe?" he asked with the same cocky smile she remembered from the night he'd helped her to escape from the Mountheaths' ridotto. Her heart turned over.
"So it is. I half feared you would not claim it," she said as the opening strains of one of the newer waltzes sounded, reminding herself that she still knew very little about this man.
"While I wondered whether you would choose to remember it," he responded, taking her gloved hand in his own to lead her onto the floor.
"As I said, it's likely to be our only opportunity for conversation." She spoke quickly, to distract herself from his touch, but when he quite properly placed a hand at her waist an instant later, the feelings that surged through her were anything but proper.
At once, Pearl was transported back to those delicious few moments in his lodgings when she had thrown propriety to the winds. She could almost feel his lips upon her throat, his hands upon her—
"I was concerned that you might leave before I could satisfy my curiosity," she said breathlessly, trying to subdue her wayward emotions, trying to remember that this man was a virtual stranger.
"And leave my own unsatisfied as well?" The intensity in his eyes gave his words a dual meaning, making her heart pound. She hoped he could not hear it over the music.
Refusing to blush, she smiled up at him daringly. "Then shall we begin?"
"Certainly," he replied, tightening his grip on her in preparation for swinging her into the dance. Her senses responded instantly, without her volition. "I have hopes we might both find complete satisfation."
She could not prevent the color rushing to her face as she realized that there was nothing she would like more than to find complete satisfaction with Luke. Not until the waltz was well underway did she find her voice again.
"Will you go first, or shall I?" Pearl asked then. "We . . . don't want to waste this chance, after all."
His hand at her waist shifted, no more than half an inch, but it sent flames licking up her back. "We certainly don't. What do you wish to know?" His voice seemed husky with some suppressed emotion.
Pearl looked up and became trapped in his hot, dark eyes for a long moment. Swallowing, she pulled her gaze away and was able to breathe again. "My most burning question," she said, licking her lips, "is who you really are—Luke St. Clair, or Lucio di Santo? Or neither?"
He twirled her, remarkably well for someone who hadn't danced regularly, before replying. "I'd have to say both. I was raised Luke St. Clair, but everyone in your world knows me only as di Santo."
Her world. The distinction made her bristle, tempering her errant desires and allowing her to think again—to remember what he might be. "So 'my world' is not worthy of your honesty?"
"My honesty?" He tightened his grip again, and instantly her rebellious body responded. "Perhaps Luke St. Clair is not worthy of your world—or its honesty," he suggested, his expression now unreadable.
Pearl knew it was a reference to her own deception, but was determined to puzzle him out before offering any explanations herself. "Just who is Lucio di Santo?"
He flashed her an enigmatic smile that didn't quite reach his eyes, still watching her intently. "You may recall my telling you that I contrived to attend school—Oxford, in fact."
She'd had no idea at the time that he'd gone to such a prestigious university, but she nodded. "Because your mother wished it, you said."
"Yes." She felt his slight withdrawal, his hand pressing less firmly at her waist now. "But money alone would not have guaranteed my acceptance there. Background—and blood—is at least as important."
Watching his brows draw together in distaste, she leaped to a guess. "So you were forced to rely on this uncle, this Conte di Santo. Someone to whom you'd have preferred to have no obligation. Someone who cast off your mother? Did he force you to take his name as a condition for sponsoring your education?"
Now he frowned down at her in apparent surprise. "Something like that, yes."
"And you resent him for it. So as soon as you left Oxford, you repudiated everything he stands for, to include his name." Pearl felt rather pleased with herself for having unraveled the mystery on her own. Most of it, anyway. "But . . . why have you now taken that name again, venturing back into this world you so obviously despise?"
His expression softened, stealing her breath. "To find you, of course."
Pearl missed a step in her surprise, and he h
ad to support her until she caught the rhythm of the dance again. "Me?" To her disgust, the word came out as a squeak.
"Poor little Purdy, alone in the world—how could I rest until I knew what had become of her?" His hand at her waist seemed to burn through the thin silk of her gown. "I had no way of knowing that she was really the great Lady Pearl, in disguise for purposes of her own.
She flushed at the mockery in his tone, knowing she deserved it. "Yes, I deceived you, too, and I'm sorry. At first I was afraid, and then I feared I might put you at risk by telling you my true identity." She did not add that she had also feared losing his respect.
"Then will you tell me why you were at the Mountheaths' in the guise of a servant in the first place?" His voice was gentle now, that very gentleness sweeping away the last vestiges of her resistance.
She gazed up at him, no longer caring what showed in her eyes, ready to pour out the truth to him. Before she could speak, however, the dance came to an end. Already the young viscount who had reserved the next one was coming forward to claim her.
"We'll talk again later," she promised Luke quickly, even as he released her waist, leaving a lingering heat where his hand had been. "Call on me tomorrow and we'll contrive something—a drive, perhaps."
He nodded, then gallantly took his leave, brushing his lips across her inner wrist just above her glove in a caress that left her tingling to the tips of her breasts. "Until tomorrow," he murmured, and then he was gone.
The lively country dance that followed required no conversation, for which Pearl was grateful, as her thoughts and emotions were chaotic. She managed to catch one more glimpse of Luke, only to see him and Lord Marcus taking their leave of Lord and Lady Chatham. Though all prospect of enjoyment for the balance of the evening went with him, Pearl could not help exulting.
Luke was at least marginally of her world, whether he wished it to be so or not. At the very least, they could continue their friendship. Beyond that, she did not dare to think—yet.