The door was ajar. He pushed it open just as Constance and Angeline parted. Constance assuming the man’s role bowed to Angeline’s curtsy. Taking his presence as a signal that the dancing was done, Gladys got up quickly from the pianoforte, lifted the bench lid and stashed the music sheets. “You should be proud of our Angel. She dances beautifully,” Gladys said patting his arm on the way out the door.
Angeline’s wild nature had been completely contained again. Clearly, Constance was trying to remake Angeline in her own image; from her severe hairstyles, to her icy demeanor.
His ward greeted him with a brittle smile, all reserve and politeness. Her cheeks had a high color as if she’d dunked her face in cold water to shake off her slightly foxed state. Her eyes swept over him as if he were another piece of furniture as she moved with grace to the desk set before the window.
Constance, on the other hand, welcomed him with enthusiasm. She too had tamped down her emotions. It was as if the outburst of an hour ago had never occurred. “Major Draxford, I wondered when you might pay us a visit.”
With a pleased smile, she handed him a sheath of papers. “She hasn’t quite mastered the art of letter writing. But her handwriting is quite elegant.”
He nodded in agreement and set the papers aside. The letters were followed by invitations, thank you cards, household records, menus for everyday, menus for special events, menus for every bloody occasion ever invented by society hostesses.
Hours devoted to superficial correspondence and meal planning. No attempt to engage her curious mind. He mentally kicked himself. As if he were one to judge, he’d seen her eyes spark with interest at the sight of the mining map and the safety lamps and he’d quickly doused that interest with his churlish attitude.
He strode to a table set up with card decks and tiles painted with letters. Constance shifted the letters unscrambling the word treasure. “An anagram game. It’s all the rage.”
Framed fashion plates lined the walls above a long trestle table. The table held a basket with cut flowers alongside a row of vases of differing sizes. A section of the table was relegated to ribbons and fabric squares. While another held yarn and knitting needles.
The only object that held his interest sat at the other end of the room clearly wishing him gone. Nicholas crossed to her, his boots sounding heavy on the barren wood floor. Angeline’s back stiffened as he approached and she refused to lift her eyes from her work. The mask he’d seen her working on sat atop a stack of books. The hanging beads rattled as he set the mask aside and picked up the books. There was an ancient volume of poetry, a folio of hothouse flowers, and a historical treatise. Flowers, particularly the fragile greenhouse variety, were one of Stanbury’s few interests beyond the bottle. He replaced the books and put a hand out for her drawing. With an audible sigh she handed it to him. He glanced from the sketch to the actual lily laid before her on the table. The exactness of the rendering staggered him. She’d labeled the parts of the flower as a naturalist might.
He’d been convinced that the girl had grown up practically feral. Certainly she had needed to learn some social niceties, but obviously Silas had expanded her mind with literature, science, and art.
She waited patiently for the sketch to be returned, presenting him with her profile as she stared out the window. He set the paper in front of her. “Tomorrow’s lesson might address treating one’s guardian with civility,” he said, giving vent to his surly mood.
“Be respectful, Angeline,” Constance chided.
Stiffly and with obvious reluctance she rose from the chair. She peered up at him for a moment then quickly dropped her gaze.
“Such a demure expression for someone I found just hours ago drinking gin and throwing dice. I have yet to receive an explanation for your behavior.”
She fidgeted with her fingers making a show of rubbing the charcoal off them. He crossed his arms over his chest, battling his temper as he waited.
Her mouth trembled and she caught her bottom lip with her teeth. Her gaze flicked to Constance and then away. It was a cue it seemed, because Constance answered in her stead. “A touch of schoolroom fever. She isn’t used to the regimen yet.”
Constance jumping in to shield Angeline made him nervous. “I’ll have the truth, Angeline,” he said.
He watched as her slender neck worked to swallow. “It vexed me to hear you were disappointed with my progress.”
The false words attributed to him had been meant to lash and cause her pain. There was more going on in this room than politely administered lessons. Constance was using his disapproval to gain cooperation from her rebellious pupil. He knew of ruthless tactics. Successful campaigns were not waged with mercy. If the end result was an advantageous match, and Angeline’s infatuation with him was the only casualty, then he would bloody well have to deal with it.
Angeline’s voice increased in volume to drown out Constance’s muttered denials. “Or, more accurately, displeased with me altogether.”
She lifted her quivering chin, challenging him to deny he’d said it.
“This display of injured dignity coming after today’s actions. A bit hard to swallow, sweeting,” he said.
She flinched at his nasty tone.
Feeling a complete bastard, he inclined his head stiffly and walked away before he mounted a full-blown defense of his innocence.
CHAPTER TEN
On the eve of the masquerade party the usually quiet house was in turmoil. Furniture was being shifted, game rooms assembled, paintings rearranged and decorations draped over every possible surface. The mingled odors of furniture and silver polish were inescapable.
Angeline had been enlisted to assemble the garlands to decorate the walls. Gladys was charged with overseeing the table linen and floral centerpieces for the refreshment tables.
No one escaped Constance’s frenzied preparations, except for Major Draxford who went about his business as though the house wasn’t being dismantled around him.
Angeline had heard the stable doors opening at dawn. She’d seen him return, his boots striking an impatient beat on the marble tiles as he’d strode straight through to his study. At his heels were the clutch of dour looking men who’d been crowding the entrance hall. There seemed to be a never ending stream of engineers, irrigation specialists, machinists, surveyors, and mining experts consulting with him.
Later that afternoon, her skin still flushed from a lengthy soak in a hot tub, Angeline found herself sitting in front of her dressing table mirror, panic rising in her throat. Too late, she wished she hadn’t been such a delinquent student. All the lessons Constance had tried to drill into her seemed to have flown. Even the fan on the dressing table seemed foreign to her. She flicked it open and tried to remember when it was appropriate to use it. Though this event pretended to be the beginning of her social life as a debutante, the beginning and the ending of that period were intended to happen on the selfsame night. If her transformation from hoyden to gracious young woman proved believable then Stanbury would likely propose and she would be off the marriage mart in an instant.
Angeline smoothed on her silk gloves as she strode down the hallway. As she passed the drawing room, she caught her reflection in the tall mirror and couldn’t resist taking one more look. She had to admit, she fairly glittered. The beautiful silk gown was shot with silver thread. A strand of tiny sparkling crystals wound around the elaborate bun atop her head and tiny diamonds twinkled in her earlobes. She had yet to tie on her mask. She lifted it to her face, peering at herself through the cat-shaped eye holes. She’d made it to match her gown with white and silver beads, tiny silver bows along the sweep of the wings, and a fringe of white feathers.
Despite the virginal look of the gown, the silken fabric felt like a sensual second skin. She relished the slinky feel of it as she walked.
The door to the study opened a
nd she slowed her step hoping to avoid Draxford. An officious little man in faded black fustian carrying a folder thick with papers backed out into the hallway. “I shall have the completed diagram to you by tomorrow.”
“Good,” Draxford responded from the deep recess of his study.
The man sensing her approach, turned his head in her direction. “Madam,” he intoned with an awkward bow that sent his spectacles sliding down his nose. He caught his eyeglasses but dropped the folder. Papers scattered everywhere. She stooped to pick up a few sheets which had drifted in her direction.
He continued to wrestle with his eyeglasses as he scooped up the bulk of the pages with his other hand, jamming them in the folder without care for how he was wrinkling them. “Please, don’t trouble yourself further,” he told her as he accepted the papers from her with a trembling hand. He juggled the folder and his glasses again and ended up dropping both. Papers flew again and his spectacles struck the marble tiles with an ominous clatter.
“Good God, man, at this rate it will take you a week just to leave my house.”
Draxford stepped into the hall and crammed the sheets which had blown into his study into the folder. Angeline shyly backed up a step as he caught sight of her. “That explains it. She has the same effect on me.”
The man delivered a terse bow this time, his broken spectacles clutched in his hand. His folder now a disorganized mess, he spun on his heels and walked rapidly away.
Leaning against the door jamb, Draxford crossed his arms over his chest, the muscles straining the fabric of his jacket. He’d removed his neckcloth and the top button of his shirt was undone revealing his strong neck and prominent Adam’s apple. Though he’d certainly shaved this morning, his jaw was already shadowed with blue-black stubble. “Poor Renfield. You’ve flustered the devil out of him.”
His gaze traveled over her, from the top of her head to the tips of her slippers and back again. He studied her with a thoroughness that was decidedly predatory. “You look beautiful, brat. But then you always look beautiful.” His voice was so dangerously deep she could feel it resonating through her blood.
She blinked in surprise. He’d never looked at her in that manner or spoken to her thusly. Surely, the man was giving her a taste of her own medicine, making her pay for flirting with him so outrageously in the past. She quickly discarded that notion. Draxford would find repaying in kind a petty act.
The force of his masculinity gave his appraisal of her a primal quality that made her pulse race. What a little fool she’d been to tease him. When it came to affairs of the heart, or more aptly affairs of the bedchamber, the man would be ruthless and fierce, just as he was in all other aspects of his life. He was far more man than she was capable of handling.
His thick black lashes lowered, his gaze settling on her breasts which were rising and falling rapidly above the low neckline. She watched his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed. “Christ, Angel, you are pure temptation.”
She’d been standing there basking in the heat of his admiration and suddenly realized she hadn’t said a thing.
He lifted his head and leaned it back against the door jamb, heaving a sigh. She noticed the weariness in his face.
“You work too hard,” she said, her voice sounding breathy.
His eyebrows lifted. “Do I?”
“I heard you leave at dawn and here it is nearly dusk.”
Something flashed in the depths of his eyes that told him he was surprised that she’d noticed. “I’d paid a visit to my estate in Durham. I’m considering offering Benjamin the position of estate manager.”
“For Ben’s sake, I hope you do. He would no longer have to be beholden to his brother.”
He frowned. “You like him.”
It was phrased as an accusation, not a question. “Of course, who would not like him?”
He flinched at her passionate response. Had she injured him when she’d told him she wasn’t sure she liked him anymore? How careless she’d been with his feelings. She lifted the mask to hide her guilty blushes and peered at him through the slanted eye holes. “Will you be joining us in the parlor?”
Still frowning, he pushed himself off the door frame. “When I’m finished here.”
The parlor table was laid with a simple tea spread. Constance had insisted that they stay out of the way while the servants took care of the final details, such as lighting the chandelier candles and setting out the party fare.
“Your maid has become quite adept at hair,” Constance said scrutinizing her carefully. She picked up the decanter from the console table and readied a tumbler of whiskey for Draxford.
Angeline took a seat by the unlit hearth. “The major may be awhile yet. He’s just concluding his business for the day.”
“I’m well aware of his schedule. I shall make sure that he is being properly attended to.” Constance walked briskly across the room and opened the door. She gasped in surprise to find Gladys on the other side. Her brow creased with obvious irritation as she made way for the older woman. Because her dress boasted a wide pannier, Gladys was forced to turn sideways to fit through the portal. She looked as if she’d forgotten to remove her curling papers. Her gray hair was studded with knots of colorful cloth and she’d painted on a scarlet mask complete with pasted on sequins.
Constance’s lip curled slightly as she gave Gladys’s costume a once-over. She shut the door with a bang as she exited.
Gladys knocked a book to the floor and moved a vase askew as she navigated the room. “I suspected as much,” she said as she plucked the mask from Angeline’s hands and brushed the pearlescent feathers against the palm of her hand.
“The woman hasn’t an original notion.” Gladys swept a glance around the room. “Ah, there” —she pointed at the console table— “came upon her last night with her pot of glue working feverishly.”
Atop the table a man’s black velvet mask cradled Constance’s dainty beaded one, snow-white feathers adorning the edges.
Adding a trim of feathers had been a last minute inspiration. There lightness had reminded Angeline of the delicacy of a butterfly’s wings. She swallowed her disappointment. It was a silly thing to fret about. Certainly there would be other masks with feathers at the party.
Gladys struggled with her pannier as she took a seat on the settee. She sighed heavily as she adjusted herself so that her coiffure would not be harmed. Once settled, she swiftly dozed off. Angeline pulled out the small instructional booklet she’d tucked inside her glove and applied herself to memorizing the figures of the minuet.
When Constance returned it was in the company of Draxford. His black hair was still wet from the bath. Despite his apparent haste in dressing, he looked deadly handsome in his black evening clothes. He raked his damp hair back from his forehead leaving furrows in it.
Constance delivered the whiskey she’d poured and began rearranging his cravat. She then proceeded to his shirt collar adjusting it until it was ridiculously high. The collar now grazed the bottom of his jaw. He peeled Constance’s hands from his shirt and folded his collar back into position. “My valet fussed over me and that was quite enough.”
Constance clasped her hands together as if to stop them from fixing his collar again. “But, Major Draxford, you must admit the tattoo does look incongruous with your evening clothes?”
He turned to Angeline, his gaze searching. “Do you despise it as well?”
Angeline wanted to tell him that it should be worn as a badge of honor for surviving his ordeal so heroically. She steeled her heart, and gave a non-committal shrug instead.
His jaw seemed to harden. “I do hope you can manage to hide your distaste when we are on the dance floor.”
Dancing meant touching. Experiencing his sudden, intense regard had sent her into a spiral, she would be a wreck if he were to finally touch her. Pa
nicking, Angeline looked for help in Constance’s direction.
With an indulgent smile, Constance quickly refilled his glass. “I had made arrangements for her to dance her first with Benjamin. I assumed she would be far less likely to trip over her feet with someone less intimidating.”
“Hell, I’m only her guardian why the devil should I expect to be given the honor?”
Angeline curled her gloved fingers to hide their trembling. “With all the trouble and expense you’ve gone to in hopes of securing my future, wouldn’t these dances be better spent on eligible bachelors.”
“How very calculating, brat.” His expression turned surly. “Is there any reason why I need to attend this damned thing?” he growled.
“Not an invitation was rejected. And you are the reason. They are all desperate to meet the valiant soldier who resurrected a town.” Constance’s flattery did not seem to placate him. His scowl deepened.
The sounds of harnesses and wheels crunching on gravel filtered to them.
Draxford shot back the whiskey and set the empty glass down. “I’ll see that Wick has moved Raid to the paddock. He’d smash his stall trying to get to the other horses.”
Constance snatched the black velvet mask from the table. “You’ve forgotten this.” The stiff rustle of taffeta could be heard as she hurried after him. He ducked out the door without a backward glance. Her lips puckered slightly as she set the mask aside.
Angeline tied her own on, the beads feeling heavier than she’d expected. She leaned over and nudged Gladys, who woke with a start. “You gave me a fright, dear girl. You look quite otherworldly.”
“I’m sorry. ‘Twas thoughtless of me.”
It took some cushion shifting and a foot braced on the frame of the settee to leverage Gladys and her skirt to a standing position.
The two great doors to the ballroom had been thrown open. Angeline hated to admit it, but Constance did have the knack for entertaining. She had turned the cavernous chamber into a glittering spectacle. All the wood had been polished to a high sheen and candlelight seemed to spark off every surface.
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