Angel's Guardian

by Scottie Barrett

  Angeline took some pride in the decorations. She’d created garlands of fresh boughs interlaced with ribbons and silk flowers. She’d strung chandelier crystals, light-catching remnants of a discarded lamp, at intervals. The festoons draped the walls and the great mantels on either end of the room. Because of the recent unseasonably warm temperatures only one of the great hearths had been lit. The other had been scrubbed of soot and held baskets of flowers instead of firewood.

  Acting the consummate hostess, Constance greeted the guests making excuses for Draxford’s absence. Angeline was content to stand meekly at her side and watch the parade of guests. The women certainly outdazzled the men with their beaded and sequined masks and their shimmering gowns.

  Only a few men wore fanciful disguises, or sweeping capes. Most just topped their black evening clothes with simple masks.

  The Stanbury men were the last to arrive and Constance chided them for their lateness. Benjamin looked resplendent in his military uniform. His blond hair gleamed above a silken black mask which laced up the sides. The eye slits were cut large and his expressive eyebrows could be seen above his pale blue eyes. The mask seemed to give him confidence. He smiled down at Angeline, his blue eyes sparkling with good humor.

  His brother shouldered him aside and took up her gloved hand. Hugh wore a harlequin mask with diamond shapes of many colors.

  “Perfection,” Hugh Stanbury said as he leaned over her gloved hand. She caught a whiff of liquor. “How remiss of your guardian not to be present.”

  “He is dealing with an important matter,” Constance said in his defense.

  Dancing with Benjamin had been effortless. If Angeline put her foot wrong, he would make a seamless adjustment. Her confidence slipped some when she changed partners. The vicar, Mr. Firkins, was quite visibly trembling as they took their places on the dance floor.

  Angeline felt Draxford’s presence before she saw him. Heads turned, and necks craned toward the entrance. Had Draxford been cloaked in a costume he would still be recognizable. There was no hiding his size or his military bearing. He smoothed his hair back and shot his cuffs as he strode forward. It was clear he’d continued drinking after leaving the parlor. His towering form swayed ever so slightly.

  He propped himself against the wall near one of the great fireplaces and summoned a footman. The servant returned quickly and set a glass and a bottle atop the mantel. Draxford sent the man away and poured for himself. A guest wearing an antique leather mask with a beak soon joined him. The man held out his punch cup and Draxford obliged by splashing some of the liquor into it. She realized with a start that the dance steps would take her in and out of his orbit.

  When the first snippets of conversation reached her ears she couldn’t help thinking that he’d planted himself there on purpose. With concentration, she managed the backward steps away from her partner quite smoothly.

  “Prescott’s in danger of losing the concern. The miners were smuggling out silver shavings in shoes and pockets,” the man with the beak told him.

  “A man must insist on loyalty,” Draxford said. The liquor had made his voice rougher. “Disobedience should be met with punishment.” That last was directed quite pointedly in her direction and when she twirled and came face to face with him the heat of his stare turned her to jelly. She swallowed hard. She was desperate for the moment when she and the vicar would start progressing down the line and away from him.

  “I must say, that is a strong stance for an employer,” the man replied.

  On the next twirl she avoided looking at him, but that did not stop him.

  “I prize submissiveness,” he drawled.

  Draxford’s declaration threw the vicar and he tripped over his own feet.

  Somehow, without making a complete hash of it, Angeline and her partner executed a figure moving to the right of the next couple, putting her at a slight remove from the hearth. A few more traveling turns and they were soon out of earshot. When the figures returned them to the top of the line again she was relieved to see that Draxford had vacated his spot by the mantel seemingly taking the bottle of liquor with him.

  After the dance ended, Angeline took a few moments to pile a plate high with some of Gladys’s favorites. She found Gladys sharing a laugh with Mrs. Fielder who was dressed like a medieval queen. A group of women were clustered just outside the entrance to the card room. Angeline recognized Emily and Harriet from her stay at Stanbury’s estate and Benjamin’s lost love, Olivia Mayhew. Angeline did not know the fourth woman and judging by the cross look on the woman’s face she was glad of it. Certain she would not be welcome if she tried to join in, she took a seat along the wall on the other side of the column.

  “Constance has done wonders, considering the clay she had to work with.” Angeline recognized Emily’s shrill voice. “As they say, ‘blood will out’ Doesn’t matter the age of the man they seem to know instinctively when a woman is a wanton. Look at those young bucks pushing their way over here, like tomcats to cream.”

  Tittering laughter greeted Emily’s dissection of her character.

  “’Tisn’t fair to blame the girl. I have never seen her encourage her admirers,” Olivia Mayhew responded in her matter-of-fact way.

  What would Olivia Mayhew think if she knew how brazenly she’d once flirted with her guardian? Angeline watched as three young men jostled for position as they crossed the room to her. She got up from her chair and walked swiftly away then tucked herself into the recessed niche which held the vaulted window. She considered hiding herself beneath the damask drapes. She wished she could press her heated cheek against the cool glass.

  One of the young men had no qualms about following her into that small space. She touched the fan to her left ear to signal that she was not interested.

  “Will you dance?” he asked.

  Angeline supposed it was ridiculous to expect a country-reared young man to be conversant in the language of the fan. She flicked it open and fanned her face. “I need to catch my breath. Perhaps the next one.”

  He drew close, forcing her back into the corner of the niche. “I’d prefer a promise,” he said as he lifted the fingers of her free hand to his lips. She snatched her hand back with a frown and questioned her assumption that he was a naive country boy.

  Draxford was suddenly looming over the man’s shoulder. “Whelp, if you want to survive this night, I would suggest you keep your hands off.”

  All the cockiness left the young man’s face and with a muttered apology he turned on his heels and pushed through the crowd.

  “I do not wish for your protection,” she told Draxford in a harsh whisper behind the screen of her fan.

  “Then, little one, go sit with my aunt, because I will intercede again.”

  He was standing close enough to smell the whiskey on his breath and the sandalwood soap that lingered on his skin. She glanced slantwise at him, at the squared jaw now cleanly shaven and the firm lips, molded with just a hint of cruelty.

  She decided a more conciliatory tack might be a better approach. “Major Draxford” —the palms of her hands were sweating inside her gloves— “I’m sorry if my rudeness earlier has contributed in any way to your mood.”

  He dipped his head and spoke in a low tone. “You greatly underestimate your ability to injure me, sweeting.”

  Was he blaming her entirely for his thunderous demeanor? She trembled with frustration. “Can you not see it from my point of view?” It took effort to keep her voice controlled. “Since I’ve arrived here you’ve avoided touching me and suddenly you wish to dance with me. Tonight of all nights when I can barely breathe from nervousness.”

  He crossed his arms over his chest, his gray gaze penetrating. “Aye, I’ve denied myself the pleasure of touching you.”

  Doubtless it was the drink talking and he would come to regret speaking to
her in that drawling sensually-edged manner.

  He gave a bitter laugh. “Shying away from me, are you? Then your teasing was all a bluff.”

  She could feel the color rising in her face. She wished she could tell him that she’d never trifled with him. That flirting with him was as natural as breathing to her because she adored him. But he was in such a strange mood, she was at a loss as to how to speak to him.

  His mouth twisted in a pained smile and she realized that silence was just a cowardly sort of lie.

  She dropped her gaze and fiddled with the fan. “For appearance’s sake, perhaps we could dance a quick reel,” she suggested, hoping the evening could still be salvaged.

  “How charitable,” he said acidly. “No, I’d prefer you more willing.”

  She was mustering a response when Benjamin peeked his head around the corner. He had a goofy grin on his face. How was it, she wondered, that men managed to get drunk with so little alcohol on offer? Did they all come supplied with flasks?

  Benjamin glanced from her to Draxford. His eyebrows lifted wryly. “Why have you been glowering at the dear girl all evening? Whatever has she done?”

  Draxford threw an irritated glance in his direction. “Ask her,” he said and shoved off the wall. He clashed shoulders with Benjamin and nearly knocked him over as he strode away.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Nicholas stepped out of the card room, definitely drunker and possibly richer with a voucher tucked in his pocket for Prescott’s floundering silver mine. Probably bad form for a host to win big at cards, but he was in a pitiless mood. He heard Angeline’s light laughter and turned to find a group of men surrounding her. Would this hellishly bloody night ever end?

  The musicians adjusted their instruments for the next set and Nicholas gritted his teeth as he watched one of the young pups lead Angeline out.

  Clearly he wasn’t the only person wracked with jealousy. Stanbury looked a pathetic figure standing at the edge of the dance floor, avidly watching the girl.

  Stanbury sensing Nicholas’s eyes on him, weaved his way unsteadily through the clusters of guests surrounding the refreshments. He grabbed a cup of punch as he passed a servant carrying a tray. “I do wish Constance had given a thought to those of us who aren’t abstainers.” He pulled a flask from his inner pocket, unscrewed it and poured a liberal amount into his cup. It was not his first drink of the evening; the whites of his eyes were already shot with red.

  “She’s promised dances to every Tom, Dick and Benjamin. Bloody bastard, he’s danced with her twice already. One might think she’s avoiding me on purpose.”

  Conversing with someone who was suffering similar torments did not make Nicholas feel any less wretched.

  “Constance should be congratulated. Suddenly the girl is all poise and charm. She’d be a diamond of the first water, if she had a better pedigree.” Stanbury took a sip of the punch and grimaced. “Christ, that’s punishment.” He gestured with his cup toward the dancers, sloshing the pink liquid over the rim. “What do you think of the dress I chose for her?”

  Nicholas’s gaze flew to Angeline. The dress showed her slender form to mouthwatering perfection. Given Stanbury’s acquisitive attitude toward the girl, Nicholas had been on guard for any advances he might make, but he’d been wearing blinders. The whoreson was grooming her to his liking. Constance was living under his roof, pretending to seek his advice about the girl, all the while she was actually taking orders from her cousin.

  His hands curled into fists. “You are overstepping to a dangerous degree, Stanbury.”

  “I’m overstepping? What a bloody hypocrite,” he said. “By God, you’re her guardian, and you look as if you’d like to eat her for dinner.”

  Nicholas did not bother to refute it. Right now, he wanted to drag her upstairs, rip the dress from her, then fuck her on top of the ruined garment.

  Stanbury yanked his mask off. “You can’t just take the treasure you’ve been entrusted with and gift it to yourself.”

  “An excellent idea,” Nicholas said and meant it. His uncle had expected him to put the girl’s needs before his own, but his own selfish desires were proving too powerful. A stiff-necked bully, nearly ten years her senior, as she’d referred to him, may not be the ideal mate, but better than this pompous ass, he thought.

  “I intend to ask her tonight, with or without your blessing.”

  “The girl requires my consent.”

  “So that’s why you are in such a black temper.” Stanbury smirked. “You know that she will accept my proposal.”

  Nicholas leaned forward with menace and Stanbury shrank back.

  The music ended and the dancers parted. Constance caught Angeline as she left the dance floor, tucking her hand chummily in the crook of her arm. Stanbury shoved his flask into his pocket and smoothed his hair back as the two women approached.

  Angeline curtsied to Stanbury. Her eyes stayed focused on him; not even a blink in Nicholas’s direction.

  “Miss Kent saved the best dance for you, cousin.”

  Angeline tilted her head toward Stanbury and batted her long lashes, but it had to be painfully obvious to even Stanbury that it was all pretense. It was a slight salve to Nicholas’s bruised feelings.

  “Finally. I was beginning to feel the sting of rejection.” Stanbury cast a nervous sideways glance at Nicholas before turning his attention back to Angeline. “And what a charming dress. Yet it barely does your beauty justice.”

  Nicholas muttered a curse under his breath.

  “Sir,” Angeline said, finally turning her light green eyes on him, “you are frightening away my dance partners.”

  “A bit churlish, even for you, old man,” Stanbury said. “But then you never were much for these types of diversions.”

  Her lips curled delectably beneath the beaded mask as she continued to stare into Nicholas’s eyes. “I wager, he’d find a reason to celebrate if ever I were to marry,” she said.

  Stanbury grinned like a jackass and Nicholas wanted to shove his teeth down his throat.

  Nicholas had had enough of this torture. He snatched up a candlestick and headed to his study.

  The candle’s flame was swallowed by the cavernous room. He deposited the candlestick on the mantel, walked across the room and shoved back the curtains. The moon’s thin light provided adequate illumination to ponder his obsession. He opened the desk drawer and by feel found the bottle of crude spirits one of his tenants had given him. Sipping whiskey had helped him get through the night, but he had the urge to get blindingly drunk. After uncapping the bottle, he took a long pull then moved toward the window. Though the night sky was still clear, a layer of fog now hugged the ground.

  The door opened briefly, letting in the irritatingly bright sounds of a country reel. He cursed under his breath as the light on the mantel was snuffed out. Who the bloody hell dared to breach his sanctum? The smoky scent of the extinguished candle drifted to him. There was the rustle of skirts as the feminine shadow tiptoed through the pale beams cast by the moon. Had she abandoned Stanbury? He capped the bottle and let it drop to the carpet at his feet. As she neared, the scent of pomade, which he associated with Constance, confused his gin-saturated mind. With annoyance, he remembered that Angeline wore the cloying stuff now as well.

  Raising on tiptoes, she slipped her arms around his neck and tugged his head down. The little minx was nothing if not daring.

  “Heartless brat. Is this meant as an apology?”

  The beads of her mask rattled as she nodded her head. “Yes,” came the nearly soundless whisper. Soft breasts pressed against his chest, then her lips grazed his and…nothing. Absolutely nothing. The blood flowed indifferently in his veins. Her kiss left him stone cold.

  Was he drunker than he thought? Had all that alcohol numbed him? In his desperation to find
the connection that he was certain existed, he cupped the back of her head and leaned in low, intent on tracing her lips. Surely he would know the contours of Angeline’s lips by touch, he’d certainly studied them enough. The perfect bow to her upper lip. The delectable overbite. At the mere touch of his tongue, the woman shied and quickly averted her face. An impossible thought formed, the woman hanging from his neck had to be Constance. Prim, proper Constance. For proof, he touched her mask only to find the sweep of butterfly wings and the feathered ornaments that adorned Angeline’s disguise. He should have her drop to her knees and show him what she’d learned spying on Withers’ footman. It would put a fitting finish to his obsession. Only his cock hadn’t even twitched. All this time, he’d kept his hands to himself believing that if he started touching her he’d never be able to stop. Even when she was ill and his concern had been for her welfare, he’d taken the precaution of enveloping her in blankets.

  It was easy to take her by the arms and set her away from him. “Go dance, little girl.” There was a muffled sob and the whisper of slippers skating over the smooth wood floor as she fled.

  Why did it feel as if he was being punished for having entertained forbidden thoughts about his ward? Had his senses mislead him? He’d struggled with an erection every time he’d glanced at her, breathed in the sweet scent of her, or merely heard her voice. But tasting and touching her did not stir him.

  He retrieved the bottle from the carpet and took a slug of the raw liquid in grim celebration. He could resist. He was fucking free.

  He emptied the bottle, buttoned his jacket, and combed his fingers through his hair. He headed unsteadily toward the ballroom and was relieved to find it nearly deserted. The evening was drawing to a close. A couple of masks were scattered around the room. He searched the crowd. Angeline was nowhere to be seen. Constance, barefaced, approached him. Besides some heightened color in her cheeks, attributable to the overheated room, she looked exactly as she had when the evening had begun. Her composure put an end to any lingering notion that she had been the one trying to seduce him.