by Claudia Dain
There he was. The man with the red cravat.
He walked unnoticed through the throng of people. Slowly he made his way around the dancing couples, walking with the stealth of a panther seeking his prey. She followed him with her blurry vision, careful not to let him disappear from sight again.
With slow ease, he rested his tall frame against a cornflower blue wall. A gentleman and lady sitting on the Chesterfield were unmindful of him, but his gaze was fixed squarely upon them.
Suddenly, the large portrait hanging on the wall above them came off of one nail. Isha watched in shocked apprehension as the gilt frame rotated and hung precariously over the oblivious couple.
"Look out!" she cried helplessly, knowing that the couple could not hear her above the din. Suddenly, the painting came loose and fell forward upon them both.
The canvas landed upon the man's head, and the woman screamed in alarm. The music stumbled to silence.
"Mother!" cried Mr. Harkness, leaving Maryan on the dance floor and running toward the lady on the sofa. The husband was not hurt, but his jowls reddened with embarrassment under the curious gazes of the other people.
The man in the red cravat walked unhindered past the crowd that had gathered around the Harknesses.
This time, Isha would not let him out of her sight.
She trotted after him, past the mortified Baroness Windigate, who raced to see what had flung her party into disrepute yet again. Now Isha was sure that he had done this on purpose. These pranks were something she'd expect of a slobbering, bucktoothed adolescent boy, not a well-dressed, full-grown gentleman who ought to know better. Indignation welled up within her, and she meant to give him a piece of her mind.
The man stepped through the French doors toward the balcony, and Isha remained in pursuit. The chill evening breeze cooled her face as she stepped out of the sweltering ballroom and into the fresh air.
No one was there.
She walked the entire breadth of the veranda, which stretched the length of the ballroom. She searched behind all of the potted yew trees that lined the walls between each pair of doors. He was gone.
Puzzled, Isha leaned against the stone balustrade, peering out onto the darkened lawn below. Could the man have jumped? Jasmine bushes just below the balustrade perfumed the night air, but would have made for an uncomfortable landing. Where did he go?
"Looking for me?" said a voice behind her.
She spun around.
And came face to face with the man in the red cravat.
Her heart skipped a beat at his nearness. The man loomed tall above her, forming an impenetrable barrier between her and the party. Darkness cast his face into shadow, which made it even more difficult for Isha to see him. But her senses caught a whiff of lemon and sandalwood, clean and masculine.
"As a matter of fact, I was. I saw what you did, sir, and I demand that you go and make your apologies to those people at once."
"You…saw…what I did?"
"That is correct. I saw you trip that footman, and I saw you—well, I don't know what you did to that painting, but I know you made it fall upon that poor, unsuspecting couple. You may find these childish pranks amusing, sir, but I do not. My cousin owns this house, and upon her authority, I demand that you make all necessary restitution to those you've maliciously injured."
It was the last thing she expected him to do. He tilted back his head and laughed.
Anger flooded her veins. "How dare you mock me!"
His laughter diminished to a mirthful grin. "I'd no idea I had an audience! What an immense pleasure this is."
"Only for you, I'm afraid. Your name, please."
"My name? I don't believe anyone's ever asked me that."
Isha crossed her arms at her chest. "Please do me the great courtesy of providing me with your name."
Even though his face was indistinct, she could see him grin mischievously. "No."
The impertinence! "Very well, then. You leave me no choice. I will summon the footmen, who will promptly throw you out. Preferably over the balustrade."
He laughed again, a great rolling sound that came off of him in waves. "I wouldn't do that if I were you."
"This time, the pleasure will be mine," she tossed over her shoulder.
She stomped back into the ballroom, and lifted a gloved hand at a footman carrying a tray. The French door clicked shut behind her.
She pointed the man out to the footman through the panes of glass. The insufferable knave leaned arrogantly upon the balustrade, crossing his arms at his chest, daring her to do her worst.
"That man there has been unendurably rude to me. Please do me the goodness of expelling him from this house. I will inform the baroness of my reasons."
"By all means, miss. Er, who would you like me to expel?"
"The man on the balcony."
The footman peered through the window. "I don’t see anyone there, miss."
In frustration, Isha flung open one of the French doors. She pointed straight at him. "Him!"
The man in the red cravat gave the footman a jaunty wave.
The servant stared at her in bewilderment. "Forgive me, miss, but are you feeling yourself? Maybe I should bring you some coffee. Would you like me to fetch the baroness? Perhaps you'd like to lie down."
The man in the red cravat stood up and glided to her side. "He can't see me. Or hear me. If I were you, I'd let him continue to think you are drunk. Just pretend as if you don't see me either. Otherwise, he'll think you're deranged."
The footman continued to stare at her expectantly, even though the man was standing right next to him.
"Don't you see this man?" she asked, panic edging her voice.
The footman spun his head around, his face mere inches from the man in the red cravat.
"I see no one, miss."
Isha raked her eyes up and down the strange man's form. How can this be? She could see him…feel him near. He had dimension, presence, warmth. He was as real to her as the door jamb that was now propping her up. Perhaps she was deranged after all.
She brought a hand to her chest. "I…must be…mistaken."
The man's silky voice snaked around her reeling senses. "Very good. Now say, 'I've had too much champagne. I just need some fresh air.'"
Blood thrummed in her ears as she fought to steady her breathing. "Too much champagne," she repeated mechanically. "I just…fresh air."
"Very well, miss." The footman withdrew into the ballroom, closing the double doors.
The man strode back to the balustrade and hopped up upon it. "I imagine there must be any number of questions tumbling over themselves in your mind, the uppermost of which I shall answer first. You're not insane."
Isha stared at him from behind the potted yew. "Oh really?" she replied, unconvinced.
"No indeed. It is a common fault in humans that they can only believe in that which is perceived—when in point of fact, there is much more to this world than that which can be seen or felt. The fact that those people in there cannot see me does not deny my existence. It only confirms their ignorance."
A beleaguered chuckle escaped her lips. "Lucky me."
"Yes," he agreed, enlightenment flooding his voice. "Lucky you."
Casting all decorum and her mother's warnings aside, Isha pulled at the drawstring of her reticule and pulled out her spectacles. She pushed them onto her face and peered at the shape across the balcony.
The blurry black shadow immediately sharpened into focus. Straight black hair folded back from a wide forehead. Wide eyebrows hovered over narrowed eyes, which crinkled at the corners in amusement. Thick lips were etched on each side by a small set of double parentheses, casting his face in a permanent mirthful grin. A square jaw hefted out his chiseled features, and displayed a shocking layer of unshaved whiskers. The thick neck that disappeared behind his pointed collar confirmed that his Sisyphean shoulders and wide chest were not an illusion created by layers of clothing. It was strangely ludicrous that a man this han
dsome couldn't be seen by anyone but her. Lucky her indeed.
"Tell me your name," he said.
"Isha." The word hung in the air like a question.
"Isha," he repeated. "What a peculiar name in this day and age."
Peculiar was a word she heard too often when people talked about her, and she grew defensive. "My father was an Old Testament scholar. 'Isha' is ancient Hebrew for—"
"Woman," he completed.
She blinked in disbelief. "Yes…how did you know that?"
He shrugged. "Common knowledge."
She narrowed her eyes at him. "Who are you?"
He cast a faraway glance. "What to say, what to say? I suppose if most people knew who I was, they would consider me bad luck. So that is how I will introduce myself to you. I am Bad Luck."
A scowl settled on her face. "There's no such person."
He threw his arms out. "Nevertheless, here I am."
"Don't be absurd. You can't expect me to believe you're Bad Luck. Who are you…really?"
He hopped off of the balustrade. "I've just told you. I am an agent of fortune. Of ill-fortune, as most would see it."
"I don't believe in such things. You may as well tell me you're Father Christmas."
"Really?" His hand shot out and gripped her wrist. She let out a surprised cry as he spun her around, and her back slammed into his chest.
"Look out there." His voice was a lethal whisper.
Her shoulders squeezed together in apprehension. It was impossible to escape the solid wall of muscle behind her. One thick arm gripped her middle tightly; the other brushed her cheek as it pointed over her shoulder into the moonlit garden.
"Behind those rhododendron bushes are a stable groom and a parlor maid engaged in a lover's tryst. You are going to help me create some mischief in that illicit affair. Repeat after me. Say, 'fire ants.'"
"What?" she breathed.
"Go on. Say it."
His nearness was wreaking havoc on her senses. Perhaps if she said it, he would let her go.
"Fire ants," she said.
Across the quiet lawn, a man cried out. A second later, a woman shrieked. Suddenly, the rhododendron bushes began to quiver, and the woman ran out from behind them. Frantically, she lifted her skirt and brushed at her stockinged legs. Then a man fell out of the bushes, yelping like a dog as he slapped his naked bottom.
Isha couldn't contain it any longer. A giggle bubbled up from inside her.
"Hmm," he said, his chest vibrating with his husky murmur. "You're more wicked than I am."
Isha wriggled out of his embrace. "H-how did you do that?"
"Don't blame me. You're the one who said 'fire ants.'"
She swallowed hard. "So you did trip that footman. And drop that painting."
"Yes."
"And the baron's lost wager…that was you?"
"Yes. And the greengrocer and the coach collision and the outbreak of piles."
Her eyebrows drew together. "What outbreak of piles?"
"Oh. You'll find out later. Don't worry, it's not for you."
This was simply unfathomable. "I don't believe this. If you are who you say you are, then how can you be so cruel? The woman in the coach broke her arm! Goodness knows how much damage you may have caused her."
"I didn't break her arm. If she had stayed in the carriage like she was supposed to instead of helping the men change the carriage wheel, the blasted thing wouldn't have fallen on her."
"You ought to be ashamed of yourself, putting people in harm's way like that. You're nothing but a miscreant little boy, creating all this trouble for people. If I had seen a child tossing a cat upon a cake, I'd have boxed his ears."
Laughter shook his massive shoulders. "Now that was just funny."
She pinned her fists to her hips. "I don't think it's funny."
"That's because you don't see the poetry in it. Cat in Spanish is gato, and cake in French is pronounced the same. See? Funny!"
Isha rolled her eyes. His chuckles diminished to a lazy grin.
"In all earnestness, none of it would have happened if Baroness What's-Her-Name would have just cancelled this party once and for all."
"What does this party have to do with it?"
"It has everything to do with it. Because this event is meant to debut Miss Maryan Elmwood and introduce her to potential suitors."
At the mention of her sister's name, a violent protective instinct coiled within her like a taut spring. Her fingers curled to claws.
"And Maryan Elmwood must never be permitted to marry anyone in there," he stated.
At that proclamation, her stomach felt as if it was filled with lead. "Why not?"
"With the greatest respect, that doesn't concern you."
"That is where you are mistaken. Maryan Elmwood is my sister, and I cannot permit you to visit any harm upon her."
He pointed a finger at her. "Oh. So you're the bluestocking spinster sister?"
It never failed to cut her deeply to hear that word, but from the mouth of so attractive a man it was a severe blow to her pride. Now, however, was not the time for self-pity. She was face-to-face with a potential enemy, and she had a more important mission to accomplish. She adjusted her spectacles and straightened her back.
"If you even think to hurt my sister, I will destroy you."
"I don't intend to hurt her, Isha. But I cannot allow Mr. Harkness in there to court her. And while I cheerfully applaud your loyalty to your sister, there is nothing you can do to stop me."
Even as he said these words, she knew them to be incontrovertibly true. Power and knowledge bricked all around him.
He came to the French door and peeked through. "Oh, dear. That Harkness fellow has begun to circle her again. I suppose a lively little candle like Maryan will attract all sorts of moths. I'd better go and relieve her of his attentions."
"No!" she said, resting her back against the door. "You mustn't do this."
"It is my duty, Isha. More to the point, it is my nature." He turned the doorknob.
There was much she didn't understand, but there was no time now to ponder. The only strategy that came to mind was to create a distraction.
She placed her gloved hand upon his forearm. "Your only nature?"
A crease formed between his thick eyebrows. "What?"
She couldn't believe what she was about to propose. "I mean that perhaps right now you'd like to indulge a…baser nature."
Her heart was hammering so loudly in her chest, she barely heard the music in the ballroom anymore.
Her gloved hands snaked up his arms in an unspoken invitation. Whatever she was doing seemed to have a dramatic effect on him. It was like asking a lion if he would care for rack of lamb.
The light from within the ballroom illuminated his features. If he hadn't threatened her sister, she would have found him the handsomest of men. Barely above thirty-five, with just a few threads of silver catching the light through the French doors. But his honey-brown eyes held an ancient knowledge that she found highly disconcerting. She was certain he could see through her attempt at distraction. But could he see that on a deeper level she wanted so desperately to find favor with him?
Then he frowned down at her, and all her confidence evaporated. She must have failed to arouse his interest. Of course she did. She was no beauty, and what's more, she had no experience at this sort of thing. She knew all about what happens between a husband and wife, but what happens between the dance floor and the bedroom was a complete mystery.
His wide jaw tensed, and she recognized that look. It was disappointment. What on earth was she thinking? How could she believe that she was capable of turning a man's head? Goodness, she still had her glasses on! Not to mention that she knew absolutely nothing about this "man." Was this creature even capable of being seduced?
The silence stretched between them, and her discomfort grew. She retracted her hands. "I'm sorry. I—”
"Touch me again."
"What?"
; "I said, touch me!" His breathing grew erratic.
Confused, she placed her hands upon his chest. The tawny eyes disappeared behind silky pale lids.
"I felt that," he said, amazement illuminating his face. "I felt you."
"Certainly you felt me. It was I who touched you."
He seized her hand and pulled her glove off. Gripping her wrist, he placed her hand upon his chest again. He grit his teeth.
"Nothing. Why is that? Perhaps…perhaps it must be you who must initiate…" He released her hand. "Touch me. Again. Please."
The desperation she had been feeling seemed to have transferred to him. He gazed at her with a worried longing that suddenly made him seem…human.
She brought her hand to his face, and rested her naked palm against his stubbly cheek.
He groaned in exquisite pleasure.
She could not believe the effect that she was having upon him. Only a moment ago she thought she was incapable of bringing him pleasure. Now it seemed she was the first person ever to do so.
He opened his eyes. Gone was the mischievous, arrogant troublemaker. In his place was a humbled man.
But maybe this was all a trick. Maybe he was playing the mischievous sprite with her. Maybe once he'd had his fun, his playful smirk would return, he would amuse himself at her imagined influence over him, and all would be as it was.
"How are you doing that?" he asked. "How are you able to make me feel you?"
Isha looked into his face, the look of smug amusement replaced with an expression of wonder. Perhaps this was not a trick after all. Though she had no idea why her touch pleased him so, she was determined to shroud it in secrecy.
Warily, she pressed her advantage. She took him by the hand and pulled him away from the balcony doors, farther away from her sister. Blood pounded in her ears.
She brought him to a wrought iron bench placed midpoint along the balcony, and sat him down beside her. "What do you feel when I do this?" She raked her fingers through his thick dark hair. His hair was shorter than the fashion decreed, but this just added to his roguish appearance.