Enraptured (A Private Collection)

by Fresina, Jayne

  “Yes.” She smiled politely. “I am.”

  “Out of mourning so soon?” The older woman looked at Harry and then back at Christina. “Very lovely, too, my dear. As lovely as your mother.”

  “Thank you.”

  “No wonder Mr. Blackwood holds your hands so tightly.” When she laughed, it made goose bumps on the back of his neck. “He’d better watch out or someone will steal you away, my dear.”

  “Let’s dance.” Harry led her forward, aiming for the less crowded area where couples assembled for the next dance. But the stack of bodies was so thick that their progress through to the dance floor was slowed almost to a halt, and they didn’t get away fast enough.

  Turning his back, guiding Christina ahead of him, he heard the old lady muttering under her breath to Rosamund, “The Berwick’s must be scraping the barrel for guests. It seems they’ll let anyone in these days. How typical that they should arrive together; a common tart and the son of that reprobate Blackwood.”

  Rosamund had never mastered the art of a genteel whisper, and her shrill tones reached him above the rumble of the other guests and the music of the violins. “You should have seen them today. She was all over him, in public, and he couldn’t take his eyes off her. She can’t be much more than eighteen. What is he thinking?”

  “He’s a man, dear,” her mother-in-law drawled. “They don’t do their thinking with their brains.”

  Christina pulled him through the mob, tugging on his sleeve. In the next moment, he had his hand on her waist and they were waltzing. The air was no longer stifling. Gusts of cooler air swept across his face at every turn, and his temper calmed.

  It was amazing how quickly his mood improved when she smiled up at him and laid her hand on his shoulder. The diamonds swayed from her ears, shooting sparks of silver along her jaw and cheek. Her waist, under his palm, seemed impossibly narrow. Her shoulders weren’t the same delicate ivory expected of a young society lady but were tanned a light golden brown, reminding him of sunnier weather and warmer climates. He wanted to bask awhile longer in her sunlight. As long as he dare. It was good therapy for his old bones.

  Other people looked at them, no doubt speculating on the identity of the ravishing beauty dancing in his arms. If he had been over there, watching, and ten years younger, he’d want to know who she was, too, thinking how best to engineer an introduction and steal her away from her partner. His fingers tightened around hers.

  His father, no doubt, would enjoy the stir they caused, if he could see them from wherever he was. Despite his wealth, London society had shut Randolph Blackwood out because he was only “new money”. A self-made man who dragged himself up by the bootstraps. He also had a tendency to do and say exactly what he pleased, which won him no friends in this enclave of liars and sycophants. He was never accepted as one of them. Randolph didn’t particularly care about that, at least he always claimed he didn’t care, but it never stopped him finding new ways to horrify, ridicule, and irritate his enemies at every opportunity.

  Across the ballroom, a tall, handsome young man stood watching, his eyes following Christina as if mesmerized, completely ignoring the scowling debutante at his side.

  Harry spread his fingers across his partner’s lower spine, drawing her a half inch closer, holding her just a little more firmly. The deep arch of her back was a reminder of the curves below it. The “accidental”, and very improper, touch of her hip to his thigh prompted his imagination to consider what else lay beneath her gown, all those treasures wrapped in lace. If he bent his head, his lips would be on her silken hair and then the butter-soft skin of her brow. Her shape was a perfect fit against his, as if she had been made for him.

  “Stop teasing me,” he whispered.

  “I’m not teasing you.” The pert fib rolled smoothly off her rosy lips. “I never tease.”

  He wanted to kiss her. He wanted all those men watching to know she was with him tonight.

  He was a damned fool. But he, too, was mesmerized by her. He, too, was enraptured.

  Chapter Five

  Her feet began to hurt, but she kept her smile in place as yet another partner whirled her across the dance floor. She tried to keep all their names and faces straight in her head. Lords, Earls, and Viscounts. Even a Marquis. Her little dance card was long since lost, so she had no polite excuse not to accept anyone who asked. Her current partner was a short, grey-haired fellow with paunch and red-veined cheeks. She saw his mouth moving and heard his laughter, but had no intention of moving closer to make out what he said. Merely nodding in reply to his mumbles, she let him twirl her about in the mazurka like a rag doll.

  Somewhere in the crowd, Harry was watching. She saw him occasionally, dancing with another woman, or sipping a glass of wine. Apparently he didn’t want to dance with her again. He was irritated with her. They’d argued at the end of their second dance when he abruptly decided they’d stayed long enough already and announced he wanted to leave. When she firmly refused, he’d stormed off in a pique. Well, he wasn’t going to make her change her mind. She came here to meet her father and meet him she would. Before they tossed her out on her ear.

  Harry Blackwood couldn’t tell her what to do, whether he meant well or not.

  Gaze scanning the crowd over her partner’s low shoulder, she saw the same young man again who’d watched her throughout the evening but never seemed brave enough to approach. He stood at the edge of the crowd, nervously pulling on his shirt cuffs. Their eyes met and he ventured a slight smile. He had fair hair and piercing green eyes. He looked young, but he was handsome in a very bland, harmless way.

  Her dance was coming to an end, and she gratefully pulled her gloved fingers out of her partner’s, sweaty hands before he could force her into another clumsy spin. She looked over at the tall young man again, blinked slowly, and held her hand to her throat as if she was short of breath and might retire from the dance floor. This time he finally had the gumption to step forward, three long strides crossing the distance between them, his gaze fastened on the hand at her throat.

  “May I have this dance, Miss Deveraux?”

  She was startled. “How do you know my name?”

  He looked sheepish. “I believe everyone here knows it by now.” Then he bowed and introduced himself. “I’m William Martindale.”

  The name didn’t register with her, so she took his hands and he led her into another polka. Every eye in the room widened to observe them together. Christina remarked that she’d never had quite so much attention in her life.

  “You must be very important,” she added teasingly, “because I know I’m not.”

  He explained to her that he was accustomed to people watching him because he had just gotten engaged to Lady Fennemore, this year’s most sought after debutante. Further, he just happened to be the Duke of Berwick’s only son and heir.

  She said nothing for a moment. Fortunately it wasn’t necessary to converse all the time while dancing. He guided her around the floor with skill and grace. But her feet were turning numb by then, and she could barely feel the wooden floor under her white satin slippers.

  “I believe they’re also looking at us, Miss Deveraux, because you’re the most beautiful woman here,” he added presently.

  He was her brother. Half-brother. She searched his face for similarities and thought she found a few, in the line of his nose and the arch of his upper lip. He was fair, like her, but she had her mother’s pure blonde hair, whereas his was a mixture of sand and gold, threaded through with a darker shade underneath. His skin was light brown, however, like hers. She’d always been frustrated that her own skin wasn’t the same elegant pale as her mother’s. Now she knew her father was to blame for her complexion.

  “Where is the duke?” she managed at last. “I haven’t seen him dancing yet tonight.”

  “My father never dances. Balls are always my mother’s idea. He’s probably in a private room holding court at the card table.” He squinted, wrinkling his nose. “He do
esn’t have to watch over me so much now that I’m finally engaged to Lady Fennemore.”

  Yes, she supposed he would be very closely guarded. As his father’s only son and heir, he was a precious commodity. Unlike her, the bastard daughter; easily abandoned.

  “Is it true what they say?” he whispered abruptly.

  Confused, she looked up into his emerald eyes. “What do they say?” Did someone know she was the duke’s daughter? Had the rumor got out and made its way around the seething ballroom?

  “That your mother was a femme galante?”

  Ah.

  She’d never heard it called that before. “Is that the polite, gentlemanly way of saying it?”

  His lips parted and then snapped shut again.

  “Yes, my mother was Louisa Deveraux, a concubine who slept with men for money, gifts, and favors. But if you look around this room, Mr. William Martindale, I doubt you’ll see many women who haven’t done the same thing. In society circles they legitimize the business by calling it arranged marriage, I believe.”

  She detected a slight blush as he laughed uneasily. “You don’t think much of marriage, Miss Deveraux?”

  “Oh I’m sure it works well for some people. We’re all different. I prefer to live freely and not suffer those bonds, but I don’t judge anyone else for their choice.”

  “I’ve never met a woman who talks like you. The women I dance with generally only have one aim in life—to marry well.”

  “Because that’s the only choice they know about.”

  He smiled benignly. “Surely it’s the only choice for a respectable lady?”

  “Then I’m glad I’m not respectable. I’m glad I was born scandalous.”

  His cheeks flamed. “So am I, Miss Deveraux.”

  Aha. Now she understood the young man’s interest in her. Curiosity and hot blood. His father had sheltered him all his life, but that would only increase the allure of “dangerous” women like her.

  “What would you fiancée have to say about you dancing with me?” she asked, teasing him gently.

  “I can dance with whomever I like,” he declared. “I’m a grown man, not her lapdog or my father’s puppet.”

  He reminded her suddenly of herself. “I hope I’m not a bad influence on you already.”

  William stuck out his jaw. “Nobody influences me, Miss Deveraux. I’m my own person, as my fiancée shall soon learn.”

  “But I think I see her over there, looking rather displeased.”

  As her partner followed her gaze, he stiffened.

  “My father,” he muttered.

  Her eyes had also found the man standing there, almost at the same time. The crowd shrank back away from him. He glared at the dancing couple with eyes of molten fire, and when he drew on his fat cigar, the end of it glowed just as brightly through a cloud of grey smoke. The devil himself couldn’t have made a more threatening appearance.

  “It seems by dancing with me, you drew your father away from his card game.”

  “Yes,” he replied. “I finally have my father’s attention. Of course, he could never resist a beautiful woman either.” William’s fingers no longer held hers firmly. His shoulders sank and his eyes became shuttered, afraid of looking into hers.

  “I fear your father stares at me so hard, William, not because he likes the look of me, but because I was not invited here tonight.”

  “Oh?” His knee banged into hers.

  “Perhaps you’d better introduce me to the duke,” she said, her own bravery greater than his. “I daresay he’s curious to meet me, as you were,” she added, her heart beating hard under her ribs. She smiled and her half-brother’s worried expression eased a little. He had the sort of face that showed every thought, an open book that would probably cause him to be cheated by every unscrupulous soul he met in life. She saw the thoughts flash through his eyes. Dare he introduce her to his father, knowing what her mother was and that she was uninvited? He desperately wanted to be bold, but it wasn’t in his nature. After all, it had taken him all evening to find the nerve to approach her, and his resolve to misbehave, to be his own man, wilted in the gloomy presence of his father.

  “You’ve nothing to be ashamed of, William,” she whispered. “It was only a dance and, as you said, you can dance with whomever you choose, can you not?”

  He lowered his head in a nod and, as the dance drew to a halt, led her to where his father stood.

  As it turned out, there was no need for an introduction. Christina had thought there wouldn’t be. He recognized her at once as her mother’s daughter.

  “Miss Deveraux, you honor us with your presence this evening.” His voice was a low, lazy rumble that she felt all the way to her previously numb toes. Two pale eyes squinted at her through the cigar smoke, and he ran a finger over his graying moustache. “Unexpectedly.”

  “Your Grace.” She curtseyed, dropping William’s hot, nervous hand. “How honored I am finally to meet you.”

  It seemed as if every conversation in the room had halted, although, of course, it couldn’t have. It simply felt that way. Many faces turned to watch her with the duke, probably expecting her to be ejected immediately from the ball, but the dancing continued and the music played on. He was a shorter man than she expected, with a square, thick frame. His face was broad, his hair receding and grey. His features were the sort that could appear handsome in some light and from certain angles, ugly in others. The down-turned lines and sagging flesh at the corners of his mouth proved how rarely the muscles under the skin were used to form a smile.

  “William, I hope you’re not neglecting Lady Fennemore.”

  “Of course not, sir.”

  “Why, then, does she stand over there, bereft of a partner?”

  His son turned to look. Hovering on his toes, he was torn between staying with Christina and retuning to his duty. Finally duty won out. He kissed her white-gloved hand, shot her a warm glance of apology, and stormed away to find his fiancée, who currently wore a scowl like thunder.

  “Who brought you here, Miss Deveraux? I assume you didn’t partake of this misadventure alone?” The duke’s voice had hardened, no longer the languid drawl it had been in the presence of his son.

  “Mr. Henry Blackwood.”

  “Good.” His moustache moved up at the corners, but there was absolutely no mirth in his face. “He can take you home again. At once.” The Duke of Berwick took her by the elbow and led her out of the ballroom to the glittering entrance hall which had thinned out considerably since her arrival.

  Christina fought for words, wanting desperately to impress him, wanting his interest. “Your Grace, I have some private matters to discuss with you,” she managed. “Might we talk alone?”

  “No, Miss Deveraux, I have nothing to discuss with you. If I did, I would seek you out. Never put yourself in my way again.” His step was brisk, forceful, moving her through the crowd without delay. His fingers bit into her arm like the fangs of a guard dog. “Good evening, madam.”

  She was deposited into the care of two footmen by the door, while he returned to his invited guests. Had she less pride, she might have run after him and kicked him in the back of his kneecaps. Instead, she watched his grey head moving away through a sea of faces, all of them turned to stare at her. Somewhere she heard a woman’s high, spiteful laughter.

  “I haven’t even had my iced sherbet,” she protested.

  The crowd closed around the duke and he was gone from her sight.

  Spinning around she collided with a tall figure standing close behind her. “Where have you been all evening, Harry Blackwood?” she demanded, trying to hide the pitiful quake in her voice.

  “Waiting for you to get thrown out on your pretty behind.”

  She swallowed, her throat constricted. “You were wrong. He didn’t have someone else do it. He threw me out himself.”

  “I daresay your dancing with his son was the last straw. Had to push your luck, didn’t you?”

  “At least I got
his attention.”

  “Satisfied now, then?”

  “Yes,” she hissed, flinging her head back and her arms out. A dramatic gesture that she would laugh at if she ever saw anyone else doing it. Tonight, somehow, it felt right. Everything was dire, her feelings acute, senses heightened. She was choking. Her skin tingled as if a storm approached.

  “I want to celebrate now. Take me home, Harry, and make love to me.”

  On either side of her the footmen made small, sputtering, wheezing sounds, which she ignored, throwing her arms around her escort’s neck, not caring who heard or saw.

  His hands clasped her waist, easing her back a little. “Haven’t you caused enough trouble tonight?”

  She was trying to reach his lips with hers, but he held her away, frowning with consternation.

  “Did you drink too much wine?”

  “I didn’t drink any,” she exclaimed, trying to fight her way free of his grip, to claim her kiss.

  “You think you can use me to make yourself feel better. Is that it?” He shook his head and she wanted to tangle her fingers in his tousled curls. “You need a spanking, young lady.”

  “Yes I do.” She grabbed him by the cravat. “Give me one, Harry darling. Give it to me.”

  Again he shook his head. Apparently only just remembering that they weren’t alone, he lifted her up, swung her legs over his arm, and hurried out through the entrance.

  He already had her carriage waiting, as if he’d anticipated that she’d soon outstay her welcome.

  * * * *