by Lois Greiman
Under Your Spell
Lois Greiman
To Cary Bardell. Thanks for being a friend to me and
to the lost children of the world. You are the kindest,
most courageous woman I know.
Contents
Chapter 1
Elegance St. James, Countess of Lanshire, took a sip of…
Chapter 2
Ella’s breath stopped in her throat. Someone was out there.
Chapter 3
Sir Drake remained absolutely silent. His parents had named him…
Chapter 4
Elegance opened her eyes. The house was dark, silent, fraught…
Chapter 5
“Lady Redcomb,” said Milton. “You look quite…”
Chapter 6
“Where were you wounded?” Lady Redcomb’s voice was low and…
Chapter 7
Ella held his gaze. Smiled a little. Remained calm. That…
Chapter 8
Who was this Grey? What had he done to Sarah?
Chapter 9
The day was dark. Thunder rumbled over the city. Rain…
Chapter 10
“Let her go,” Drake ordered, and watched as the dark…
Chapter 11
His lips were warm and firm, his hand strong and…
Chapter 12
Feelings born of instinct and honed by ragged experiences told…
Chapter 13
Drury Lane was humming with activity. Every gentleman’s boots were…
Chapter 14
The streets were dark, but it mattered little. The way…
Chapter 15
Where the hell was she? Drake wondered. He should never…
Chapter 16
Ella twirled her way through the remainder of the evening,…
Chapter 17
Was someone watching them? Spying on them? Drake dragged himself…
Chapter 18
Ella watched Drake disappear into the shadows. Her feet were…
Chapter 19
Reeves was wrong, Ella told herself. Drake was only a…
Chapter 20
The road sped beneath Silk’s galloping hooves. Houses trailed past…
Chapter 21
Despite the fact that he had learned his social mores…
Chapter 22
Ella was gifted. Just as Sarah had been. Drake was…
Chapter 23
Ella felt Drake leave, felt her gut twist with agony…
Chapter 24
“Where did you get the cologne?” Ella’s voice sounded hollow,…
Chapter 25
Their marriage was a private ceremony held in the untamed…
About the Author
Other Books by Lois Greiman
Copyright
About the Publisher
Chapter 1
Elegance St. James, Countess of Lanshire, took a sip of champagne and glanced about the salon. Everyone with a title and two pence was present. But she seemed to be the only witch.
And that was just as well, for she was weary of witches. Tired of their conniving and plotting and spells. Tired of their spats and alliances, their triumphs and failures. It was time to be normal. Normal but irresistible, she thought, and carefully preened her aura. Tonight she was beautiful, at least to others.
Near a table spread with every conceivable delicacy, Lord Milton shoved a peach tart into his mouth, glanced her way, then glanced again, eyes widening with interest. The little baron was middle-aged, homely, and somewhat paunchy. Rumor suggested he was also financially unstable, which made him a perfectly suitable match. Ella gave him her best come-hither smile.
From near the doorway by the lead-glass windows, the Viscount of Cleftmore scrutinized her. He was tall, elegant, and wealthy. She granted him a cool nod, then turned back toward Milton, who was, even now, struggling through the mob toward her, jiggling between a potted palm and a liveried servant, then striding rapidly across the hardwood floor. Ella offered him an encouraging smile. Let the others battle for the charms of the handsome, well-placed suitors. Let them become besotted and bedded and wedded. She had done so. It was not for her.
“My lady.” Lord Milton was panting rather heavily by the time he reached her side. He was balding slightly, she noticed happily, and was a fair bit shorter than she.
“My lord,” she said, and tilting her head, gave him a coy glance through lowered lashes. As lashes went, hers were far from spectacular. In fact, nothing about her physical appearance was particularly noteworthy. Never had been. Her sister Maddy had inherited their father’s dark, good looks, leaving Ella rather ordinary by comparison, with hair that could not quite decide whether it was brown or red and curves that would never quite…well…curve. She was tall. Some might say spindly. Indeed, some had said just that. But none would say so tonight, for tonight she had employed all her powers to make her appear dazzling. And her powers were considerable.
“You are looking quite…” Lord Milton’s eyes were round, his face flushed. “Quite…dazzling.”
“My lord,” she breathed again, and raised the pale lace fan she’d brought just for this purpose. She couldn’t say why men found it appealing when women peered at them from above fans like so many peeping cockatiels, but apparently they did. “You flatter me.”
“Flattery. No. No.” He was perspiring a little above his upper lip, which was considerably larger than his lower. “Not at all. You are beauty itself. Like a beacon that…” From across the room, Miss May Anglican laughed. She was flirting. And by the sound of it, her chosen companion was either relatively attractive or extremely wealthy. Either was acceptable to May, though, in actuality, she flirted only to make Lord Gershwin jealous. After all, a mistress who could not make her lover envious might just as well be a wife.
But Milton seemed to notice neither the flirtatious tone of their hostess’s laughter nor the burgeoning crowd. “Like a beacon that…” he reiterated, but his words faltered again. Ella stifled an impatient urge to tap her toe, gave him a hopeful smile over the top of her ridiculous fan, and visualized the word shines. It did no good whatsoever. “That…” He floundered.
Miss Anglican, or Merry May, to those bold enough to know her well, was making her way through the crowd toward them. It was impossible to miss her. For while most posh ladies of the ton dressed in muted pastels and free-flowing gowns that fell like water from their nipples to their slippers, May wore anything she damned well pleased. And today tight-fitting, garish red seemed to please her tremendously.
“A beacon that, umm…”
“Ella!” said May, shattering Milton’s concentration and ruining any hope of a quickly concluded compliment. “I am so glad you have come.” May was small and dimpled, with the demure personality of a beleaguered terrier. And if she was not quite beautiful, it hardly mattered. For she was Merry May, siren of every soiree, belle of every ball. Not Ella’s usual type of friend, but then Ella had changed, hadn’t she? Had left her life of dark concentration behind.
“Miss Anglican,” Ella said, giving the other a courteous smile and carefully maintaining propriety lest she scare off her potbellied prey. “I wouldn’t have missed one of your gatherings for all the world. Indeed London is blessed to have—”
“Oh pish,” May said, and taking Ella’s arm, steered her aside. “If you’ll excuse us, Lord Milton, I fear I need a word with…” Her eyes were shining with mischief and humor. “Your beacon.”
With that, they left poor Milton in the rear.
“Listen, May—” Ella began, but May stopped her immediately.
“What the deuce do you think you’re doing?”
Ella stifled a scowl, remembering to keep her expression pleasant, to keep her
image obtuse. It was one of the more difficult tasks in her dealings with the ton. “I’m simply enjoying your fine party,” she said, and glanced over May’s shoulder at the little lord. He seemed to still be wrestling the kinks out of a few stunning similes.
“Milt?” said May, voice rye-toast dry. “You’re considering Milt?”
“I’m sure I’ve no idea what you’re talking—”
“She would have teeth like a picket fence.”
Ella smiled at a passing dowager. Her skin was rice-powder white. Her hair was piled blue and high, reminiscent of days she seemed not quite ready to leave behind. “You haven’t gotten into the blue ruin again, have you, May?”
“Do you want your daughter to be bald?”
“I don’t have a daughter.”
“And you’re not about to. Not with the likes of Milton at any rate,” she said, steering Ella through the crowd toward the gardens.
“Lord Milton happens to be—”
“A drunken lecher who is half your height and, so far as we know, entirely incapable of siring children of any sort, bald, snaggletoothed, or ugly as sin.”
Ella opened her mouth, ready to disagree, but changed course at the last second. Lord Milton did have a tendency to stare at her chest, even when it was modestly garbed, which, by the by, was not the case this evening.
Her sheer muslin frock barely covered her bosom. Pale as a mint julep, it was topped with a delicate Austrian lace that showcased her modest cleavage to its greatest advantage. Tiny embroidered vines twined beneath the lace, crept along the cuffs of the close-fitting sleeves, and highlighted the hem that just brushed the toes of her delicate dancing slippers. Dancing slippers that showed her ankles to perfection when she performed the quadrille. Not all her spells were cast with potions and incantations, after all. Some were as simple as the sight of a well-turned ankle, a scent, a glance over the top of a ridiculously frilly fan.
“I knew I shouldn’t have confided in you,” Ella said.
“Of course you should have,” May countered. “How else would I talk you out of your imbecilic plans.”
“Having a child is hardly imbecilic.”
“Well, having a child out of wedlock is—”
“Perfectly acceptable. And you very well know it. I could name a dozen well-placed ladies right now who have illegitimate children. Upper nobility notably included. And no one thinks the worse of any of them.”
“But nary a one is Lord Milt’s by-blow, is she?”
Lady Shirling glided past on her doddering husband’s arm, ears all but reaching for them. Ella gave her a carefully trimmed smile.
“I won’t be married again,” Ella said from the corner of her mouth, and Merry May laughed.
“Married? What nonsense. Who said anything of marriage?”
Near the beverage table, Lord Finley’s wife was becoming noisily inebriated. His mistress, however, looked to be perfectly sober.
“I believe you did,” Ella said. “Something about your being more comfortable if your friends were safely wed.”
May waved a dismissive hand. “That was before I realized what an unmitigated disaster your first union was.”
Ella nodded her thanks to a passing servant, took a fresh flute of wine, and didn’t bother to respond.
“What went so wrong, by the by?” May pressed.
Ella scanned the crowd. Gowns of every muted hue fluttered like butterfly wings. Laughter and curses melded easily with the sound of the bewigged orchestra. “I didn’t say anything went wrong.”
“But if your marriage was happy, you would surely wish to wed again.”
“Unless, of course, I couldn’t bear to defile my dear departed’s cherished memory by inviting another into my life,” Ella suggested.
May scowled dramatically. “Very well then, don’t confide in me, your best and most interesting friend, but if you’re going to have an affair, at least make certain it is with someone who is not…” She glanced toward Lord Milton, who still seemed to be struggling mightily with his prose. Either that or he was suffering from a rather severe bout of indigestion. “Repugnant,” she said.
“There are far more important things to consider than one’s appearance,” Ella said, carefully maintaining her magical allure.
“Ahh, so it’s his wit you find irresistible?”
“That’s just the thing,” Ella said, and spared poor Milton a glance. He seemed to be mouthing something to no one in particular. “I’ve no desire to be attracted at all.”
May snared two flutes from a passing waiter dressed in scarlet livery, realized Ella already held a glass, and kept both for herself. “So your former husband was a handsome devil, was he?”
“I didn’t say as much.”
“I know,” May said, and grinned impishly.
Ella stifled a scowl. Men didn’t like it when women scowled. It was dreadfully unrefined. Come to that, they weren’t all that fond of having their feminine counterparts think either. “It simply doesn’t matter how the man looks,” she said.
“Well…” May took a sip of her drink. “You certainly have the right fellow for the job, then.”
“My thoughts exactly.”
“But if you’re not going to be saddled with the man for a lifetime, why not choose someone who will…” She trilled her hand in the air for a second. “Set your world afire.”
“Because I’ve no desire to be scorched.”
“You know exactly what I…Oh…” May said, then narrowed her eyes in thoughtful consideration. “What about Mr. Simpton? I’ve heard he’s the devil himself between the sheets.”
Ella turned toward the man in question. He was fair-haired, unrepugnant, and aloof. “I know this is going to surprise you, but I don’t want a devil. Between the sheets or elsewhere.” Taking a sip of champagne, she slipped into the crowd, but May followed her.
“Why ever not? As you’ve said yourself, you’re not looking for ownership, just a bit of time on your back…or your hands and knees. Or…if you’re really adventurous—”
“Miss Anglican,” Ella said, and stopped so abruptly, the other was forced to lift her drinks high to avoid crashing them into Ella’s barely covered bosom. “All I want is—”
“The lieutenant,” murmured May. Ella scowled down at her, but the other failed to notice, for she was staring intently across the crowded room, expression a strange mix between dreamy and concussed.
“What on earth are you talking about?” Ella asked, but glancing across the dance floor, she saw him. Dressed in a dark cutaway coat, snug buff breeches, and black riding boots, he was bowing over Mrs. Bumfry’s hand, but in a moment he unbent to military straightness, standing tall above the milling crowd. Like a lighthouse on a rocky shore, his hair shone blue-black in the flickering gaslight. His skin had been tanned to a pecan hue by the sun. His nose was slightly bowed and his countenance stern, as if he’d faced a hundred enemies, had faced them and found them lacking. No pale fop was he. No preening dandy. He was steel in a field of daisies. A shark in a sea of—
“Sir Drake,” May said, “newly returned from the battle of Grand Port. Good saints, he’s like a shark amidst guppies.”
“Exactly,” Ella breathed.
“What?” May asked, but the other was just able to shake herself from her foolishness.
“Exactly what I don’t want,” she said coolly, and turned away.
“What in blazes are you talking about?” May asked, striding after her. “He’s poetry.”
“And ego.”
“And excitement.”
“And…” Ella cast another glance over her shoulder. He was scanning the crowd, eyes like a hunting osprey. “And anger.”
“But what does it matter? You’re only borrowing him. Yes?”
“Look, May,” Ella said, stopping near a relatively quiet corner. “I want a baby. My baby. Not someone else’s. And certainly not his.”
“Why ever not?” May asked, watching the lieutenant again.
“Because he’s far too…” Ella spared him one more glance. She felt her stomach tumble gracelessly as his gaze met hers, then pulled her attention deliberately away, heart working overtime. “Everything.”
“I’m going to tell you something, Elegance, and I mean it in the nicest possible manner,” May said, and took Ella’s arm in a tight hold. “I believe you might very well be deranged.”
Ella’s steps faltered, and suddenly she was somewhere distant, somewhere dark, where hope was only a glimmer, an almost forgotten memory where happiness dared not tread. La Hopital, it was called. A place of healing for the mentally disturbed. But torture was the order of the day.
“Ella?” May said, but the darkness had risen, threatening to drown her, to choke her. Voices whispered from sightless corners. Laughter echoed from bottomless pits. “Elegance!” Fingers tightened on Ella’s arm. “What’s wrong?” May’s worried voice broke through the murky haze, sweeping aside the tattered memories.
“Nothing,” Ella said, and drew herself from the morass with clawing determination. “It’s just a bit close in here. I believe I’ll get some air, if you don’t mind.”
“I’m sorry,” May said, and took her arm again, but gently now, carefully, as if it might crumble beneath her grasp.
Ella glanced into her eyes, and there was something in them. A knowing that should not have been. An understanding where there should have been confusion. Could it be that she was not the only witch in the assemblage? But no, she was seeing ghosts where there were only shadows.
“I’m fine,” Ella said, and made it so, smoothing the fraying edges of her carefully maintained image, brightening her smile. She had long ago become the mistress of her circumstances, and she would not falter now.
“I’m sorry,” May repeated earnestly.