Sensation

by Thea Devine

  No, this was so much better. So elegant. So exciting. All those American heiresses who couldn't find husbands at home, min­gling with the lords and ladies, and you could not tell who was which.

  In a moment, she would be among them, as wealthy and ele­gantly dressed as they, with as much purpose and need as they, and she would outwit and outmaneuver them all one way or an­other.

  The spectacle had suddenly turned into a battle for her, and she forcibly clamped down on that combative feeling because she didn't want to diminish her pleasure in this evening.

  Even waiting to debark from the carriage did not make her as impatient as it made Mrs. Geddes.

  "They have never found a way to have a ball and accommo­date the conveyances of those in attendance. You would think after all these years ..."

  "And how many years have you attended balls, Mrs. Geddes?" Angilee asked, merely—really—to make conversation.

  Mrs. Geddes shot her a look. "Enough to know nothing will ever change and not to complain. At least they have their people directing traffic. That might make things a little less congested." Still, it was after nine o'clock by the time their carriage pulled up to the door. Even then, Mrs. Geddes preceded her in order to keep a rein on Angilee's impulse to race out of the carriage and into the reception room. Ladies walked decorously and never showed that kind of energy. She needed to save it for the dancing in any event.

  "Slowly, stately, decorously..." Mrs. Geddes whispered as the footman helped her from the carriage. "Chin high. You're a princess, a queen. Everyone's watching ..."

  And cameras clicking and artists sketching, trying to catch every detail of every gown in a minute's glance. The swelling murmur of conversation. The crowds. The scent of perfume. The stinging rays of light refracting against diamonds. The warmth of so many bodies in one place, pressing to move up the two wide staircases to the ballroom. So many beg pardon, sorry, excuse me, and interested oh's and well, hello's, as gentlemen inadver­tently knocked against Angilee and took notice of her.

  It could not have been more perfect. She was admitted in­stantly on extending Zabel's invitation to the attendant at the door, and she drank in every detail, from the huge anteroom set up with refreshments to the smaller room beyond where tables had been arranged for those not inclined to dance to play cards.

  In the cloakroom, she gave her wrap to an attendant, took a tasseled dance card and pencil from a basketful set by the door, and was handed a beautiful hand-painted fan, the favor of the evening, as she and Mrs. Geddes entered the ballroom.

  Not once did she think about or look for her father. Or Wroth.

  They'd never find her in this crowd anyway; and if they did, they'd never make a scene among all these people who valued ap­pearances as much as manners.

  Good. She could relax and enjoy herself. Because somewhere, among all these eligible, rich, lovely men, there had to be some­one who would be willing to marry her.

  Kyger arrived sometime after ten o'clock as he had been ad­vised by his friends at Heeton's, In that way, he'd avoid the crush and the initial awkward partnering for dances by which time the debutantes and spinsters wouldn't be feeling quite so desperate, and fresh food would have been put out in the supper room.

  It was an overwhelming affair. Even at ten, people were still arriving in droves, and he had to elbow his way through the loi­tering crowd who were deep in conversation to make his way up to the ballroom.

  There, it was a brilliant scene of color and movement. The floor-to-ceiling windows were wide open to mitigate the stuffiness of so many bodies in one place. There were chairs lining the walls, candlelight throwing a soft glow over everyone and reflect­ing the frieze-framed mirrors on every wall. The dance floor was burnished to a high polish, and the dancing was concentrated at the end of the room where the orchestra played, even though the music could barely be heard for the hum of conversation.

  Along the sidelines, chaperones watched their charges with the eagle eye of an admiral on the foredeck. Nearby, knots of gentle­men discussed politics and business until they were nudged by their wives or mothers to choose a partner for a dance.

  Circling around them, a promenade of gentlemen with their dance partners making their way to take some refreshment before attempting the dance floor again.

  Here and there, a face Kyger recognized, from the club or from the cricket field. Nowhere, the insidious ghost of Tony Venable.

  And yet, he must have attended many functions such as this. Surely someone in this crowd was missing him.

  He wandered through the groups in conversation, listening, excusing himself, trying to find a place to get to—the refreshment table, perhaps—that wouldn't require him asking someone to waltz, and would allow him to freely eavesdrop.

  Except it seemed as if he'd been taking the verbal pulse of the crowds since he'd come to Town. It was wearing—the whole Tony Venable thing was exhausting, because he was still grasping air.

  And it was obvious he wouldn't hear anything of interest here. Everyone was too focused on the charm, eligibility and social standing of every one of the men and women in attendance. Beauty was negligible, depending on the side of the bank account.

  Still, he saw them eying him, as if he were one among them. He felt like it tonight, especially when, as he approached the re­freshment table, he was hailed by Hackford and a companion he identified after a moment's furious thought as Billington, another of the cardplayers, the silent one, from his evenings at Heeton's.

  "Well, you tidy up well," Hackford greeted him. "Have some punch."

  He took the delicate cup, marveling at the expense of having enough cups, refreshments and food for a thousand guests. But that was this kind of event. Everything was thought of, every­thing provided.

  Music pounded away in the background. A swirl of dancers surrounded them, and moved on. All they could do was mill through the crowd and watch. Conversation was virtually impos­sible. Matrons were looking speculatively at him, Kyger. realized, now he was in the company of Hackford, with an eye toward get­ting an introduction and forcing him to dance.

  The last thing he wanted.

  Was it?

  The women were beautiful, really, and it wasn't just the lights and the romanticism of an evening that hinged on meetings, mat-ings and possibilities.

  All of that was in the air and more. A sense of excitement and urgency and all of it having nothing to do with sevens, secrets and Tony Venable.

  Good. Maybe he needed that, after this afternoon's stunning realization. He needed not to be thinking about any of that tonight.

  Something would present itself. It always did. ... what—? Something played around the edges of his mem­ory, something he needed to know, but then the thought swirled away as several of his acquaintances came to greet Hackford and beg an introduction to Kyger.

  Here was the beginning of the end, he thought resignedly. And he would be out on that dance floor long before never.

  "Let me present Mrs. Sparks," Hackford murmured, with an evil glint in his eyes. "Mrs. Sparks."

  "Mr. Galliard. So pleased to meet you. We do have the ac­quaintance of your dear brother, Lujan. And now we know you both. Pray let me introduce you to my daughter, Jacintha."

  There was nothing for it but to take Mrs. Sparks's arm and allow her to bring him to Jacintha, who proved to be tall, wil­lowy, and while not beautiful in the common way, rather striking. And deadly dull.

  "So pleased," she murmured as he bowed. "Would you care to dance?" He had to ask. His skills on the dance floor were decent at best, and nothing compared to those who had been tutored by ballroom masters.

  She threw a terrified look at her mother, which seemed to indi­cate she no more wanted to dance with him than he with her. But her mother stared at her in that meaningful way mothers on the prowl had, and she stood up stiffly and said, "Thank you, I should. Like to dance, I mean."

  He found a smile. "I won't bite, and I don't dance very well myself."

&nbs
p; That did not ease the tension on her face.

  It was a waltz. "We'll count the steps together," Kyger said, trying to reassure her. He held out his arm, and together they walked onto the dance floor, and he put his arm around her and gently began to sway and move her stiff, resistant body.

  "One, two, three, one, two, three ..." He kept time as he lit­erally pushed her unwilling body around the dance floor, barely avoiding collisions now and again, and regretting the need to be accommodating and kind.

  Jacintha had no feel for the music and no conversation at all. She would never be the first sought nor would she be the last to find a partner, if her dowry was as generous as he perceived it probably would be. Women like her endured mistresses, bore ba­bies and immured themselves in the country, content with their ti­tles and their tenacity at finding a husband.

  Round and round they pushed, making their way through the hundreds of dancers in a stolid workmanlike way. He saw the mother, nodding the way mothers did who were parceling possi­bilities in three-quarter time. He saw Billington, deep in conversa­tion with several other men, he saw Hackford gleefully following them around the dance floor on the fringes, he saw ...

  He saw ...

  No—they were past what he thought he'd seen, past all prob­abilities, past redemption in this awful pounding partnership of a dance ... it could not have been—it wasn't—because if it was ...

  This goddamned dance was never going to end. Jacintha had started to relax just at the minute his attention had been diverted elsewhere, and now that she wanted to exchange pleasantries, he needed to find—her .. .

  ... Imagination? No, it had been her, his vanishing virgin— hadn't it?

  Round the floor they went, one two three, one two three ... hell and forever, this dance ... looking, he kept looking ... find­ing a noncommittal word now and again to keep up his end of what passed for conversation.

  His mind on her—dressed in mossy spring green, fresh as the air, chocolaty hair sparkling like dew ... vanished again—

  Too many people separating the illusion from the reality; it would take this entire night to find her ... or she could be out the door like Cinderella already ...

  Leaving no glass slipper behind. Just the glassy eyes of Jacintha as the dance mercifully came to an end. And now mercy on his part: "Would you care for some refreshment?" She stared at him. "Uh—no—oh, yes, please—" Which then required that he offer his arm, promenade with her to the refreshment table and ensure she had everything she re­quired.

  After, he thanked her politely for the pleasure of the dance, re­turned her to her mother, thanked Mrs. Sparks for the kind intro­duction, and held his breath as he escaped.

  Hackford intercepted him. "Sorry, old man. That was your initiation, having to dance with a chair virgin. You acquitted your­self quite well."

  "She was very sweet. She hates to dance, but I wager she'll do well walking down the aisle, and I wouldn't be half surprised if it wasn't with you."

  Hackford gave a shout of laughter, clapped him on the shoul­der and invited him to the card room.

  "You're not fulfilling your God-mandated duty here, Hackford. I, however, consider myself exempt."

  "My dear boy—if Lujan can settle down, so can you." "But I like the wanderlust life." "From what I hear, you like the life of lust," Kyger stiffened. Something will present itself. .. Hackford? How did he know? That, he hadn't expected. "Well, there's someone here tonight I could lust after. .." Damn it, I have lusted after. .. I have pinned and pronged and pumped myself into her body and I want her— Hackford moved closer. "Tell me who?" "Saw just a glimpse of her. A beauty garbed in green ..." "Oh, that's helpful." "Porcelain skin, chocolate brown hair ..."

  "Sounds delicious—stop there, or we'll all try to eat her before you do . .."

  "You can but dream, old son. I will find her first. I know what she looks like."

  Hackford wheeled around, eying every flower dress in sight, seeking those women dressed in green. "That one?" Kyger shook his head.

  "That one..." "Not hardly."

  "A lot of green girls here tonight, my man." "Thank God," Kyger said fervently. Something... and how did he translate that something into something tangible.

  Maybe not tonight. Tonight was to find the elusive, vanishing and ever innocently virginal Angilee. Tonight he wanted no help, no camaraderie. And tonight was the one night he couldn't shake Hackford from his side.

  Or was that deliberate?

  He began prowling around the room, and Hackford fell in step beside him, murmuring, "I'm intrigued."

  "Can't find your own flower-lady?"

  "No, no—you're not allowed to diminish my manhood. You are, however, allowed to share."

  "I am not surprised."

  "It's mandated, actually."

  "Take your choice, Hackford. You could have any of them."

  "Yes, but a virgin with chocolate hair—that's something else again."

  Now he was irritating, and Kyger was annoyed. He clamped down on his temper. "Any other friends of friends you'd like to introduce me to?"

  "What about that one?" He nodded toward a blonde girl, re­ally a girl, in apple green who moved with gawky steps but with the certain assurance of the wealthy and wanted among the ma­trons and patrons.

  "That girl has money," Kyger said.

  "Oh, she has money, and she's ripe for reaming. Just the right age, that one. They're malleable, that young. And grateful."

  "It's not her," Kyger said dryly.

  "You're a sly one."

  "I'm sorry I ever said a word. You'll haunt me now. I've made her into something she's probably not just by calling attention to her. It will hardly be worth the effort to find her now."

  "Bored easily, eh? You probably imagined the chit anyway Come on, let's have a round of cards."

  They skirted the edge of the crowd, heading toward the sup­per room, and there, just out of the corner of his eye, Kyger

  caught a flash of green emerging from the cloakroom. He leapt forward, with Hackford on his heels, his first instinct to grab Angilee's arm—it was Angilee, wasn't it?—and caught himself, and heeded his second, more rational thought to just follow her until...

  Until what? He cornered her? He coveted her right out in pub­lic?

  But he couldn't know her; he'd told Hackford he didn't know her. How could he pretend to not know her when she would in­stantly recognize him?

  Or maybe not. She had run away from him, after all. Hellflre.

  Now what? Have someone introduce them? Ridiculous.

  She'd swirled through the crowd with an expert assurance, moving toward a phalanx of older women who could only be the chaperones. Worse and worse. And Hackford not three steps be­hind him.

  "I say, Hackford—"

  Thank God. .. Hackford slowed down and turned to the voice and engaged him in conversation.

  Kyger quickly came up behind Angilee and called her name softly.

  Even in the din, she heard him, she whirled, and it was her— the her he knew, and yet, a her who was different, with her worldly Paris gown, her lush coloring, her fresh innocence, her patrician bearing.

  What had this her sprung from? This wasn't the desperate vir­gin looking for a way out of a distasteful marriage. Nor was this a woman unsure of herself or her place in society. She looked the part; she acted the part. She was the woman of wealth and breed­ing she had always claimed to be.

  But he also knew she was headstrong, stubborn and single-minded.

  And luscious as chocolate.

  She gave him a disgusted look. Trust her hired penis to show up just when she didn't need the complication of him around.

  She had thought things were going just fine so far. There was as yet no sign of her father or Wroth, and there were hundreds of

  lovely eligible and potential husbands roaming around the ball­room, any one of whom could ask her to dance at any moment, could ask her to ...

  "You! I thought it was—well, who
cares who I thought it was .. . What do you want? You shouldn't be speaking to me anyway without an introduction."

  "I'd say we've been—well, improperly introduced."

  "You must be imagining it. I've never seen you before in my life."

  "Aha!" Hackford, coming up behind him. "Well, hello, and who is this? Do introduce me to your friend, Galliard."

  Galliard? Galliard? Angilee didn't know the name, hadn't come across it in the social register that Mrs. Geddes had insisted she read before the ball. Galliard. She rolled the name around in her mind, on her tongue.

  Galliard. She couldn't quite connect it to the hired penis in the brothel. This was insane. Him, here. How was this possible, when he was a dissolute libertine who lived in rented rooms somewhere outside of Town?

  "My name is Angilee Rosslyn," she said abruptly, preempting Kyger's introduction.

  "Ah, American."

  "From the South," Kyger put in helpfully.

  "And I'm James Hackford." With the obsequiously proper bow.

  Kyger could have strangled him, but Hackford went on in his easy way: "So pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Rosslyn."

  "Are you, Mr. Hackford? Or is it Lord? Will you marry me?"

  That shocked him. He took a step back, absolutely at a loss for words.

  "Or you, Mr. Galliard. Will you marry me?"

  "Are you asking every man at the ball?" Kyger asked wryly. Hackford looked horrified. "Has anyone said yes?"

  "So pleased to make your acquaintance," Angilee said through gritted teeth. "Let us keep it that way. Mr. Hackford? My pleasure. Mr. Galliard ..."

  She turned away as Hackford punched his arm. "She's crazy. You're well rid of her."

  "Give me a minute," Kyger murmured, hoping his desperation didn't quite show. "I'll meet you in the card room. Five minutes."

  It was almost too late. There was a dragon waiting for Angilee with a most disapproving look on her face as Kyger intercepted her again.