Midnight Masquerade

by Shirlee Busbee

  "Doing it too brown," Zachary replied. "You've taken a dislike to Dominic, and nothing he can do is right."

  Stung, Melissa protested, "That's not true! Have you forgotten that Uncle Josh warned us against him? That he says the man is not to be trusted?"

  "And since when have you ever paid any attention to what Uncle Josh says?"

  Melissa flushed, and turning away from Zachary, she fiddled with a few strands of the mare's silky mane. Zachary had made a point and she had no ready argument. How could she explain to him the chaotic emotions that Mr. Dominic Slade aroused within her breast? How to explain the stinging joy she had experienced in his arms? The pleasure his mouth had given her? The excitement that had coursed through her veins when she saw him? How to tell him that the man both fascinated and frightened her?

  More confused than she had ever been in her life, she glanced back at Zachary and admitted, "You're right that I don't usually listen to Uncle Josh, but this time, I think that what he has to say has merit. There is something about Mr. Slade that..." She took a deep breath and said in a rush, "I just don't like him, Zack. He is too sure of himself, too arrogant and certain that everyone will run to do his bidding."

  Zachary's eyebrows rose. That hadn't been his impression of Dominic. "Well, I like him. And I intend to pursue a friendship with him..." Glumly, he added, "If he'll let me after last night."

  This was the first time that she and Zack had ever seriously disagreed on anything, and Melissa resented Dominic's apparent influence over her brother. She also didn't like to see him so uncertain, but stifling the words of denunciation she would have liked to utter, she said with forced carelessness, "Oh, I shouldn't worry. You didn't do anything so very awful, and I'm certain even the great Mr. Dominic Slade has been foxed on more than one occasion." She would have preferred to forbid him to have any further doings with the nefarious Mr. Slade, but she was unhappily aware that Zachary was now a young man and that she could no longer control his actions as she had when he was a child. Besides, she told herself miserably, she didn't want to be at daggers drawing with Zack, and it was obvious that any attempt on her part to stop his desire to see more of Mr. Slade would only cause more dissension between them. For the sake of their feelings for each other, she was just going to have to keep her mouth shut about Mr. Slade.

  Pinning a smile on her mouth, she asked lightly, "Besides having had too much to drink, how did you like your evening at the Whitehorn? Was it what you expected?"

  Only listening with one part of her brain to Zachary's enthusiastic recounting of the evening's events, Melissa wondered dispiritedly if Mr. Slade had even spared a thought about last night. Probably not. Why, she would wager he would be hard pressed to even recall that he had kissed her!

  Melissa would have been both thrilled and shocked to discover that Dominic had spent a great part of his waking hours doing nothing but thinking about her. Specifically, the moments when she had been in his arms.

  All during the ride back to Oak Hollow he had thought of nothing else but his own incomprehensible reactions to a woman he didn't like, certainly didn't find attractive, and one, furthermore, who had all the charm and beauty of a flea-bitten camel! But he couldn't forget how she had felt in his arms—warm and pliant and oh, so desirable. He wondered briefly if he was growing senile or if there had been something in the brandy that had caused him to respond as he had. And, like Melissa, he found himself sleepless, his thoughts on that unforgettable embrace.

  But sleep did come eventually, and although he did not awaken with the pounding headaches that had greeted both Zachary and Royce, he did not start the day with quite the zest he would have normally. Like Zachary and Royce, he had awaken late in the morning, which had annoyed him since he had planned on making an early departure for Thousand Oaks. He lay in his bed for several seconds, his thoughts going immediately to last night.

  Good God! he mused. What had possessed him! His only interest in Miss Melissa Seymour was her damn horse! The situation was already difficult enough without the added complication of riling the wretched female! Deliberately, he did not think about the piercing desire he had felt for her. It was simply an aberration on his part and was unlikely ever to occur again.

  With that notion grimly in place, he dressed and finished preparing for the departure from Oak Hollow. To his surprise, Royce, though in a foul mood, was all packed and ready and waiting for him when he finally descended the curving staircase.

  "And did you see your ewe lamb home safely?" Royce asked, the throbbing in his temples not making him the best of company.

  Dominic was familiar with Royce's ill temper after a night of deep drinking and he merely grinned. "That I did. And I suspect that his head is no better than yours is this morning."

  Royce shuddered. "No doubt. And no doubt his sister will be ready to comb our hair with a cleaver, if I know Melissa. I do not look forward to the scolding we shall probably get from her the next time we see her. She has a viper's tongue when she's angry."

  Dominic gave him a sardonic look. "What? The sweet beauty of whom your father sings such praises?"

  Glaring at him, Royce snarled, "I'm in no mood for your witticisms this morning." Turning on his heel, he muttered, "Let's bid my parents adieu and get out of here."

  Chuckling to himself, Dominic followed Royce's less-than-charming lead. Bidding a polite good-bye to his hosts and promising to return for another visit took several minutes, but finally the two young men, followed by three horses which carried Royce's manservant as well as their trunks and valises, were able to escape.

  As they rode down the long driveway that led from Oak Hollow, Dominic was conscious of a queer reluctance to leave... not Oak Hollow, but this area—without one more look at Miss Melissa Seymour. He prided himself on being a discerning gentleman, and though he had stubbornly pushed thoughts of her to the back of his mind, the events of last night sat uneasily within him.

  Turning to glance at Royce, he said, "I would like to ride by Willowglen... I believe that it is not too far out of our way."

  Royce sent him a considering glance. "Now why," he asked, "would you want to do that?"

  If it were possible for a man of Dominic's sophistication and years to blush, he did so, a dark red stain creeping up into his cheeks. "I merely want to satisfy myself that Zachary is suffering no ill effects from last night," he relied stiffly.

  Royce flashed him a look that spoke volumes. "Very well," he said. "But I warn you... if I find that it is because you want to moon over Melissa, I shall not be responsible for my actions!"

  "Moon over Melissa!" Dominic grated indignantly. "Don't be a fool." That was the end of the conversation, but when they turned down the overgrown lane that led to Willowglen, Dominic wondered which one of them was the real fool!

  They found Melissa and Zachary under an oak tree near the stables. Zachary was sprawled in the dappled shade of the tree, and Melissa appeared to be grooming an already immaculately groomed mare.

  There was some constraint between Dominic and Melissa, but Zachary was so pleased that the two older men had thought to call upon him that his obvious delight in their company covered any awkwardness that might have resulted. As the quartet stood talking in the warm sunshine, some of Royce's surliness vanished, and by the time they were saying their adieus he was quite in charity with the world at large. In a much better frame of mind, his head no longer pounding, he was able to ride away from Willowglen, eager to begin the journey to Thousand Oaks.

  Seated upon the fine black gelding, Dominic bade the Seymours good-bye, but his mood was not improved by the event. The entire time that he had been talking to Melissa and Zachary, he had been surreptitiously studying her, seeking some clue to explain what had moved him to such stunning passion last night.

  It was hopeless, he thought, staring at the pinched face that met his gaze. The spectacles glinting in the sunlight made it impossible for him to even guess at the color of her eyes—and that hair! This morning it was
pulled back in a bun every bit as ugly as the one she had worn the first time he had seen her.

  Disparagingly his eyes traveled down the drab, shapeless gown, and he was unable to understand what had happened to him last night. It was with relief that Dominic said his good-byes and guided his horse away from the exasperating Miss Seymour. It must have been the brandy!

  Chapter 7

  To her chagrin, Melissa discovered that time seemed to drag with Dominic's disappearance from the neighborhood. Far more than she cared to admit, her wayward thoughts traveled often in his direction and she wondered, at least once every day, what he was doing and when he would return. If he would return.

  It wasn't, she told herself as warm May weeks gradually faded into even warmer June days, that she actually missed the beastly Mr. Slade! But she had to confess that his presence in the area had added a certain something to the even tenor of the days. She had been conscious of an unusual anticipation for each day that vanished when Dominic had ridden away with Royce.

  Zachary, too, seemed to regret Dominic's departure, although his feelings on the matter were clearly expressed. While he echoed many of her own thoughts, there were times she was certain she would scream if she heard him say, once more, "I wonder when Dominic and Royce will be back. Things are flat with them gone."

  Of course, she betrayed none of her own longings for the absent Mr. Slade, determined to push the memory of those passionate moments in his arms from her mind. She would rather have died than let Zachary know that she, too, wondered when Mr. Slade would return. Why she was so curious about his reappearance bothered her almost as much as the fact that she did wonder about him.

  Convincing herself that she had momentarily fallen prey to the practiced charms of a handsome Lothario was not easy, but it was the only way she could explain her reaction to him. It didn't help her state of mind, nor did it banish the embarrassingly explicit dreams that came to her at night, but she was able to gain some semblance of normality as the weeks passed.

  There were other things to occupy her mind, so, busy and harassed as she was, she gradually came to believe that what had happened that night was just one of those odd, unexplainable events that occurred in everyone's life now and then. It certainly, she vowed sternly, would never happen again!

  The constant struggle to maintain Willowglen was taking its toll of Melissa's slender resources, and the end of the second week of June found her questioning her ability to accomplish little more than she had already. She was depressingly aware that what she and Zachary had done since their father's death to restore Willowglen's former elegance or even successfully implement their dream of running a stud farm was pitifully inadequate. Zachary had repeated some of Dominic's observations, and while Melissa had been infuriated with his comments, she had to admit that there was more than a little truth in what the annoying Mr. Slade had said. At least, she reminded herself with a disconcerting lack of enthusiasm, they were out of debt.... Not precisely, if she were to be totally honest. There was still that blasted note held by Julius Latimer, and she had the uneasy feeling that Mr. Latimer would not continue indefinitely to be so understanding about their inability to pay what was a disgracefully overdue debt.

  This particular sunny morning, Melissa was perched on a wooden stool in the tack room, cleaning an old bridle, thinking about the debt and the attractive but slightly sinister Mr. Latimer, when as if her thoughts had conjured him up he suddenly appeared in the doorway of the small room.

  She had been so lost in her unhappy musings that his voice startled her. She gave a gasp when he said softly, "Ah, here you are, my dear. Miss Osborne told me that I might find you here."

  Recovering herself, Melissa put down the bridle and slid off the stool. "I am afraid that I am to be found here most of the time," she replied ruefully. "It seems that there is always something that must have my attention...."

  Smiling at him, she made to move past him where he stood in the doorway, but he remained where he was, making no attempt to give way. Questioningly she glanced at him. His blue eyes held an odd expression, and realizing that he had not visited Willowglen since she had undertaken her disguise, she dimpled and murmured, "Does my appearance shock you?"

  His lips quirking with amusement, he shook his blond head, his gaze traveling appreciatively over the untidy bun and the ugly spectacles which persisted in sliding down her delightful little nose. Laughter obvious in his voice, he declared, "You overwhelm me! I never would have recognized you. But tell me, what brings this about? Is there some costume ball that I have not heard of?"

  Melissa giggled. There were moments when she actually liked the Englishman. He was undeniably attractive with his deep blue eyes and wavy blond hair, and he could be quite entertaining when he chose to be. Standing just above six feet tall, Julius Latimer was slimly built, yet his shoulders were broad and there was nothing weak or effeminate about him. For some reason, he always made Melissa think of a rapier—slim, elegant and deadly. But when he was in a charming mood, as he appeared to be today, and wasn't, as was the case all too frequently, attempting slyly to let her know that there were other ways in which she could repay her father's debts, Melissa enjoyed his company. Nevertheless, his personal comments always disturbed her, as did the considering looks that came into those blue eyes. He had never come out and said exactly what he had in mind, but she was not so innocent that she couldn't guess. And yet he was so clever with his seemingly idle suggestions that she was never positive if he was serious or just teasing her—albeit in a most improper fashion!

  She had never been entirely alone with him before, though, and she was uncomfortably conscious that they were very much by themselves—Zack and Etienne had gone into Baton Rouge to the dry-goods store, Frances was up at the house with Ada, and the other servants were busy on the few acres of cotton which had been planted in the spring. The fact, too, that Latimer was effectively blocking the only way out of the tack room made Melissa nervous. She didn't think he was going to attack her, but she would have preferred to have been out in the open—and within calling distance of the others.

  Giving him a smile that betrayed none of her inner wariness, she said, "There is no costume ball. My uncle has been hounding me again about getting married, and I decided that if I made myself as unattractive as possible, the probability of finding a gentleman who wished to contemplate marriage with such a dowdy-looking woman would be greatly reduced."

  "Hmm, I wouldn't say that," he drawled. "This disguise of yours might tempt a man to discover for himself the beauty that lies behind your outward trappings of homeliness." He moved slightly, his long fingers touching her delicate jaw. "I have always thought that you are very lovely and, even looking as you do now, my opinion hasn't changed." He seemed to hesitate a moment, as if contemplating a course of action, and then a curious expression came into the blue eyes. "You know, there are all sorts of offers," he said softly, "besides marriage that a gentleman might make to a girl such as you...."

  An angry sparkle glinting in her amber-gold eyes, Melissa jerked her chin away from his caressing fingers. "A girl like me?" she repeated in a dangerous tone. "What precisely do you mean?"

  Julius looked pained. Brushing away a nonexistent bit of lint from the sleeve of his elegantly cut bottle-green coat, he complained, "Oh, come now, Lissa. You must have some idea what I'm talking about. Lord knows, I've hinted enough these past weeks. Must I say it out loud?"

  Her heart beating in thick, heavy strokes, her throat suddenly painfully tight, she said levelly, "Yes, I do believe that you must."

  His aristocratic features stiffened and something unpleasant flickered in his eyes. "Very well, then, my dear," he said in a bored voice. "You owe me a considerable sum of money, and while I have been very patient, I'm afraid that my patience has run out, or rather, my time here in America is coming to a close."

  Melissa frowned. "You're leaving?"

  A cold smile curved his full mouth. "Not until the fall or early winter... it
all depends on—" He paused before saying smoothly, "In the meantime, I am beginning to settle my affairs... which brings me to you."

  Ignoring her attempt to escape his touch, he grasped her chin and forced her to look up at him. "I find you extremely desirable, Melissa—even in this ridiculous garb—and for the pleasure of your charms over the next few months, I would be willing to tear up that voucher signed by your father." His lids dropped, his gaze fastened on her mouth. "I want you for my mistress. Our time together must naturally be of brief duration, but I'm sure that I shall find your many delectable attributes well worth the money."

  Melissa tried to break his hold on her chin, but he tightened his grip brutally and her efforts were in vain. Latimer put his free arm around her waist and pulled her close to him. The desire he felt was obvious in his look, and a coaxing note came into his voice as he murmured, "I am prepared to be generous with you, my dear... and if you are, as I suspect, a virgin, I even would be willing to pay you for your loss. I want you very badly, and these weeks of biding my time have only whetted my appetite for you."

  Outraged, insulted and frightened, Melissa acted without thinking, twisting her head and sinking her teeth into his wrist. A feeling of immense satisfaction swept through her when Latimer cursed viciously and released her. Dancing several steps away from him, her bosom heaving under the faded material of her gown, she grated, "You'll be lucky if that is the only mark upon you before you leave here today."

  Assessingly, he regarded her across the short distance that separated them, his handsome face marred by a scowl. Rubbing at his wrist where her teeth had broken the skin, he snarled, "I had assumed we could discuss this politely, but I see I was wrong."

  Incredulously, Melissa glared at him. "Politely!" she echoed furiously. "I don't think your suggestion was very polite at all. In fact, sir, it was grossly insulting!"