For a moment, while she stood near a potted fern that trailed lush green fronds onto the floor, she was reminded of the island of St. Thomas. Ferns had grown wild there, cascading over the forest floor in luxuriantly lacy abandon. Under them, one could find tiny scarlet flowers, or a thick, springy moss that was as soft as swan’s-down. The air had been rife with the clean scent of salt tang, wind, and the heady fragrance of tropical blooms.
She briefly closed her eyes, then opened them with a sigh. It was behind her now, and she was caught in a world that she had once thought she wanted. How different life was from what one planned.
Settling her spine against the right angle of the alcove wall, Angela watched the crowd from her vantage spot. The musicians on her right began to tune their instruments, though she could hear music spiraling down from one of the balconies. The discordant sounds were irritating, and her head began to throb. Really, this was too much even for a dutiful daughter.
She began to long for fresh air and quiet. Sets of French doors on the far end led to a balcony, where—she was certain—she could find at least some fresh air. Determinedly, she set out for the doors, but made slow progress. What her mother would say when she tried to find her, Angela had no idea. Reaching the balcony was paramount in her mind.
She had traversed almost the entire length of the ballroom when a swell of excitement rippled through the guests. Voices that had been overly loud only an instant before abruptly halted. Curious to see what had caused this sudden cessation in chaos, Angela paused and turned toward the source of the crowd’s interest.
Charles Sheridan stood with his erect, military-like bearing in the center of a group, and he appeared to be introducing one of his guests. Puzzled as to who could garner such intense interest, Angela recalled that the prince was supposed to attend. That would explain the crowd’s reaction. Well, she had no desire to meet the prince. From all she had heard, he was a rather pompous, silly man, for all that he was royal.
But as she turned to continue toward the doors leading to the balcony, she heard the duke call her name; she groaned. He would insist upon introducing her to the prince, and there was little she could do. She’d been snared as neatly as a herring in a net.
Determined to make the best of it, Angela turned with a smile, doing her best to keep her train looped over her arm and off the floor. Focusing on the duke, she hoped that she could remember how to address a prince as Tremayne said formally, “Miss Lindell, I wish to introduce you to Lord Westcott. Christian, this is Miss Lindell, daughter of my business associate, and a very amiable companion.”
Not the prince, she had time to think gratefully, but when she turned her gaze toward the man stepping forward, her heart lurched and her stomach dropped to her toes.
Furious blue eyes caught and held hers, and she resisted a wave of panic and confusion as their gazes locked.
Kit Saber . . .
Twenty-one
“Your son?” Angela echoed feebly, and turned green eyes filled with confusion toward the duke. Kit fought a wave of fury. So, she hadn’t known. It was just like his father to spring this sort of thing on her. Didn’t he know that well enough? History had a way of repeating itself, it seemed.
But he’d be damned if he’d let either of them know he was the least bit affected.
Sweeping an elegant bow, he took the hand Angela finally held out to him. Her fingers trembled as he made an elaborate gesture of kissing her hand, holding it a shade too long. He could feel his father’s amused gaze resting on him as he straightened and said, “I’m delighted that my father has found such pleasant and lovely company in his declining years.”
As he released her hand, Angela looked from one to the other of them with a stunned expression in her eyes. He could well imagine what she might be feeling at this moment. Once the shock wore off, she may well feel the same savage anger he was feeling. But he doubted it. Angela, it was certain, had never dealt with Charles Sheridan’s treachery before. He was only too accustomed to it, however, and wondered bitterly why he had ever thought things might change. Nothing had.
Except, perhaps, Angela. If anything, she was even lovelier than before. Her filmy gown suited her, though he thought the heavy ruby necklace a shade too much. Simplicity was more her style. Such as nothing but a thin cotton gown, damp from the ocean and clinging to her body in diaphanous folds that could make a man ache for days. Damn. That was hardly something he needed to remember at this time.
“Christian,” his father was saying, “why don’t you lead Miss Lindell in the first dance? I believe the musicians are ready to play a minuet.”
He would have refused, finding gracious words so that none would suspect his raging fury, but some quirk in his nature that must enjoy self-torture prompted him to offer an arm in mute invitation. Angela took it after a slight hesitation, and he escorted her to the middle of the floor where a space had been cleared for dancing.
With all eyes on them, they joined the other couples while the musicians began to play. The mincing steps of the dance occupied Kit’s attention sufficiently so that he was able to mask his feelings, yet with each dip and swirl and glance at Angela’s pale, set face, he fought an increasing urge to sweep her out the door. But that would only create more speculation, which was already running through the crowd like a rabid weasel. Scraps of whispered comments floated about his head like a flurry of dry leaves in a wind eddy. Most of them he could ignore. Angela was a different proposition altogether.
Did she have to look like a beautiful, pale ghost? Not even the brilliant hue of her dress and jewels could disguise the pallor of her cheeks or the fine lines on each side of her mouth. Damn Charles Sheridan and his mania for unpleasant surprises.
Engrossed in his inner turmoil, it took Kit a moment to realize that the minuet had ended and a Scotch reel had begun. He jerked to a halt, ignoring the couple who bumped into him as he looked down at Angela.
“We need to talk,” he heard himself say, and she nodded.
Murmurs followed them as he escorted her from the dance floor to the French doors leading onto the balcony, but at that moment, he didn’t give a damn what people thought. Especially his father. What he did care about was some sort of explanation from Angela. What the devil was she doing keeping company with his father, for God’s sake?
Staring up at him in the light of moon and lantern, Angela did not answer that question for several moments. Kit had the brief feeling that he should have posed it differently, but it had slipped out exactly as he’d been thinking it.
“What the devil,” she repeated slowly, leaning back against the wide stone balustrade, “am I doing seeing your father?” Her steady gaze remained fastened on his face for another long interval before she said, “I did not even know he was your father. For all I knew, you had no father. Perhaps you don’t remember, but you were never very free with information about your life. And while we’re at it, perhaps you’d like to tell me why you never divulged the knowledge that you are not only the son and heir of the Duke of Tremayne, but you are also the Earl of Westcott. Did you not think that was important enough to tell me?”
Amazed at her subtle conversion from shock to anger, Kit floundered for a moment before recovering. Damn her, how dare she look at him with accusation in her eyes? He wasn’t the one who seemed to have forgotten what had transpired between them.
Forcing himself to remain cool, Kit said evenly, “How alike women are. I should have guessed that you would attempt to place the blame upon me for your transgressions.”
“Transgressions!” Her eyes blazed with green fury as she glared up at him. “Perhaps my major transgression was in ever believing in you. It seems that you are nothing but a sham. I was a fool to think you honorable. You were wise to choose piracy as a profession, sir, for it suits you well. Now, if you will excuse me, my mother will be worried about me.”
When she started to storm past him, Kit grabbed her arm and whirled her around, forcing her back against the stone l
edge with his body, unable to stop himself. The condemnation in her eyes was more than he could withstand. Determined to banish it, to erase that assessing denouncement in her gaze, he grasped her chin with one hand, gripping it so firmly she winced.
“Damn you,” he rasped. “Are you condemning the trade of piracy, or are you angry because I did not inform you of my potential worth as an earl? Or has the lure of the big fish distracted you from a mere earl? I admit, a duke wields much more power and wealth, but doesn’t my inherent charm count for anything?” He tightened his grip when she tried to wrench away, unable to stop himself from saying, “Doesn’t what was between us count for anything?”
“Just what was between us?” she managed to gasp out. “Pardon me, but if there was anything between us, you never told me.”
“Did I have to tell you? Bloody hell, Angela, I thought it was plain enough.”
She glared up at him. “What was plain enough? That you wanted to bed me? Oh yes. You made that very clear. But I need more than that, Kit. I need what you don’t have to give, it seems. There’s more to life and love than a casual tumble between the sheets.”
Fury knifed through him. Casual? Is that what she thought? When he had practically turned himself inside out to stay away from her? And nearly had his entire ship taken to keep her safe? Was she really that blind?
Releasing her with a contemptuous shove, Kit stared down at her for a long moment. Angela met his gaze with a level stare of her own, almost daring him to prove her wrong.
“I thought so,” she finally said with a mocking curl of her lips. “You have courage enough to speak your own mind, but not enough to listen.”
Without realizing he had even moved, Kit had her in his arms, hands gripping her so tightly that she gasped. “Is it courage you seek, sweetheart?” His hands shifted to her shoulders, fingers sliding up the nape of her neck, thumbs wedging beneath her chin to tilt back her head so that she had to meet his eyes. “Is it courage,” he repeated softly, “or a lapdog that you want? I’m not a lapdog. You can’t snap your fingers and command me to heel, or speak, or feel whatever it is you want me to feel at that moment. I’m a man, with a man’s needs. Or have you forgotten how easy it is to be a woman?”
“Damn you!”
Her hand flashed up and back, as if to strike him, and he caught it easily, twisting her arm behind her back to hold it there. That action had the effect of pressing her tightly against him, and he could feel the rapid, furious rise and fall of her breasts. He glanced down at the enticing shadow between her breasts, and the creamy mounds that strained against her low-cut gown. It had the usual effect on him.
“Angela . . .” The word was a harsh groan, quickly lost in the heavy mass of her hair when he pressed his lips against her temple. She struggled against him, but he could only think of the times he had held her, the nights aboard ship, and the night they had made love in the ocean. How had she forgotten them so quickly? Did she really think that all he wanted from her was this . . . and this?
His hand skimmed down her back over bare skin and curves, coming to rest on the gentle slope of her hip to pull her even closer against him. Maybe she was partially right. He did want her. God, he’d thought of her during more long nights than he cared to recall, remembering the silky feel of her skin beneath his hands, the sweet curves of her body. He knew she could feel his desire—Christ, she could probably hear the heavy pounding of the blood through his body. There was something infinitely arousing about an angry woman. This angry woman, anyway.
Kit bent his head and kissed her, holding her chin in the cradle of his palm so that she would not twist away, his mouth burning across her parted lips until he felt her begin to yield. The heady taste of wine was tantalizing, the tentative touch of her tongue against his even more so. Senses reeling, he backed her slowly along the balustrade to the leafy bower of a potted tree with long, trailing branches. He paused beneath it, slivers of light like tiny stars across her face as she gazed up at him. Her lips were slightly parted and her cheeks flushed, her breathing as rapid as his. Kit felt a spurt of satisfaction.
“Now,” he asked huskily, “do you deny that you feel the same desire for me?”
For a moment, she just stared up at him. Then Angela lurched several steps from him, her voice a halting series of sobbing breaths. “How . . . dare . . . you! You do not . . . know me . . . at all. Do you really think . . . that bedding you is . . . all I want?” A tear escaped from one corner of her eye, trickling over her cheek and making a silvery path through her face powder. Kit lifted a hand to touch her, but she took a hasty step back, putting both palms outward to fend off his touch. “No. I’ve heard enough. This night is . . . is too much. Leave me alone. Nothing is what I thought it would be . . . nothing.”
Turning, she tossed the trailing train of her gown over one arm and lifted her skirts above her ankles as she ran the length of the balcony to a flight of stone steps leading to the garden below. She disappeared from sight while he stood like a statue, staring after her. She was right. Nothing was as he’d thought it would be. Nothing.
Time did not erase all wounds, nor did it alter the past. It only distanced it until one was able to view it from a distorted angle. But one thing was certain—Charles Sheridan had not changed. He was still the manipulative bastard he’d always been.
Pivoting on his heel, Kit stalked to the French doors leading into the ballroom. The time had come to have a long overdue father-son discussion. There were some things that needed to be said.
Charles Sheridan’s elegant brow lifted in a languid slant. “My dear boy, I have no idea what you are talking about.”
Slamming his hands to the surface of his father’s polished mahogany desk, Kit snarled, “The devil you don’t! You know very well what I’m talking about. We have been through this before—remember?”
“Christian, have you dragged me away from my guests just to rail at me about ancient history? Can it not wait until a more appropriate moment?”
“No.” Kit straightened. “It will not wait. Did you think I wouldn’t realize what you’re doing? You interfered in my betrothal to Susan, and somehow—God only knows how—you found out about Angela. You’re doing the same thing. I recall your tactics quite well, so don’t play the innocent with me. Divide and slaughter. Offer enough inducements, and the silly chit will grab at the brass ring in the pudding quickly enough. It worked with Susan, but by God, don’t you dare try it again. I won’t have it.”
“Won’t you.” Sheridan sat down in his huge leather chair and leaned back, fixing Kit with a supercilious smile that did almost irreparable damage to his temper. “I don’t really see that you have much choice, Christian. Miss Lindell was left here in London on her own, and I took rather a fancy to her. She’s a sweet little thing, don’t you think?”
With great effort, Kit resisted the urge to throttle the duke. Logic demanded that he not murder his father with several hundred guests only a few rooms away.
“Why are you doing this?” he contented himself with asking in a much calmer voice than he’d thought possible. “Do you hate me that much?”
In the process of lighting a cigar, the duke went very, very still. He stared at his son over the flaring match until it burned his fingers and he dropped it with a muttered oath. Then he carefully placed the unlit cigar in a glass dish and leaned forward, meeting Kit’s eyes.
“Quite the contrary. I have never hated you. I spent ten years of my life scouring the entire world for you. And for my pains, I recovered a hostile brigand who loathed me upon first sight. Hate you? Oh no. I may correctly be accused of many things, Christian, but that is not one of them.”
“Then why?” Kit shook his head slowly. “Why are you doing this?”
For a long moment filled with silence and the steady, sonorous ticking of the ornate clock upon the mantel, Charles Sheridan gazed at Kit. Then he gave an elegant shrug of his shoulders. “You are mistaken if you think I am deliberately trying to sabotage you i
n any way. If anything, I have gone out of my way to alleviate any difficulties in your life. You simply choose to misinterpret my intentions.”
“Alleviate—” Kit bit back a choking snarl, amazed at his father’s allegation. “Am I supposed to throw myself at your feet now and thank you for alleviating my difficulties? Do you think I don’t know why you beguiled Susan away from me?”
“Exactly. You have no idea why I chose to show you the young lady for the greedy little baggage that she was.” The duke lifted his unlit cigar with an irritable motion. “Wasn’t her defection proof enough to you that her emotions were not involved?”
“And is that what you’re trying to do with Angela?” Kit leaned forward, placing his palms on the desk and bending until he was within inches of his father’s face. “Let me offer you a warning—do not attempt to manipulate me again. Especially not with Angela. I’m a grown man now, not a heartsick youth.”
“Dear me, does this mean you won’t run away from home again? The last time was such a noble statement, fleeing like a scalded cat instead of staying to face what any man with backbone would confront.” He struck another match, deliberately holding the flame to the end of his cigar with disregard for Kit’s proximity.
Kit drew back, his voice tight. “I was barely twenty. I thought I was in love. To have it revealed in public that the woman to whom I was betrothed was now my father’s mistress was a bit more than I could stomach. I didn’t leave England because of cowardice; it was revulsion that drove me to the sea.”
“And an affinity for piracy.” Putting out the match, Sheridan tossed it into the glass tray. “Your childhood prepared you well for thievery, while I did my best to instill proper values in you. If you think I forgot you once you left the country, you are very much mistaken. I was aware of every ship in the Sheridan line that fell into your hands, and of every port where you docked. I knew how much care you took, how much profit you made—all of it. You show an aptitude for trade that would delight a burgher. Why do you think some of my well-armed ships did not return fire upon you? Did it ever occur to you to wonder why ships in the Sheridan line would return fire on any flag but yours? Or did you even notice?” Tapping a long ash from the end of his cigar, the duke laughed softly. “Details, Christian, details. They are the very marrow of any thriving business. Ignore them, and you may find yourself on a corner begging for bread.”
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