Elizabeth tossed away the pink satin in disgust. It was obvious to Antoinette that Christina’s casual reference to her noble ancestors irritated the English lady in the extreme. And not for the first time since she and Elizabeth had moved into Michael’s townhouse yesterday.
“Are you sure you wouldn’t rather wear white?” Elizabeth asked curtly. “I feel positive that the virginal air would suit you well.”
“But I have no desire to appear a bride,” Christina parried. “However, if you would care to, I have no objection.”
Elizabeth’s gaze narrowed and her hands clenched in the folds of her blue dress. Antoinette suspected that Elizabeth hated the Señora, for no other reason than for the moment, at least, Christina held Michael’s attention. As though that were an amazing thing, considering the Spanish girl’s beauty! And a real relationship between Michael and Christina was by no means fully established.
There was some mystery to the Señora, a mystery that Antoinette had determined to unravel. How bored she had been in England! Life was always amusing when one had dealings with Michael, or Julian. And amusement was of desperate importance to Antoinette now. Amusement, and revenge.
Christina had removed the half-completed silk dress and tried on an emerald-green riding habit, seemingly oblivious to Elizabeth’s simmering anger. Antoinette silently applauded. Elizabeth hadn’t yet gotten the best of the Spanish girl, though not from a lack of trying. Elizabeth jabbed at her often, and the girl either awoke from her thoughts to deliver an ambiguous, stinging reply, or else ignored her. Elizabeth was infuriated, every time.
Antoinette liked Christina, and was feeling impatient with Elizabeth. Elizabeth could be charming company when she pleased; her wit at times was amusing and diverting. But Antoinette was now forty-eight years old and had learned wisdom the hard way, through tragedy. She was beginning to find Elizabeth a bit too transparent. She had known all along that Elizabeth had only accompanied her to America in order to see Michael, and she had obliged Elizabeth in the hope that it would lure Michael near. But it seemed Michael had no intention of even bedding Elizabeth, much less marrying her; and now Elizabeth was becoming an embarrassing shrew. Antoinette must either induce her to leave or marry her off to someone else.
Unaware of the calculating thoughts of her companions, Christina was discovering that these English-American fashions suited her far better than Mexican styles, fussy with lace and too much fabric. She loved the cut of this velvet-trimmed wool riding habit, simple and severe and easy to move in. It came with a small plumed bonnet. So different from the reboza she wore at home, and the evening gown, perfectly fitted to her body yet lightweight, shorn of lace or any other embroidery that would make it heavy and cumbersome, like the dresses the ladies favored in Mexico. The effect there was overstated and gaudy. Here, tastefulness was the key. Christina knew that in these clothes she would look her best.
“Cherie, you must order three more ball gowns and a dozen more day dresses to get you through the next month. I will not even mention the holiday parties that are soon to begin, because I know that you insist you won’t be here to attend. But you must humor me, cherie. I intend to take you everywhere while you are here.”
Christina smiled, as well she might; since she was thinking of Michael Brett’s reaction to the news that his aunt was “taking her every where,” beginning with the Ambassador’s Ball in two days. Let him get used to the idea of her parading all over town, practically on her own! He deserved any agony of mind he might endure over being forced to trust her; and when she did escape, it would be a much simpler matter if she were already out of the house. Would he call himself a fool for that very trust?
She hoped so. Feeling vengeful and bitter and nervous, all at the same time, she decided to spend a fortune. He was paying for her new clothes, and he might as well pay dearly. Antoinette clearly expected it; let him argue with her, when the bill came! And she would include traveling dresses along with everything else. Those she would put to good use when the time came . . .
*
“What do you mean, the Señora will be attending the Ambassador’s Ball?” Geoffrey Lowndes demanded, his complexion turning even ruddier than usual. “The President will be there!”
“The President, and the Señora de Sainz, my unofficial fiancée. I believe the evening should prove interesting.”
Michael Brett raised a negligent shoulder. He had been summoned to the Capitol to openly attend a Cabinet meeting called to discuss the proposed landing of troops at Vera Cruz. Lowndes had pulled him aside before the meeting began, requesting news of the Señora. He had heard the rumors, just like everyone else.
“Is she really your fiancée?” Curiosity, as well as anxiety, tinged Lowndes’s voice.
“Of course not. The lady would never stoop so low. She is cooperating with the story; chiefly because I promised to keep her safe from you, and your ugly threats.”
“She didn’t appear frightened to me,” Lowndes said sourly. “But what in God’s name will she say to the President? And he to her?”
“The ball is tomorrow night. You’ll just have to wait and see, won’t you?”
*
Antoinette, dressed in a charming Parisian gown of rose silk, her gray-streaked hair piled on her head in a Greek coiffure that added height to her small form, entered Christina’s room to oversee the finishing of her toilette. Christina greeted her without surprise. During the past few days, Antoinette had taken to mothering her in a way that no one, with the possible exception of the nuns, had ever done before. Christina could sense, dismayed, her conditioned wall of reserve crumbling, little by little. Michael’s aunt was beginning to treat her like a daughter; and the experience was proving both disturbing and uncomfortable, since she found the lady’s kindness so difficult to resist. Particularly tonight, when she felt homesick, restless and unsociable.
“Petite, you must allow me to rearrange your hair. That style is too severe.” Pushing Penny aside, Antoinette proceeded to remove the hairpins that held Christina’s hair in place, causing the whole rippling mass to fall down again. Penny watched Antoinette with wide eyes; so did Christina, in the mirror.
“You are already so tall and so poised; we must soften you up a bit.” Quick fingers worked in Christina’s hair. Christina sat still, trusting Antoinette’s taste but not really caring what she looked like. This was to be her first formal ball in more than two years, aside from Santa Anna’s “reception;” and she felt indifferent. She would be stared at, as a kind of foreign freak; Elizabeth would gossip about her, fueling everyone’s distaste; and no one would dance with her. Altogether, a miserable evening was ahead.
“Will Michael attend?” she asked.
“Tonight” But of course, petite. He is our escort. Where else would he be?”
Where else, indeed? Anywhere else. Christina had scarcely seen Michael in over a week. But Elizabeth had; they had gone out driving several times, Elizabeth always returning radiant and confident. The woman’s pride was becoming insufferable because of Michael’s casual attentions. But he must desire her company, or he wouldn’t invite her out so frequently!
As for Christina, Michael tended to treat her with a kind of mocking courtesy when they did accidentally meet. Antoinette was typically present, limiting the conversation to trivialities; but he made no attempt to speak with her alone. He seemed to be avoiding her. No doubt he believed her to be content with her improved circumstances and had no wish to disturb her temper. How wrong he was! Did he expect her to accept this mindless situation forever?
Antoinette read some of the emotions that appeared so swiftly in the Señora’s eyes; others she only guessed at. She did, however, detect a small amount of pique. Deciding to bring this irritation out into the open, she said lightly, “I hope you realize, petite, that Michael and Elizabeth are childhood friends. Their family estates in England run side-by-side. Before Michael left England to come here, he and Elizabeth were quite close.”
Christina
tried to jerk her head around, but Antoinette had too tight a grasp on her hair. “You need explain nothing to me, Madame. Michael’s friendship with Elizabeth is of no concern at all.”
“I merely wished you to understand how naturally it may have been for Elizabeth to entertain hopes of marriage. Although I am certain it has never been seriously discussed, until it was decided Lord Robert would likely never have children, making Michael his designated heir, Elizabeth would have looked higher than Michael, anyway. In fact, she was actually engaged, at one time, to a viscount; but the unfortunate man caught a disease and died. Now that Michael is to become the Duke of Westbrook, Elizabeth believes he will do.”
“He is to be what?” Christina had gone still, her blank eyes searching for Antoinette in the mirror.
“Duke of Westbrook. The title is very old. Do you mean he never told you?”
Christina shook her head. The bastard! Unreasonable anger rushed through her. With his ill-bred, disgusting manners, he was a disgrace to his ancestral name! She had scarcely considered that his title might be a real one, even when the pompous butler, called him “Lord Michael.” Not even after she had met his quite respectable aunt and that vixen Elizabeth. She had assumed he was some sort of scandalous relation. But to discover he was of a high-born family! It was too much!
Antoinette looked amused, as she quite often did. “That is truly bad of him. One can only assume that he wished you to know him for himself, instead of his future name. And Michael has always threatened to relinquish all his holdings in England one day, his home is now in Texas, you see, and he has become very liberal in his thinking. He calls himself American, and it has lost his friends in Europe.” Antoinette frowned. Michael’s independent way of looking at things had cost him acquaintances in Washington, too. And there had been one or two killings in Texas, which had unfortunately been politically incorrect, and had hurt him there as well. Not to mention the close associations he had formed with certain Indians . . . “Perhaps there are things he doesn’t wish you to know just yet.”
“He has led me to believe he was someone else entirely. I can never forgive him, Madame! He has made a joke of me.”
The Señora seemed angry, and as before in her passion she was lovely. With her hair more naturally arranged, so that some of it escaped to fall against her neck and down her back, and her green-gold eyes flashing dangerously, her looks were bold enough and unusual enough that they were worthy of attracting Michael’s interest. Antoinette hoped Christina remained angry all through the ball. Michael would never be able to resist her . . . and the entire town would talk. It would prove delightful entertainment. She smiled.
“Michael must earn your forgiveness, petite, I quite agree. You may treat him abominably, with my blessing. But now you must dress, and quickly, too; the carriage is waiting outside. And I will tell you whatever else you wish to know. Question me all you like - I give you carte blanche. But in the name of God, where is your maid with that dress?”
“Michael Brett had no idea what he had done now to incur the Señora’s contempt. But he recognized the signs, bracing himself for a formally voiced tirade of Spanish designed to slice him down to size. Fortunately, his aunt, Lady Elizabeth, and his cousin Rowan were all in the carriage en route to the ball at Senator Highcastor’s home as well as he and Christina, and she forbore to say anything. Anything at all. She had not even replied to his very civil “Good evening” before they had departed.
So he’d seated himself next to her, knowing he was safe for the moment and intending to take advantage of a perfect opportunity to annoy both her and Elizabeth. He was in a foul mood tonight. Julian had sent him word that Santa Anna had, two weeks earlier, been formally declared Commander-in-chief of the Mexican Forces, and was expected to set out to meet Zachary Taylor’s command as soon as possible, which - due to the time lag in messages - meant that a decisive battle might be taking place in Mexico right now. God, how he wished he were there, doing the shooting himself, instead of cooling his heels in Washington, playing politics, and waiting on the whim of the President! The urge to kill in him was strong. Julian and his band of renegades had already begun to harass the Mexican Army, with Julian leading the fighting with his usual careless regard for safety; and several more of Michael’s Texas Ranger friends had joined Taylor’s force on the way to Monterey. He should be there, as well, the gun in his hand providing a physical outlet for the violence built up inside him. He should be anywhere but here, trapped in an overly perfumed carriage headed for a dead bore of a party.
He observed Christina out of the corner of his eye. In her own quiet and controlled way, she was in a rage. Her skin was flushed to rose, her almond-shaped eyes glinted, and the bones of her face appeared sharper than ever at the high angle they were tilted. She refused to look at him or acknowledge him. She was pressed against the side of the coach so that her dress wouldn’t even touch him.
Now, who had been telling her tales? Probably someone had regaled her with the story of his life, it was bound to happen sooner or later; and as the true facts contradicted the vulgar picture Christina had painted, she had become righteously indignant. Well, he hadn’t lied to her about his background, he hadn’t told her anything at all. If she chose to get angry because he was a real English Lord with ancestry as good as hers, instead of an ordinary American with a specialty of lying and a few well-bred relatives, that was her decision. But, Lord, she was nice to look at when she was in a temper, and no matter why she was directing that temper at him, he intended to enjoy it. Maybe he would drag her off into the Highcastor’s garden tonight and kiss her, or attempt to persuade her to unlock the door separating their bedrooms later on, and do more than that. Why not? If he couldn’t shoot any of Santa Anna’s men, why not make love to one of his countrywomen?
Michael’s blue eyes were settled in obvious scrutiny on Christina, and she was uncomfortably aware of them. Even Antoinette and Elizabeth, desultorily discussing an on-dit of gossip, had ceased talking, and Rowan had both eyebrows raised. Why in God’s name was he staring at her like that? Christina wondered annoyedly. Couldn’t he tell she was angry enough? Her hold on her temper snapped.
“Don’t look at me,” she whispered, conscious of the women opposite who were listening, but sure he must not do it again.
“But I want to. You’re beautiful, querida, and I’ve scarcely seen you this week. Give me your hand.” He took her gloved palm and held it, resisting her efforts to jerk away, pleased at her near panicked reaction that told him a lot. It said that she was mad, yes, and scared, yes; but not indifferent at all! He was beginning to believe that the Señora de Sainz might end up desiring him just as much as he desired her. It was a pleasant wish, anyway.
Feeling ridiculous struggling with him in the carriage, she gave up and let him keep her hand. “Your playacting isn’t necessary anymore,” she hissed.
He grinned and moved his head close to her ear. “I’m speaking the truth for once, love. I’ll testify on the Bible later, if you wish.”
He was implying there would be a later. She was torn between embarrassment and outrage and something else, that was strange and warm and seemed to have been transferred from him to her. Something like a searching promise. She shivered. She didn’t want anything else from him!
She angled her face closer to his, her lips seeking his ear. “I hate you, Lord Brett, and you won’t change my mind.”
He was rubbing her fingers, one by one, the gentle motion making her hot. Her velvet evening cape felt stifling. How much farther did they have to go?
Her answer came almost immediately as the driver eased to a halt. Voices and the distant strains of music could be heard from outside. Antoinette, coyly smiling, said, “My dears, you must continue your quarrel later. I’m afraid Highcastor Hall is no place for a quiet conversation. You will be surrounded, Christina, cherie by everyone who will want to know you. Michael, you must leave her to me.”
But Michael, meeting his aunt’s knowing eyes
as the carriage door was opened and the steps were let down, held up Christina’s captured hand and squeezed it. “I think I’ll keep her. No doubt my presence at her side will hold the curious at bay.”
Feeling ignored long enough, Elizabeth’s voice rose in aggravated petulance.
“Michael, would you please consider alighting from this carriage and helping us down? I for one feel it distasteful to witness any more of your ill-timed intimacy with the Señora.”
Flicking her an impertinent stare, he drawled, “I wasn’t aware that you were at all uncomfortable with intimacy, my dear. Perhaps I was mistaken. Certainly I will assist you down.” He crossed to the steps and descended, trailed by a smiling Rowan. But he extended his hand to his aunt first.
Elizabeth was the last to be escorted out of the carriage. But before she stepped down, she leaned against Michael and said softly, “You are a bastard to tease me so. You may find that my door is locked tonight.”
“Then I won’t try it. And I promise you, I never tease.”
He turned away and took Christina’s arm, leaving Elizabeth to climb out herself.
*
Christina discovered that what Michael had said about his presence discouraging the curious was true. Although may people smiled at her, not everyone approached Michael for an introduction. The expressions on the faces of those who avoided him were varied: contempt, distaste, a little anger, and possibly even fear. Those who greeted him appeared to respect him, and even to like him. Certainly not many of the guests were indifferent.
Hopefully the heat of the ballroom, crammed with two or three hundred laughing guests, an orchestra, and six massive chandeliers, accounted for the color she knew still suffused her face. Michael kept tight control of her arm; and her skin, bare now that she had shed her cloak, seemed sensitive to every twitch of muscle his movements created. The feeling irritated her, and she wished he wasn’t as aware of her discomfort as she was of his slightest breath. But she knew he was perfectly aware. The nasty gleam of humor in his eyes and the overdone solicitude with which he treated her proved it.
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