by Anne Gracie
“Well?” She turned and faced him, her arms folded across her chest. “What is it you are burning to tell me? More disgraceful family secrets you have unearthed about me? More slanders against my character? More baseless accusations about how I’m plotting with my father to ruin Alice?”
“No.” He ran a finger around his tight matador collar, and swallowed. “I want to apologize.”
Lucy blinked. “Apologize?” It was the last thing she’d expected.
“You’re right. I did suspect you of working with your father, of plotting against Alice and taking advantage of her kind nature.”
“Did?”
He nodded. “I don’t think that now. You . . . you convinced me of your innocence that day in the park.”
She raised a cynical brow. “So I told you I wasn’t working with my father and you believed me, just like that.”
He looked uncomfortable. “More or less.”
She snorted. “I don’t believe you. You’ve uncovered more dirt on Papa, haven’t you? Something that exonerates me, isn’t that it?”
A small nerve in his jaw twitched rhythmically. He eyed her grimly as he considered her question. “More or less. I learned about your school experiences.”
Her stomach clenched. “What school experiences would those be?”
“Five—or was it six—different schools in how many years? And you never went home for the holidays.”
She lifted an indifferent shoulder, but a sour taste flooded her mouth.
“And then you were sent to live with some old German opera singer for a year, and then that French comtesse with the goose for another year. Although whether you were a guest or a maidservant isn’t clear.”
Because, depending on the comtesse’s whim, she was both. “I suppose Alice told you all this.” It was a painful betrayal, but Lord Thornton was, after all, Alice’s nephew. She supposed Alice’s first loyalty must go to him. Even knowing that, it hurt, more than she would have imagined. Which made no sense. She didn’t even know Alice until a few weeks ago.
He shook his head. “No, Alice is ridiculously closemouthed about your background. All she will ever say is that you are her goddaughter—though how that came about is still a mystery to me.” He eyed her speculatively and waited.
Lucy pressed her lips together and looked away. She wasn’t going to enlighten him. If Alice wanted to tell him, that was her right.
A burst of laughter floated out from the ballroom. Strangely, it emphasized their isolation. “You haven’t lived with your father for more than a few days at a time, have you? Not since your mother died.”
Lucy gave him a flat look. “So what if I have? What business is it of yours? Why are you so interested in my history?”
He frowned. “Don’t you know?”
“Know what?”
“Your father has been threatening Alice again. I’m trying to trace him.”
Lucy blanched. “Threatening her?”
He nodded. “I gather she didn’t tell you.”
“Not a word.” She felt sick. How dare Papa threaten Alice? She was doing all she could to help Lucy find a man she could happily marry.
She sank onto one of the chairs. As she had dreaded from the start, this latest scheme of Papa’s would result not just in her own mortification and ruin but in Alice’s as well.
And the terrible irony was that the very woman her father was blackmailing and threatening was trying to protect Lucy.
She took a deep breath and hoped her voice sounded calm. “What is he threatening her about?”
The furrow between Lord Thornton’s brows deepened. “About you, of course. He’s complaining that Alice isn’t doing what he asked—arranging your marriage to a member of the nobility. Apparently someone has been reporting back to him that you’ve only been seen accompanied by men with no title or any expectation of one.”
Her fingers turned into a fist. “I’ve told him and told him that I hate the very idea of marrying a lord!” She looked up at Lord Thornton and said bitterly, “Alice was sure that what my father really wanted was for me to be secure and settled happily, that the title didn’t really matter.”
She smacked her knee. “Like a fool I allowed her to persuade me. I should have known better. Papa is stubborn, and foolishly pretentious. Being related to a title obviously matters far more to him than my happiness.”
Lord Thornton said nothing.
Inside the ballroom the last strains of the waltz finished. Lucy rose, feeling weary and disheartened. “I have to go. My partner for the next dance will be looking for me.”
She took a few steps toward the terrace and the French doors leading into the ballroom, then turned back to face Lord Thornton. “There’s really no point in looking for my father. He’s as slippery as an eel. I’ve never known how to contact him, and you won’t be the only person trying to trace him, I’m sure. If you really want to help Alice and get Papa off her back, there’s only one thing you can do.”
“What’s that?”
“Find me a lord to marry. Any lord, I don’t care which. He can be a hundred years old, for all I care.”
His frown deepened. “But you said yourself that it was the last thing you wanted.”
“It is.”
“Then why would you do such a thing?”
She looked at him. “For Alice, of course. Why else? Alice is a darling, and I won’t let Papa ruin her.”
* * *
* * *
The orchestra played the introductory bars of the waltz. Gentlemen led their partners onto the dance floor. Lord Tarrant held out his hand—his bare hand. Unlike English gentlemen, Roman generals wore no gloves at a ball.
Neither did Egyptian queens.
His hand was big and warm and strong; hers felt cold. The sensation of skin against skin was thrilling. He held one of her hands in his and placed his other hand on the dip of her waist. She hesitated about where to place her hand and decided that the safest option was on his epaulettes, or whatever Romans called them.
The dance began, and he swept her into it with complete assurance. It was far from her first waltz, and though he was holding her with perfect propriety, he felt very close, much closer than she’d expected. All that bare masculine skin . . .
The scent of him wrapped around her, the sharp tang of his shaving cologne, the earthy scent of leather and, beneath it all, his own distinctive clean masculine smell. Soap and man—this man.
It was disconcerting to realize that she’d probably recognize him blindfolded and in the dark by his smell alone. His enticing masculine smell.
He twirled her around, his big, powerful body dominating hers, the two of them moving as one to the music. She felt as though she were flying. It didn’t feel safe. It was exhilarating.
Inch by inch, he drew her closer. She felt the press of his thigh against hers. Heat sizzled through her—and it wasn’t because of the dancing. She felt breathless—and it wasn’t because of the dancing.
Every inch of her was aware of him. The heat of his body, the powerful arms, his hand on her waist, his bare thighs beneath the short tunic. She clung to him, allowing herself to simply twirl and spin to the music as he willed it. She felt almost dizzy and yet sharply, gloriously alive.
“And they say the waltz is a scandalous dance,” he murmured. “Such nonsense.”
She glanced up at him. Didn’t he feel it?
His eyes danced with knowing laughter, his mouth curved, and he drew her even closer.
He felt it. She closed her eyes, unable to meet the intensity in his, and gave herself up to the music, the dance and the man.
Eventually the waltz ended, and he led her to a seat. “Thirsty?”
She nodded.
“Ratafia, lemonade or champagne?”
She was already intoxicated and she hadn’t had a drop
of wine, but she found herself saying, “Champagne, please.”
She watched as he crossed the room in search of refreshments, his stride powerful and easy, his shoulders broad and almost bare. He was magnificently at home in his costume.
She shivered, unable to drag her gaze off his long, muscular legs in that short, red tunic. Waves of heat rippled through her. So this was desire . . .
She’d felt pale echoes of it before, but nothing like this, never anything this strong. It had been building between them, she realized, ever since that first kiss. No, even before that.
Women generally find sexual congress pleasurable . . .
She couldn’t stop thinking about it.
He disappeared into the crowd, and she sat and watched people enjoying themselves. The masks and costumes seemed to have encouraged more overt flirting, and some were definitely stepping very close to the line. If not over it, she added mentally, noticing one of the shepherdesses slide her hand into the folds of a Roman senator’s toga.
She blushed and looked away, feeling a little out of her depth. How many of the ladies here enjoyed sexual congress? The ones who flirted? Was that why she didn’t know how to flirt? Because she had disliked the marriage bed?
Oh, how could she be so old and still feel so ignorant? Lucy was better at this than she was, and Lucy was half her age.
Lady Peplowe, superb in her enormous turban, moved among her guests, talking and chatting, bringing people together and effortlessly putting them at ease. She was a superlative hostess and very popular.
As Alice watched her, a thought sprang to mind.
Perhaps a decade or so older than Alice—Penny was the youngest daughter—Lady Peplowe was plump, casually elegant and very sophisticated, but Alice had always found her comfortable to talk to. She wasn’t an intimate friend, but she had shown a great deal of kindness to both Alice and Lucy.
She would surely not mock Alice for her ignorance and lack of sophistication.
Alice waited until Lady Peplowe began to move from one group to the next. She hurried across the floor and intercepted her. “Lady Peplowe,” she began, suddenly breathless.
Lady Peplowe’s brows rose. “Is there something the matter, my dear?”
“No, no, it’s a lovely party. It’s just . . . May I call on you tomorrow? There is something particular I would like to discuss with you.” She was blushing, she knew.
“Of course. Only make it later in the day—say, five o’clock. I intend to sleep very late tomorrow.”
“Oh, yes, sorry. I didn’t think. Would you prefer me to come the following day?”
She smiled. “No, I can see it’s something that won’t wait.”
“It will, of course, it’s just . . .”
Lady Peplowe patted her hand. “Tomorrow at five will suit me very well, Lady Charlton. You can explain it all then. In complete privacy.” She glanced over Alice’s shoulder. “Now, there’s a handsome Roman general waiting with a glass of champagne for you. Better go and relieve him of it before some other lady snaps it—and him—up. He’s a delicious sight in that costume, barely there as it is. I do like a man with a good pair of legs, don’t you? And as for those gloriously muscular upper arms . . .” She fanned herself briefly, winked at Alice and glided away.
* * *
* * *
It was time for the second waltz of the evening. Lucy watched as Alice stepped onto the floor with Lord Tarrant. Hers weren’t the only eyes that watched their progress with speculative interest. They made a handsome couple.
Lucy glanced around the ballroom. Which of these extravagantly dressed people was reporting back to her father? The thought made her simultaneously furious and sick. The sooner she married some lord, the sooner this whole ghastly thing would be over.
Lord Thornton appeared at her elbow. “Shall we sit this one out in the courtyard, Miss Bamber?” It was very warm now in the ballroom, with all the lanterns and candles burning and the press of overheated bodies, so she nodded.
Outside it was blissfully cool, the night air fresh with a soft breeze stirring the leaves overhead. “You’re not cold, are you?” Lord Thornton asked. He gestured to his matador’s jacket with a wry smile. “I’d offer to give you my coat, but I doubt I can remove it. It took all my valet’s efforts to get it on. Do you have a shawl I could fetch?”
Lucy shook her head. “I’m quite comfortable, thank you.” It wasn’t quite a lie. She wasn’t cold, but something about sitting out here alone with Lord Thornton, not to mention the intense way he kept looking at her, made her feel a little on edge. As for his coat being tight, his whole outfit, especially his breeches, outlined his lithe, lean, muscular form almost indecently.
She could hardly drag her eyes away.
They sat for a few moments in silence, listening to the music floating from the ballroom. Then he said abruptly, “Did you mean what you said about marrying a lord, any lord?”
She looked at him in surprise. “Yes.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.” She didn’t see any other way out of the fix Papa had trapped her in.
“Even an old man?”
She nodded. The very idea appalled her, but even worse was the knowledge that if she didn’t, her father would ruin Alice. Besides, she might not have to endure an old man for long. Which was a horrid thing to think.
“What about a young man?”
She shrugged. “As long as he’s titled, it makes no difference. Now can we stop talking about it, please? I’d rather just enjoy the night and keep these depressing realities for the cold light of day.” The moon was out, hazy, lopsided and serene. The scent of flowers perfumed the air. And the music only added to the magic.
“You like this music, don’t you?” he said after a moment.
“Doesn’t everyone?”
He gestured to her sandaled feet. “Your feet are dying to dance. They’re tapping along in time with the music. I like those gold toenails, by the way. Dashing, as well as pretty.” He rose to his feet. “Shall we dance?”
She blinked at the unexpected request. “But I can’t.”
“You can’t waltz, or you don’t have permission?”
“I know how to waltz, of course, though I’ve never danced it in public. But I don’t have permission. For some reason I’m only allowed to waltz after one of the patronesses of Almack’s gives me permission. Seems ridiculous to me, but that’s what I was told.”
“I see. And that’s why you were prepared to sit them out in wallflowery boredom with Messrs. Frinton and Grimswade.”
“Both gentlemen to whom you introduced me,” she reminded him acidly.
“Then let me atone.” He held out his hand. “Will you do me the honor of dancing this waltz with me, Miss Bamber?”
She hesitated and looked around. The courtyard was still deserted, as was the terrace overlooking it. “Nobody will see,” he said, his voice low and deep. “Come on, you know you want to.”
“Very well.” She rose and took his hand. It was warm and firm. No gloves on matadors or priestesses. His other arm wrapped around her waist.
He danced well, swirling her around with grace and assurance. Dancing alone in the courtyard, in the moonlight, with the lanterns creating pools of light among the shadows—it felt strangely intimate, as if they were alone instead of only a few yards away from the loud, colorful throng inside.
Too intimate. She could smell his cologne, feel his breath against her hair. She was achingly aware of how his costume hugged every line of his lean, lithe body. And that her costume was too loose, too floaty and insubstantial. And that she was pressing up against him in a way that would not be approved of in polite circles.
She had to break this feeling of . . . intensity. Conversation, that was the thing. “What made you dress as a matador?” she asked.
He shrugged infinites
imally. “There was a costume in the shop. And I liked it. I saw several bullfights in Spain.”
“Weren’t they very terrible?”
He smiled. “For the bull, yes, but very exciting to watch.”
She shuddered. “I could never watch such a thing. You were in Spain for the war, weren’t you?”
“Yes.” After a moment he added, “I’d like to go back there one day, now that peace has come. It’s a fascinating country.”
“You want to travel again?” It surprised her. Most Englishmen she’d met—admittedly not all that many—seemed to dislike the idea of foreign travel.
He appeared to think it over, then gave a decisive nod, as if he’d just made up his mind. “Yes. I do. I have a mind to join the diplomatic service.”
“Really? Don’t you have responsibilities here? I mean, isn’t there an estate or something you’re supposed to look after?” Not that she knew anything about a nobleman’s duties.
“My father controls all that. There’s nothing for me here.” They circled the courtyard again, and he added, “What about you? If you had the opportunity to travel, would you take it?”
In a heartbeat, Lucy thought. But it was not to be. “I’m marrying a lordly octogenarian, remember?” she said lightly. “I doubt I’ll get to travel.”
“About that. I think I have the solution to your problem.”
She looked up at him. “Oh yes?”
For a minute or two he said nothing, just twirled her around in the moonlight. Then, just as she was sure he wasn’t going to speak, he cleared his throat and said, “Become betrothed to me.”
She dropped his hand and stepped away. “What? No. Marry you?”
He held up his hands pacifically. “Calm down. I didn’t say ‘marry me’—I said ‘become betrothed.’ ”
“No. That’s ridic—”