Susan Spencer Paul - [Enchanter 01]

by Touch of Night

  “It is from his lordship, the earl,” said Abercraf, inspecting an attached note. “He instructs me to make certain that all wrinkles are absent before allowing you to don his gift. He will meet you at the Dubrow ball just before midnight.”

  The package was untied to reveal a stunningly crafted outfit, perfect in fashion and fit, ready—save for a few wrinkles that Abercraf deftly dealt with—for Niclas to wear. Best of all, it wasn’t the unrelieved black and white that Malachi always wore, but rather a sapphire blue, with a silk vest shot through with silver. Malachi had remembered Niclas’s old love of color.

  “He’s a devil,” Niclas murmured, surveying his image in the mirror. “But for once I’m thankful for some of his more particular gifts.”

  Abercraf’s eyes were filled with happy tears.

  “You’re perfectly presentable, sir. I’m certain no other gentleman could possibly outshine you.”

  Niclas thought his manservant a touch too optimistic, but he had to confess that his appearance was much improved from what it had been earlier in the day, when he’d foolishly assumed that a shave and combed hair had made him fit to be seen. How much he had forgotten of the effort required for a gentleman to achieve distinction.

  But it was starting to come back to him.

  For the first time in years he had given Abercraf free rein in the management of his grooming, with remarkable results. Niclas had been vigorously scrubbed from head to toe, then left for an hour soaking in a hot tub. Abercraf had then massaged him with a seemingly unending collection of oils and lotions, and, following this, he had spent a great deal of time utilizing clippers and scissors and blades. A shocking quantity of hair lay on the floor by the time his manservant was done, and Niclas had looked into the mirror and seen the self he’d known so long ago staring back at him.

  He’d done something else that he’d long resisted, as well. He had forced Malachi’s latest potion down his throat and reclined for a full hour, repeating a chant in the ancient language that his cousin had insisted would refresh his mind, body, and spirit. It had never seemed to do much good before, but tonight, perhaps because he wanted it so badly, Niclas rose feeling almost as rested as if he’d actually slept for a short while. Almost. But that would be enough.

  “I’ll do naught to shame you, Abercraf,” he said, setting an assuring hand on the older man’s shoulder. “I promise. After all, I was once used to attending such functions every night. They can’t have changed as quickly as fashion has.”

  He was surprised to discover, upon being let out of his carriage, that he was actually looking forward to the evening. The final ton event he’d attended—dinner and an operatic performance at Lord and Lady Bixby’s, where Lady Eunice had also been in attendance—had been endless and miserable. During dinner, he’d been seated next to Viscount Rosser, whose lustful thoughts had been fixed on Lady Ellison, sitting across from them, and not on his wife, who had been on Niclas’s other side. The viscountess had been thinking quite forcibly about killing both her husband and Lady Ellison, a fact that hadn’t shown on her lovely, smiling, perfectly serene face. Niclas had felt her distress and fury so keenly that it had been almost impossible to carry on polite conversation. He’d wanted to stand up, drag Viscount Rosser from the table by the scruff of his neck, and give him a good thrashing for being so foolish and unfaithful. Or to warn Lord Ellison of his wife’s potential infidelity. Or even to advise the viscountess on the futility and unpleasant legalities surrounding murder.

  But such revelations could only make matters worse. People outside the Seymour clan tended to be extremely upset—and rightly so, he knew—to think that someone else could divine their emotions. No one, apart from family members, had ever been thankful for his youthful utterances. Indeed, quite the opposite. They’d been frightened of Niclas. He became something of a monster in their eyes, at least until they convinced themselves that the whole thing was merely a foolish joke. Then they’d held him in contempt. Added to that was the constant fear of the family being found out. Society didn’t take kindly to those possessed of unusual powers, and not a few Seymours in the past had found themselves dangling at the end of a rope or tied to a stake.

  And so Niclas had spent his final evening in formal society biting his tongue and silently cursing Malachi for talking him into attending the function. When it was over, he decided to never again attend another gathering of the ton.

  Now, he was about to break that vow. Niclas told himself that it was only because Lady Eunice had forced it upon him, that he had come because he had no other option, but he wasn’t entirely certain that was the truth.

  Julia Linley had intrigued him. Bothered him. And most certainly bewildered him. He’d felt nothing from her, no emotions or feelings, and the reason for it was a mystery that needed solving before their journey together.

  Perhaps he’d been too distracted by being in the company of a beautiful woman again, or perhaps Lady Eunice’s fierce emotions had simply drowned out whatever her niece had been feeling. Neither of those factors had ever deadened Niclas’s senses before, but, apart from them, there was no explanation.

  The footman who took his invitation showed no surprise upon reading Niclas’s name, but there was a moment’s hesitation after that same invitation was passed to the butler. The pleasure that the man felt at seeing Niclas in attendance, though perfectly hidden behind a mask of correctness, warmed him considerably, and his mental approval of Niclas’s attire was just as encouraging. Bowing deeply, the manservant murmured, “Welcome, Mister Seymour,” then straightened to formally announce his arrival to those already gathered.

  If the butler had been surprised, it was as nothing to the surprise on Lord and Lady Dubrow’s faces when Niclas approached to make his formal bow. But delight followed their amazement, and he was warmly greeted.

  This had been his life once, and he had loved it beyond measure. Being back, even for a few precious hours, was intoxicating. He moved slowly about the crowded ballroom, taking in the music and colors and faces. People were dancing; women in their beautiful gowns and men in their finest formalwear. Individuals turned to look at him, then turned away to murmur excitedly. He sensed a variety of emotions, from surprise to pleasure to curiosity. It was all simple and easy thus far, as it had once been long ago.

  “You’re causing a stir, cfender.”

  Niclas turned to see Malachi standing beside him, perfectly attired and groomed, his handsome countenance relaxed and smiling.

  “I’m glad you came, even if you were forced to it,” he said. “Your friends will be glad, as well, though shocked. It’s been far too long, Niclas.”

  “Only if no one is plotting a murder,” Niclas told him, striving to keep his tone light. “Or worse. In which case I shall curse both Lady Eunice and myself for coming. Thank you for the clothes.” He glanced down at himself. “Your taste is excellent, as ever.”

  “I would have bought an entire wardrobe just to see you in society again.” Malachi examined him more closely. “Why, Niclas,” he said with faint surprise, “you’ve had your hair trimmed. You look quite your old self. A veritable pink of the ton.”

  Niclas gave a laugh. “I was merely weary of two of us in the family looking like pirates. People might think I was copying your odd fashion, rather than simply wishing to be left alone.”

  Malachi nodded toward the far end of the room, where a group of women sat together on low couches. “Lady Eunice and Miss Linley are sitting there, among a fine gathering of spinsters and widows.”

  “Why?” Niclas asked, gazing across the room with bewilderment. “She’s far too lovely to be sentenced to such a lack of merriment. Is it Lady Eunice’s doing? I confess that my memories of her include a certain diligence of duty and all that is right, but she never seemed so cruel as to consign anyone to such an unhappy, and far too early, fate.”

  “I only wish it might have been so simple a thing as Lady Eunice,” said the earl. “She may be stubborn, as Linleys so famous
ly are, but she is also quite reasonable when presented with a logical argument. You discovered the truth of that this very afternoon. No”—Malachi sighed aloud—“I’m afraid Miss Linley is the one to blame. She has fallen into that most awful trap that women are prone to give way to. She has decided,” he said, gazing at her from across the elegant room, “that she is too old to experience such pleasures as dancing or flirtation or love.”

  “Nonsense,” Niclas muttered angrily. “That’s ridiculous.”

  “And most trying, as well,” said his cousin. “I’ve done my utmost—twice tonight alone—to charm her into dancing, but she refuses.”

  “No one refuses the earl of Graymar when he exerts himself,” said Niclas.

  “It is rather uncommon,” his cousin agreed. “There was a time, you know, when she accepted me as a favored partner. But that was well over a year ago. Her obstinacy now is remarkable, especially given Lady Eunice’s unhappy insistences that she oblige.”

  “And still she refused you?” Niclas asked.

  Earl Graymar nodded. “Still. It’s regretful, though. Miss Linley has bruised my tender sensibilities with her rejections.”

  Niclas snorted at that, but refrained from informing the earl that only those who possessed hearts had “tender sensibilities.”

  They were being stared at from all sides; Niclas could feel the beginnings of discomfort as the flood of emotions began to swell and blend. A few particularly unpleasant persons—Niclas had no idea who, exactly, since it was difficult in such a crowd—were feeling bitterness, jealousy, even violent hatred. But when he gazed out at the sea of faces glancing at him none showed anything more than polite curiosity and smiling welcome. That was how it always was: sadness masked by smiles, hatred by blankness.

  “She’ll dance with me,” Niclas vowed. “I won’t leave until she has.”

  Malachi’s eyebrows rose. “Will you not, cfender? That is an odd thing to say. And what will you do if she refuses?”

  Niclas nodded at a passing acquaintance who had nodded at him first.

  “It won’t matter. She’ll dance with me, and not merely because her aunt desires it. There’s another reason.” He looked at his cousin. “I have to get close enough to assure myself that she’s not an anomaly.”

  “An anomaly?” Malachi repeated blankly. “Miss Linley?”

  They both turned to watch as the music came to an end and the dancers moved off the floor.

  “I can’t feel her,” Niclas said quietly. “Or, rather, I couldn’t feel her this morning, when I had my audience with her and Lady Eunice.”

  Malachi was, for once, stunned speechless. He stared at Niclas as if he suddenly didn’t know him.

  “There was nothing,” Niclas went on, his gaze moving slowly about the room, seeking out particular faces from his past. Certain individuals would be easier for him to converse with than others, and would aid him in making a better impression on Lady Eunice. “No emotion at all. I guessed what her emotions were because of her outward manner, yet I could feel nothing.”

  The first waltz was announced, and new sets of partners started to materialize on the dance floor.

  Malachi continued to look dumbfounded. “But that’s impossible. She’s not even remotely related to the Seymours.”

  Niclas looked at him sharply. “Are you certain, Malachi? Because if she is, it might alter my attempt to lift the curse. Can you be absolutely, completely certain she isn’t of magic blood?”

  “I have always known before. It’s part of being Dewin Mawr to have a perception of our kind. But . . . perhaps”

  “What?”

  Malachi gave a shake of his blond head. “I shall have to think upon it.”

  “Aye, you think upon it,” Niclas said. “And let me know what you discover. In the meantime, I’m going to claim the waltz that was promised to me, and see whether I was merely mistaken about Miss Linley earlier. By the way,” he added before he left his cousin’s side, nodding toward a beautiful woman standing not far away with another gentleman. “Lady Cosgrove has been lusting after you in a most fervent manner for the past several minutes. She must like pirates.”

  She was lovely, Niclas thought as he neared the group of ladies clustered at the far end of the room. Entirely lovely, and far too young to be relegated to the shelf. And yet there she sat, with her soft brown hair hidden beneath a horrid silk turban and her delightfully curved figure covered by an equally awful, out-of-fashion gown of pale blue. Not that blue didn’t suit her; her eyes were blue, and looked perfectly well against her other features. But that particular garment looked as if it had come out of her great-aunt’s closet, suitable for a very mature woman but not in the least for someone so young and attractive.

  For the life of him, Niclas couldn’t understand how such a beauty had, at the age of five and twenty, managed to escape marriage. If she’d been a man, he would have admired her ability to avoid the parson’s mousetrap, but it was an oddity for an attractive, well-bred young woman to have staved off wedded bliss. Her family could easily have forced her to accept a husband. That they’d not done so said a good deal about either the level of her Linley obstinacy or her inability to lure the attention of a suitable match. Since the latter was impossible, he assumed it must be the former, and steeled himself accordingly for their coming confrontation.

  She was aware of his approach, he saw. Indeed, both she and Lady Eunice, sitting beside her, had been watching his progress from the moment he’d left Malachi, as had the other women they were sitting with and nearly every other person in the room. But Niclas had no care for them, or for the various acquaintances who hailed him as he made his way. He looked steadily at Miss Linley, fixed his thoughts on her and what he wished to accomplish, and didn’t let the various emotions flying at him from all directions distract his purpose.

  Niclas came to a stop directly in front of Lady Eunice and made his most formal bow. It was less stiff than the one he’d made earlier in the day, and yet, he thought with a touch of aggravation, it was far from the fluid gesture that had once been second nature to him.

  “My lady,” he said in solemn greeting before making an identical bow to her niece. “Miss Linley. I hope I find you well this evening.”

  “Very well, indeed, Mister Seymour,” her ladyship replied. “Your looks are much improved.”

  “Thank you,” he said, and cast a glance at Miss Linley, taking brief note of the color that had risen in her cheeks. “I have come to collect the dance that was promised to me.”

  “I fear my niece is proving the truth of our Linley stubbornness this evening, sir,” said her ladyship, and Niclas felt a curious amusement emanating from her. Clearly, she didn’t believe him capable of overcoming Miss Linley’s objections, and he understood very well the test that was being laid before him. “She refuses to dance. With anyone. Not even Lord Graymar was able to prevail upon her to change her mind.”

  “I fear my aunt makes me sound cruel, sir,” Miss Linley said, and he could see from her expression that she was deeply embarrassed, “but, as I told you earlier, I no longer dance. I am thankful, however, for the compliment. It was most kind of you.”

  Behind Niclas, the music began to play. He reached for her gloved hand.

  “I hope you’ll continue to feel that way, Miss Linley, after we’ve danced.”

  Her eyes widened. “Mister Seymour—”

  He pulled her to her feet, ignoring the gasps of a few of the matrons and spinsters surrounding her. Lady Eunice, on the other hand, uttered a soft, delighted laugh. Niclas set an arm about Miss Linley’s waist to gently, but firmly, move her toward the dance floor.

  “Mister Seymour, I fear you don’t understand—”

  “Certainly I do,” he said. “You don’t wish to dance. But we shall, nonetheless.”

  The floor was filled with couples already whirling in time to the music. The waltz had not been a popular dance three years ago, and Niclas had performed it perhaps a dozen times. He had no idea ho
w long it might have been for Miss Linley, but he supposed the skill would come back to them quickly enough.

  She struggled briefly as he took her in his arms, but said nothing. She didn’t need to. Her expression told him almost as much as her emotions would, had he been able to feel them.

  They moved stiffly at first, nearly bumping into several other couples. Julia Linley didn’t make matters any easier, as she apparently had turned into a slender but unyielding tree. He all but carried her about the floor in time to the music. Fortunately, she was a petite, small-boned female, and exceedingly light.

  She was as close to him now as she was ever likely to be, and yet he could still feel nothing emanating from her. Perhaps, he thought, he hadn’t yet made her angry enough.

  “I hate that turban.” The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them.

  She reacted just as any lady would, with full insult.

  “I’m terribly sorry, sir,” she replied in a short, tight tone. “If I’d had any idea that you felt so strongly, I would have made certain to wear something more appealing to your tastes.”

  What a foolish way to go about making a good impression. Niclas didn’t know how to redeem himself. “What I meant to say,” he began, making an attempt, “is that you shouldn’t wear one at all. You haven’t a speck of gray in your hair to hide.”

  That only served to make her angrier.

  “Mister Seymour”—her tone was icy now—“I under stand that you’ve not been in polite society for some time, but even that is no excuse for such boorish conversation.”

  He couldn’t feel her. That was all there was to it. She was in his arms, she was clearly very angry, but the only emotions he could feel were those coming from the crowd of people surrounding them.

  It was impossible, yet it was so. He glanced about until he saw Malachi standing on the edge of the dance floor, watching them. His cousin lifted an eyebrow in question. Niclas gave a minute shake of his head and saw Malachi’s forehead furrow with uncharacteristic concern.