Right behind Cleopatra, clad in the garb of an Egyptian goddess, he recognized Lady Shepworth. Her simple costume of white tunic and royal blue scarves cinched with a silver mesh belt flowed around her quite nicely, and she wore a white and silver headdress with a wrought-silver coronet holding an ankh. Her mask of silver and rhinestones glittered beneath the hundreds of candles. Lady Howard approached in wispy fabric swishing around her legs as she walked; her sleeveless dress was belted beneath her breasts by gilt ribbon with a black Greek key pattern, and gold armbands circled her arms. Matching ribbon edged the bodice, and a flowing cape fluttered behind her; her coronet of gold scrolls held back loose, flowing hair, and her mask was white with tiny pale shells swirling along the edges. She stopped right in front of Nick.
“A pirate. How absolutely appropriate, my lord,” Laurentia teased.
“Not very original, but fitting, I thought,” he said with a smile. “Am I that easy to recognize?”
“There are not that many tall, dark pirates in attendance tonight. Besides, you always look like a pirate. Do you recognize everyone, or have their costumes tricked you?”
His eyes strayed back to Cleopatra. It had to be Miss St. John. Blue eyes gazed at him from behind the golden mask, and rouged lips were full and familiar. A black beauty patch at one corner of her mouth drew his attention for a moment, so that he almost forgot Laurie had asked him a question.
“I can identify many, but not all,” he managed to say, unable to draw his attention from Cleopatra. This dress, at last, gave him an excellent idea of her shape, as none of her other gowns had done. Ivory skin that would have been unfamiliar to the real Cleopatra gleamed beneath the chandeliers, and her generous breasts rose and fell with each breath she took. The golden girdle around her hips rested on lushly inviting female hips, with the vague outline of thighs he could imagine parting at his caress beneath the filmy gold fabric. His mouth had gone dry and a drumbeat in his ears relayed his heartbeat with enthusiastic appreciation of her charms.
“But you knew me,” said Lady Howard, and he nodded, reluctantly dragging his gaze from Cleopatra.
“Your loose hair is one of my childhood memories, usually with bedraggled ribbons and willow twigs hanging from it.”
Laughing, she said slyly, “And do you recognize your betrothed?”
“I recognize temptation,” he murmured, and left Lady Howard standing near her husband to approach Miss St. John and her aunt.
“‘Age cannot wither her, nor custom stale her infinite variety’,” he quoted when he reached the ladies. He bowed and held out his hand as the musicians played a waltz. “May I have this dance, Queen Cleopatra?”
She gave the staff to her aunt and put her hand in his, her bare fingers igniting a fire in him to touch the rest of her bare skin, trace the smooth, plump curve of her shoulder down to her dimpled elbows, let his tongue explore the sweet-scented arch of her throat. . . . He ruthlessly shoved such thoughts away.
“‘If you find him sad, say I am dancing. If in mirth, report that I am sudden sick’,” she quoted as they stepped into the waltz, and he laughed.
“Shakespeare had great knowledge of human nature. Would you toy with my affections so badly, Miss St. John?”
“As Antony and Cleopatra had empires to lose, I doubt that will be necessary, my lord pirate. Which corsair are you?”
“I hoped for Sir Francis Drake, but there was a lack of sixteenth-century clothing in the costumes, so I settled for Captain Kidd.”
“Are those turkey feathers in your hat?” she inquired, looking up at his Cavalier hat, and he grinned.
“This hat was sparse on plumes, so I appropriated a few from another one. The old naval coat was a fortunate find. The red sash and sword were my own creations, and the boots are mine.”
“You make a quite dashing pirate, sir.”
Her hand quivered slightly in his grasp as he turned her in the steps of the dance, his arm bringing her close to his body. “It has never been my objective to participate in masquerades, but I suppose I am better off than the real Captain Kidd.”
“It is my understanding that he came to a bad end.”
A faint fragrance drifted up to him, the sweet-spicy scent of her perfume a tantalizing treat, and he wondered if he could find a shadowed corner. “Yes, hung on the River Thames and left for crows,” he answered.
“Rather gruesome, but no worse death, I daresay, than some of his victims.” She lapsed into silence before adding, “He must have felt regrets in the end.”
“I daresay,” he agreed politely, amused by her solemn contemplation of the unfortunate man. “But most pirates, by their very nature, rarely consider the inevitable. It is all merry times until facing the hangman.”
She looked up at him, her eyes very blue behind the gold mask. “We all must face the consequences of our actions, I suppose.”
“Some sooner than others.” His arm tightened around her waist, the Haydn waltz coming to a graceful ending, and he steered her toward the alcove close by. Curtains swagged over it, providing limited privacy. Since etiquette decreed he should walk her around the ballroom floor or take her for refreshments, he asked, “Would you like a cup of punch? There is a bowl on the table near the game room.”
“Arrack punch? I think not. I prefer something a bit tamer, thank you.”
“And what do you know of arrack punch? There are dark secrets in your life, Miss St. John, and I admit to being shocked.”
“I seriously doubt anything I have said or done could shock you, sir. I know that arrack punch may smell inviting, but it has a kick like a donkey.”
“Such intriguing claims must be well-researched.”
She replied quite seriously, “My father blames arrack punch for a disastrous financial pact he made at his gentleman’s club. Although that was a few years ago, he still bemoans his actions while under its influence.”
“Our conversation has returned to actions have consequences, I see. Shall we?”
He held out his arm for her to take and escorted her to a punch bowl far from the game room. As it happened, the table sat near a staircase used by the servants, and it took very little maneuvering to get her close. A footman dipped punch from the large silver bowl into small cups; champagne and fruit slices tickled Nick’s upper lip when he sipped. Miss St. John took a dainty sip from her silver cup, and he watched, fascinated, as her tongue caught a few drops left on her lower lip. He wanted to taste champagne drops from her mouth, test her resolution with deep kisses that left them both breathless.
“Cleopatra was a temptress,” he said, “and tonight you are the most beautiful woman here.”
“You sound as if you have already been at the arrack punch, my lord. Although I do think Lady Howard created a most beautiful costume for me. Much better than the one I brought.”
“Let me guess—a shepherdess?”
“How did you know?”
She sounded surprised, and he laughed. “My usual foresight, although I would have lost a gold guinea tonight if I had wagered on your costume. Trust Laurie to do the unexpected.”
While they talked, he opened the door to the staircase, and turned her gently with him to step inside. It was an old schoolboy trick, and he felt only slightly guilty for resorting to such juvenile tactics. But with Charlotte St. John, he did not want to make a mistake. He wanted to explore her fire, taste the reaction he had before, discover what passion lay beneath the veneer of proper etiquette and tutored responses.
He suspected a volcano rested beneath that deceptive exterior, and the eruption would be one that he would enjoy. . . .
“My lord?”
“Shh. A moment or two of privacy before the servants find us.”
He took the silver cup from her lax fingers and set it on a ledge, turning his attention to her mouth. “There’s no mi
stletoe here,” she said, her voice low and slightly confused.
“I do not need mistletoe to kiss you. Look up at me, please. I hope I am more interesting than the wall.”
Her laugh was shaky. “Well, it is a very plain wall, I suppose.”
He put his fingers beneath her chin and tilted her face up to his; fitful light from a lamp on the staircase wall caught in the gold coronet that held the headdress to her head. It glittered on the asp with its head lifted in a pose to strike. It might have discouraged a lesser man, but Nick was determined.
As his head lowered, he murmured, “Open your mouth for me, Cleopatra.”
Sweet heat engulfed him as he kissed her. She tasted of champagne and oranges, a very pleasant sensation. He lightly explored her parted lips, licking drops of punch from first the lower lip, then the top before he slipped his tongue inside her mouth. He meant to go slow, to take his time and not alarm her, yet he could barely restrain himself as she tentatively responded with her tongue. A groan vibrated low in his throat, and he caressed her bare arms, reveling in soft skin like satin, then slid one hand down over the golden collar she wore to stroke the band of ivory flesh beneath. Plump breasts lifted in a gasp, and the edge of his hand grazed the fabric-covered cushion. He thought she might pull away, but though she trembled against him, she did not retreat.
“Sweet lady,” he whispered against her mouth, and felt another tremor when he leaned into her, pressing her back against the wall, luxuriating in the ripe curves that fit from his chest to his knees. His body urged more, but this was no backstreet doxy to be taken standing up in a dark corner, and he had his answer. Charlotte St. John had slumbering passions just beneath her prim and proper surface. . . .
IT WAS LATE WHEN Nick entered his room to find Georges still up and waiting on him. “You should have gone to bed, you know,” he said, crossing the chamber. “It’s devilish late.”
“Not nearly as late as some nights you return, my lord,” said Georges placidly. “The bed has been warmed for you.”
As he undressed, Georges assisting in removing his coat and cravat, Nick thought about his situation. Perhaps he should take his own advice to Georges and Drummond and mend fences with Will. The fury he’d felt at first had faded with time, leaving only bitter frustration, and that was no improvement. Raffles yearned for a knighthood that Willem seemed determined to facilitate, but all Nick wanted was that taint of corruption that clung to him like Scotch burrs to disappear. Perhaps it was possible. Yet while Wakefield searched for evidence to clear his name, Nick did not quite trust it to happen. Life had been disillusioning this past year.
Except for Charlotte St. John. She was a revelation, not a disappointment. Being in her company had a strange, unexpected effect on him. Teasing banter with a young lady was not unusual; but Miss St. John was not just any young lady. Not only was she his betrothed, but she was possessed of a willingness for whimsy he found appealing. Kissing her had been an experiment at first, to see if there was an attraction there. Her response had surprised him, but his response had shocked him. He hadn’t thought himself capable of being shocked by anything, but that had been another revelation.
Beneath the velvet and muslin she wore, beat the passionate heart of a woman who had much to share. But how did she feel? Would she be disillusioned by a husband about whom dark rumors swirled like insidious fog? Charlotte may not have been reared in the aristocracy, but she had been brought up by loving parents, not governesses or tutors. How could she tolerate the gossip that would haunt them when she had never known isolation and intolerance? Members of the ton could be cruel. There was more than a fair share of Lady Mountebanks to encounter.
It would be kinder of him to abandon her and tell the duke to go to the devil than it would be to marry her. Unless—unless he found a way to clear his name and spare her the whispers and innuendoes.
Perhaps Wakefield could be of use after all. Maybe it was Fate that had brought them to Seabury at the same time, not just uncomfortable coincidence. It would be worth a conversation, at the least.
Dismissing his valet, he went to stand at the windows, pulling aside a heavy drape to peer out at the night. Wind rattled the glass panes, but a faint glow on hillocks of snow indicated moonlight and a clearing sky. Christmas Eve Day would dawn much brighter.
Maybe it was a good omen.
Christmas Eve celebrations began with the lighting of the Yule candle by Lady Howard, and while guests gathered ‘round her in the large drawing room, she celebrated the ancient ritual solemnly. A Yule log was brought in to be lit in the dining room fireplace with a piece of the previous year’s Yule log, and servants bustled about preparing the dinner and finishing decorations in all the rooms. Excitement vibrated in the air. Princess Charlotte and Leopold stayed to attend a musical concert where Lady Leighton was to sing for them before the Princess departed to spend Christmas at Claremont. It was controlled mayhem, in his opinion, and Nick ducked into the first floor library for some peace and quiet.
Charlotte St. John perched on the edge of a chair, turning the round bookshelf as she perused the volumes. She looked up when he entered, and a most attractive flush rose in her cheeks. Blue eyes fairly glowed beneath her thick lashes, and a faint smile curved her lips.
It took an effort to drag his attention from her mouth, but he managed to say, “I hope I am not intruding.”
“Heavens, no. I’m just looking through this excellent collection of ornithology books, and I found a most interesting one on birds of the East Indies.” She lifted it to show him, and he moved forward to inspect it, although his interest lay anywhere but on Indonesian birds. Instead he inhaled her light fragrance, relished the glimpse he had of soft ivory skin and intriguing hills and valleys beneath her sensible blue velvet dress. This dress was less ornate and more demure than the other blue velvet she had worn, but somehow even more flattering.
“The Java sparrow,” she said, “is much more colorful than our English sparrow. Does it really look so bright?”
He glanced at the colored illustration and nodded. “Yes. There are the blue and gray birds with orange beaks, and bright yellow sparrows with black and white striped wings, and finches that have orange heads, banded by blue and bright green, and yellow and purple breasts. Bright, cheerful little birds.”
“How fascinating,” Charlotte said with a sigh. “I would truly love to see them. Why do we not have some at Kew Gardens, I wonder?”
“Perhaps they will soon. I prefer to see them in their native habitat.”
“Oh, so would I. It must be so very exciting to be able to explore such exotic places.”
He refrained from caressing her soft brown hair where it had been plaited into a coronet atop her head, and said, “I met an explorer, Henry Koster, on one of his voyages from Brazil a few years ago, and he has described most interesting people and wildlife in South America. He suggested I apply to a membership with the Linnean Society when I mentioned my interests.”
“Oh!” Charlotte clasped her hands together, her expression eager as she gazed up at him. “The Linnean Society is dedicated to the study of evolution, taxonomy, and natural history. I have read some of their journals and find them fascinating. Have you applied for membership yet?”
Nick hated to destroy her illusion, but shook his head. “No. I cannot imagine they would accept a man under suspicion of theft by the Crown. One has to be nominated by a member, and two-thirds of the Linnean members must accept him.”
Instead of dimming her eagerness, she shook her head impatiently. “That will not stand. You will be exonerated, and then you must apply, sir. Just think of all the unexplored lands we have not seen!”
Amused despite his bitter realization that it may never happen, he said, “I assume you will insist upon accompanying me on any future explorations?”
“Of course. I can assist you in cataloguing any new fi
nds, and I can produce reasonable drawings of what I see.”
For a moment he indulged himself with her dream, smiling as he envisioned showing her some of the places he had visited, and some he had yet to explore. In the heat of Java, she could wear a cotton or linen shift, perhaps, sleeveless and loose, skimming her delectable curves, or even a batik cloth kemben like the native women if he could coax her into being so daring. And he would wear a sarong around his waist, and they could exist happily in a thatched hut with the sound of ocean waves breaking against the shore . . . but all dreams could unexpectedly turn into nightmares, whether volcanic or man-made.
“Unrealistic at best, hopeless at worst,” he said lightly to forestall any more impossible dreams. “But we will be able to travel to Scotland at least, to see penguins in their habitat.”
“Now you are teasing me, my lord,” she reproved him, smiling.
“A little,” he admitted, “Although I had never thought a honeymoon voyage to the Falklands particularly enticing.”
“With faith, all things are possible,” she said, and suddenly, gazing into her eyes, he had the thought she just might be right.
Chapter 9
CHRISTMAS MORNING brought clear skies of a bright, polished blue so intense, it hurt the eyes to stare at it too long. The air was blessedly dry, but the cold wind was bone-chilling. Nick debated joining the family at church. Regardless of what he’d said to Lady Mountebank—the silly old gossip—he’d considered riding in a sleigh with Charlotte St. John and her aunt. He wasn’t normally a man who cared much for sleigh rides, preferring faster gigs or his horse, but for some reason, the thought of sitting close to her and watching her face light with enjoyment seemed pleasurable.
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