Capture The Wind (43 page)

Thank God it was still a fortnight away. She had plenty of time to brace herself for the inevitable dull evening.

Carriages lined the curved
drive leading up to the gray stone mansion. Footmen waited patiently while the drivers jockeyed for position in the slow-moving line, while ahead lights glittered as if all the stars had fallen from the sky to adorn the house.

“You’re lovely, Angela,” her mother observed from the coach seat opposite her. “Amaranth is a perfect color on you. I knew it would be. And Mother’s ruby necklace and earrings are just the right touch. They bring out the pink in that purple.”

“Shouldn’t I be wearing a crown with this?” Angela could not resist asking and saw her father smile.

“Don’t be saucy.” Alicia gave her a reproving look, but was in too good a mood to be irritated. “Be careful not to wrinkle your train. You aren’t sitting on it, are you?”

“No, Mama. I cannot imagine why I ever let you talk me into having a train, however. It’s a dreadful bother.”

John Lindell surveyed his daughter with a critical eye. “Is her neckline supposed to be that low?” he asked finally, and Angela smothered a laugh.

“Don’t be absurd, John,” Alicia said with a tap of her fan on his arm. “Of course necklines are low. You have never complained about mine.”

“Perhaps because Angela is more—endowed,” he muttered, then lapsed into silence when Angela laughed aloud.

Glancing at her husband, Alicia ignored his comment, and the remainder of the ride was spent in silence.

“Impressive,” Angela murmured when they arrived at the front door and she was helped from the coach by her father’s footman. She surveyed the crowd with growing dismay. “This will be a dreadful crush.”

“Isn’t it wonderful?” Alicia warbled, and Angela exchanged a rueful glance with her father.

Only Alicia truly enjoyed these affairs. John Lindell went to please his wife and advance his business interests and contacts. Angela, of course, attended most reluctantly.

After ascending the curved flight of stairs to the ballroom, the Lindells were announced by a solemn-faced servant at the entrance. People turned, but to Angela, the sea of faces was an anonymous blur. Several guests spoke as they made their way through the crowd, and she found herself nodding and smiling automatically.

This was a much larger room than the one used for smaller soirées and gatherings. Angela had no doubt that her father’s entire three-story house would fit into this cavernous space. No less than twenty crystal chandeliers hung at twenty-foot intervals from the high, vaulted ceiling. Groups of musicians were situated in alcoves or tucked into small balconies spaced around the room. Despite the vastness of the ballroom, the air was already hot and stuffy, cloying with perfumes and scents and the pungent smell of tobacco.

There were so many guests that it was almost impossible to keep the train of her gown from being stepped upon, and Angela despaired of getting through an entire evening without having it ripped away. She had no patience for this; even with the train looped gracefully over one arm, it was a nuisance.

As soon as possible, Angela began to make her way to the safety of an alcove despite her mother’s efforts to keep her in the midst of the crowd.

“The duke will appear soon,” Alicia hissed, grabbing at her arm. “At least stand here until then.”

“If he wants me, he can find me,” Angela said firmly. “If I linger in this crowd much longer, he will find me stretched on the floor in a dead faint. Do you want that?”

She did not wait for her mother’s reply, but pushed her way through the crowd until she reached a secluded area. It was not as remote as she would have liked, being much too near the musicians, but was better than the stuffy press of people milling about in noisy gaiety. Whyever did her mother find these things so entertaining? All it took was a half hour of listening to the brittle laughter produced by too much alcohol or the effort to impress to convince Angela that she was in the wrong place.

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
 . . .

“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 ledge 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?”