Dark Angel / Lord Carew's Bride (42 page)

There was a special excitement about arriving at a
ton
ball that never quite faded, even at the beginning of a seventh year, Samantha found. Even the tedious wait merely built the feeling of anticipation, that breathless, heart-pounding notion that tonight might be the beginning of the rest of one’s life, that something might happen during the coming hours to change the course of one’s life.

It almost never happened that way, of course. One saw the same faces, conversed with the same people, danced the same dances every time. But the feeling never quite went away.

Every window of the mansion appeared to be brightly
lit. A carpet had been rolled out, down the shallow stone steps and across the pavement, so that those alighting from their carriages might have the illusion of never having had to step outdoors. There were smartly liveried footmen everywhere, discreetly busy. And so much finery and priceless jewelry displayed on so many elegant and not-so-elegant persons of
ton
that one immediately lost any pretensions to personal conceit.

Samantha smiled and stepped out of the carriage. She was in her own milieu and felt thoroughly at home in it. But she could not help remembering her very first ball during her first Season. There had been so much excitement, so much anxiety, so much hope. So much innocence. She would not go back, she thought now, even if she could. There were crowds of people in the hall, talking rather too loudly and laughing rather too heartily. And there was a solid line of people on the stairs, waiting to ascend and pass along the receiving line into the ballroom. There were numerous young girls in the crowd, dressed in the uniform of virginal white gown and white accessories. The most extravagant jewelry any of them wore was a string of pearls. They looked everything she had once been—the poor girls.

“We do not need to go to the ladies’ withdrawing room,” Lady Brill said after looking over her charge—if the term still applied to a lady of four-and-twenty. “You look quite as handsome as you have ever looked, my dear. I do not know how you do it. I like the colors.”

Samantha did too. The silver lace overdress sparkled in the light of candles and gave a smoky hue to the dark
green silk gown beneath it. Apart from three ruffles at the hem, her low-necked, short-sleeved gown was unadorned. She had learned from experience that beautiful fabrics and skilled workmanship ought to be left to speak for themselves. She always avoided plumes in her hair, too, though they were very fashionable and Aunt Aggy had told her that she needed the height they would lend her. But she preferred the simplicity of a few flowers in her hair or a ribbon threaded through her curls. Tonight it was a silver ribbon. And silver gloves and slippers. And a fan that by happy chance matched the green of her gown.

“You ought not to have been issued an invitation, Samantha,” a familiar, rather bored voice said from behind her shoulder. “Lady Rochester should have more wisdom. You will outshine every other lady present and ruin the evening for every last one of them.”

She smiled in amusement as she turned. “Oh,” she said appreciatively, “you were quite right, Francis. The turquoise is quite, quite splendid. I am impressed.”

He made her an elegant bow. “And would you marry a man who wears turquoise?” he asked, causing a large dowager to turn her head, adorned with six nodding purple plumes, sharply in his direction.

“Definitely not,” Samantha said. “I should be afraid of being outshone, Francis. Besides, you might always backslide into pink or lavender, and I should feel cheated. Are you going to offer us your arms and keep us company on the stairs?”

“How could I resist making myself the envy of every
male in the house by having the two loveliest ladies to escort?” he asked, offering one arm to Samantha and the other to Lady Brill.

Samantha laughed gaily. Lady Brill tutted and took the offered arm.

Another fifteen minutes passed before they finally stepped into the ballroom. It was the usual scene. The floor itself was empty, in anticipation of the dancing. Crowds lined all four walls, talking and gossiping and laughing. Several people, mostly in couples, promenaded about, looking for acquaintances or merely hoping to be seen and admired. The members of the orchestra were tuning their instruments. The floral decorations, all in varying shades of pink, were hardly noticeable in comparison with the gorgeous clothes and jewels of the gathered guests.

Samantha was soon in conversation with two of her lady friends and a gathering army of gentlemen acquaintances. Hers was the usual court, though Mr. Bains brought with him a neighbor from the country, a tall gentleman who was handsome even without the distinguishing feature of bright red hair. He bowed to all three ladies, but somehow maneuvered matters that he was soon in conversation with Samantha and signing her card for a quadrille later in the evening.

Perhaps the Season would have something new to offer, she thought. A new beau. Did she need a new beau? She never knew quite what to do with the old ones, beyond teasing them and flirting with them and making it quite clear to all of them that it was just a game
they played, that she was not in the business of seeking a husband. She never had any wish to lead a man on only to dash his honest and sincere hopes.

She was a little apprehensive tonight. Well, perhaps more than a little. She was afraid that Lionel, Lord Rushford, would be there. But surely not. Somehow he had found the impudence—or the courage, depending how one looked upon it—to return to London and even to ride in Hyde Park during the fashionable hour. But those things he was free to do. There had never been any criminal charges against him, after all. No one could forbid him to live and move about in England. His father was dead now and no longer held the purse strings. But surely he would not receive any invitations to
ton
events. …

I hear he is being received
.

She could hear Lord Hawthorne saying those words. But surely not by most people, and surely in no very public manner.

Even if he had been invited and even if he had accepted, he would surely keep his distance from her. He would not wish for the embarrassment of a reacquaintance. He had not approached her in the park yesterday, after all. Even though he had looked his fill.

She need not feel apprehensive, she had been telling herself all day. But she was. It was a great relief to glance all about the ballroom and see beyond any doubt that he was not there. There was no possibility that she could have missed him if he had been there. He was so very
blond and so very beautiful. One could not miss Lionel even in the largest crowd.

She danced the opening set of country dances with Sir Robin Talbot. He was a skilled, graceful dancer. She always enjoyed being partnered by him. It was an energetic dance. She was breathless and felt flushed at the end of it. Briefly she remembered her boast that after all the walking and hill climbing at Highmoor she would be fitter than anyone else in a London ballroom. But she pushed the thought aside again before she could even smile over it. It brought on one of those feelings of falling into a deep depression.

She fanned herself as she talked with a crowd of acquaintances between sets. She was laughing at poor Lord Hawthorne, whom Francis was teasing because he had just danced with a particularly pretty young lady who was making her debut this year. Lord Hawthorne was blushing behind his exaggeratedly high starched collar points and assuring his cousin that indeed he did not have intentions of offering for the chit tomorrow morning. How absurd!

“Though she is uncommonly pretty, Frank,” he added, causing a fresh burst of laughter from the group.

Someone touched Samantha lightly on her gloved arm. Even as she turned with a smile to greet the new arrival, she felt Francis’s hand close protectively about her other elbow and heard him utter a muffled oath.

“It
is,”
a startlingly familiar voice said. “I could scarce believe that after so many years you could be even more lovely than you were as a girl.”

She had the sensation of falling into his pale blue eyes as they gazed into hers with open appreciation. There was almost no other sensation at all. Other sounds and sights around her receded, and with them all awareness of where she was. There were only his eyes. Only him.

“Rushford,” a voice said in coldly courteous acknowledgment from a long way away. “A famous squeeze, is it not? This is my set, I believe, Samantha.”

Lionel
.

He inclined his head to her without removing his eyes from hers. “Samantha,” he said. “How are you?”

She heard someone speak. A female voice, quite cool, quite in possession of itself. “I am quite well, I thank you, my lord.”

“I saw you in the park yesterday,” he said. “I could not believe it was you. But now I can see that indeed it was. And is.”

“Samantha?” It was Francis’s voice, unusually curt. “The sets are forming.”

“You are engaged to dance with Miss Crowther,” she heard herself say.

“Devil take it,” Francis said, and then apologized to the ladies for his language and released her arm to stride away.

“Dare I hope,” Lionel, Lord Rushford asked, “that you have this set free, Samantha? Will you honor me by dancing it with me?”

“Thank you,” she said. Even though she was still looking into his eyes and the world was still in recession, her mind somehow told her that she had not indeed
promised the set to anyone, though one of her court was bound to lead her out. She never had to miss any dances at any ball.

She had placed her hand in his and stepped away from the group before the world came jolting back. A world that seemed focused all on her. Or on him, rather, she supposed. It had been a very public humiliation, though she had not been there to see it. His father, who had read publicly the letter Gabriel was supposed to have written to Jenny while she was betrothed to Lionel, had made his son read an equally public confession and apology before leaving for the Continent.

He was the focus now of fascinated stares and of an excited buzz of conversation. And she had agreed to dance with him. It was a waltz. Of all the dances it might have been, it was a waltz. She wondered how many people would remember that it had been her cousin who had been at the heart of the scandal with him. Yet she was according him the public courtesy of dancing with him.

“You are more lovely than you were,” he said as he set one hand against the back of her waist and clasped her hand with his. “Far more lovely, Samantha. You are a woman now. I cannot take my eyes off you.”

She could feel his hands on her. She could feel his body heat, though they touched nowhere else. She felt surrounded by him. Suddenly she felt suffocated by him. She smiled from sheer instinct.

“Thank you,” she said curtly. She tried to look about
her, to detach herself from the aura of his powerful presence, but everywhere about her she met curious eyes. She stopped looking.

“I came home,” he said. “I had to come.”

“I daresay one would become homesick after being out of the country for a number of years,” she said. “It is only natural.”

“I was homesick,” he said softly, tightening his hand almost imperceptibly against her back. “But for people more than places. For one particular person, whom I treated unpardonably because I would not have her share my disgrace. For one person I have never forgotten for a single day, Samantha.”

She looked into his eyes in shock, forgetting for one moment to smile. His silver-blond hair seemed thicker and shinier than ever. For the first time she noticed that he was dressed in pale blue and silver and white and looked like a prince from a fairy tale. But his words and their obvious meaning had jolted her finally out of the spell his sudden appearance had cast on her. She felt a welcoming fury build inside her as she smiled again.

“How gratified that person will be, my lord,” she said, “if she is able to forgive you and if she has not long forgotten you.”

His eyes became almost warm. “Ah,” he said, and the word was almost a caress. “Yes. You have grown up indeed, Samantha. I had hoped for it. You are angry and unforgiving and I am glad of it. You should not forgive me easily.”

“Or ever?” She made her eyes sparkle.

He smiled back, something Lionel had rarely done in those weeks when she had seen him frequently in his capacity as Jenny’s betrothed. Treacherously, she felt a lurching of desire deep in her womb. And an equal recoiling in horror. Could he really believe her naive enough to become entangled in his web again? When she knew how cruel and callous and self-serving he was?

Had he set himself that challenge?

And was there any possibility at all that he would win?

She grew cold with terror.

They danced in silence after that—for twenty interminable minutes. He waltzed superbly, never missing a step, never allowing her to collide with any other dancer, never slowing their progress about the perimeter of the ballroom or missing the sweep of a full twirl. His hand was firm and steady in hers. His shoulder was firmly muscled. His cologne was subtle and faultlessly masculine. She could remember his kiss—her first—open-mouthed, skilled, persuasive. He was the only man she had ever kissed who had used his tongue as well as his lips. A practiced seducer. Was it any wonder that she had fallen hard for him and had her heart quite shattered by his ultimate rejection? She had been a mere girl, inexperienced and naive.

No longer.

She danced and smiled. And tried to think of her beaux and her friends and of Jenny and the much-wanted third child she and Gabriel were now definitely
expecting and of Lady Sophia, whose leg was miraculously healing now that the Season was beginning and there was much to be seen and done beyond the confines of her own home. She tried to think of Highmoor and the view from the hill to the abbey, spoiled only by the presence of a single tree on the slope. She thought of Mr. Wade and pushed the image away again, or she tried to.

And she felt Lionel’s magnificence and his attractiveness. She knew she hated him and despised him—despised him anew since their brief conversation at the beginning of the waltz. But she also wondered in fascination and dread how his kiss would feel now that she had had more experience herself. And how his body would feel against her own slightly more knowledgeable one—though only slightly. She was still woefully ignorant for a woman of her age. She wondered … No, no she did not. She did not wonder that at all. She was not given to lascivious thoughts.