In Bed with the Duke (22 page)

Emma looked at the women, who were beaming at her in pride.

“Then . . .
I’m
beautiful?” She looked back the mirror. “I’m beautiful.”

A single tear ran down her cheek, and she hastily wiped it away.

She wished her lover could see her like this . . . and he never would. He never would.

T
he herald thumped the floor with his staff.

“Lord and Lady Fanchere.” His sonorous voice echoed out over the long, marbled, opulent ballroom, up to the towering ceiling, and over the people who crowded the perimeter of the empty dance floor.

Lady Fanchere indicated to Emma that she should stay where she was, and they descended the stairs into the chattering, noisy crowd.

“I’m Emma Chegwidden,” she whispered to the herald.

“Oh, I know who you are,” he answered, and once more thumped his staff on the floor.

To Emma, the sound was ominous.

“Miss Emma Chegwidden,” he called.

She started down the stairs and realized . . . the ballroom had fallen silent.

She glanced up. Every person in the ballroom was frozen in place. Every face was turned to stare at her.

She faltered. Was stricken by stage fright. Saw Lady Fanchere standing at the bottom of the stairs, her dark gloves gesturing,
Come down here to me.

Emma took a breath and resumed her journey. But now, each step was an agony of fear and self-consciousness, while she prayed she wouldn’t trip and humiliate herself.

Why was everyone gaping at her?

Not because she’d discovered that in the right clothes and with the right coiffure, she could be beautiful. No, that wasn’t it.

They watched her because Prince Sandre had indicated his interest.

She looked down at her feet, then up at the crowd, and saw Prince Sandre moving toward the bottom of the steps, a smile on his lips that frightened her more than the crowd’s silence.

Durant’s cynical comment echoed in her head.
Even you can’t be that naïve. If you dared refuse him, he would hunt you down and bring you back, and make you pay for humiliating him.

She had known she had embarked on a serious mission. She hadn’t realized she could be trapped in it.

She wanted to reach the bottom, to be off this showcase where she was trapped, and at the same time she writhed at the thought of putting her hand in Prince Sandre’s and allowing him to guide her through her first ball.

But she had no choice. The stairway ended. Prince Sandre bowed and offered his arm. She put her hand on it and, with a glimpse of Lady Fanchere’s beaming pride, she walked at his side across the empty dance floor toward some unknown destination.

“I had hoped to start the dancing with you tonight.” His charm was light and practiced.

And she was wiggling like a fish on a hook. “I would remind you, Your Highness, that I’m really a paid companion. My dancing skills are rusty and perhaps would embarrass you.”

“I would remind
you
that
I
am a prince and have been taught to lead the young ladies with a firm hand.”

He meant dancing, of course, but also something more. Probably he meant to thrill her. He frightened her instead.

A brief, intense pang of longing struck at her heart. If only she could be with the Reaper now, have him hold her close and somehow let her know that everything would be all right.
Please. Somehow, make everything all right.

But her prayer was not to be answered, for the prince brought her to a halt in the middle of the empty floor.

Now? He meant for them to dance
now
? She felt ill with horror.

He lifted his gloved hand.

The orchestra played the opening bars of a waltz.

He bowed.

And what else could she do? She curtsied.

He put his arm around her waist.

Off they swirled, around and around in nauseating circles that should have felt like flying but instead felt like a tree swing hooked to a broken branch. She saw faces reel past her, people standing on the edges of the dance floor, staring malevolently or with amazement or with sour amusement.

One face, affable, encouraging, caught her attention, and every time she circled, she looked over the prince’s shoulder at Michael Durant, standing on the sidelines and nodding encouragement.

That one friendly face eased her tension, and she wanted to somehow tell him,
Thank you
.

But Prince Sandre swung her around and around, and said in her ear, “Smile! You look as if I’m tormenting you.”

She took a breath—she’d been holding it for far too long—and decided she must not throw up. Digging into her acting repertoire, she produced a pleasant expression. “I’m simply overwhelmed by the honor you offer me, Your Highness.”

He laughed, delighted. “Have you ever been to a ball before?”

“No, this is my first. After this magnificence, how will I ever attend another?” She fell easily into the role of sycophant, and she discovered she could keep up a light patter of flattery and dance at the same time.

As the waltz progressed, other couples joined them on the dance floor until it was crowded with colorful gowns and smiling gentlemen, and the notoriety that so bothered her was diminished. The song ended; they stood politely and clapped; then Prince Sandre took her arm and led her back toward Lord and Lady Fanchere.

And there, near the edge of the floor, sat Lady Lettice, surrounded by her suitors.

Until this moment, the thought of once more seeing Lady Lettice hadn’t occurred to Emma. She’d been too busy hiding the Reaper, worrying about Prince Sandre and his intentions, assisting Lady Fanchere and Aimée, being fitted for gowns and facing the disapproval of her peers.

Now, suddenly, fate had offered her a chance for the smallest bit of revenge, and even knowing this was shallow, weak, and petty, she seized it.

She leaned against Prince Sandre’s arm, unobtrusively guiding him in that direction, and when they strolled past, she started in simulated surprise and said, “Lady Lettice, what a surprise to see you.”

Lady Lettice came to her feet, compelled by royal directive.

But Emma could see her struggling,
struggling
with the demand that she curtsy—for that curtsy would be a courtesy not only to Prince Sandre, but to Lady Lettice’s own former paid companion.

Prince Sandre seemed not to realize the interplay between the two women, but he did realize, all too clearly, that Lady Lettice was not offering him the respect he demanded. So he stopped. Stared coldly. “Well?” he said.

With a sob that sounded like fury, Lady Lettice sank into a reverent curtsy.

Mollified, Prince Sandre said, “I hope you’re enjoying your visit to our fair country.”

“Yes, Your Highness.” Lady Lettice remained in the curtsy, eyes cast down, the picture of submission.

Of course. As long as they stood there, she couldn’t rise.

So Emma said, “I had thought you were leaving, Lady Lettice.”

“I am!” Lady Lettice said.

“Moricadia will be desolated by your departure,” the prince said.

A small tremor started in Lady Lettice’s straining knees and worked its way up to her corkscrew curls.

“She fears the Reaper,” Emma informed the prince.

Lady Lettice cast her a look of loathing.

She smiled sunnily.

“You have no reason,” Prince Sandre told Lady Lettice. “He is as good as dead.”

Then Lady Lettice made her fatal mistake. She snapped, “Of course he’s dead. He’s a ghost!”

Prince Sandre went from pleasant to frigid in a second. “He’s a criminal, and he will be brought to justice.” He walked on.

Emma walked with him, delighted to hear a groan behind her, wondering only if Lady Lettice had managed to get up on her own or whether her suitors had had to hoist her to her feet.

“She looks vaguely familiar. Who
is
that wretched woman?” Prince Sandre asked.

“That is the lady who dropped a fish down her bosom,” Emma pronounced with deep satisfaction.

Throwing back his head, he laughed aloud. “I remember now! That was fabulously funny. I wish I could see it again.”

“I don’t think I could manage that,” she said with a sly wit that sailed past Prince Sandre.

He was too busy smiling at the tourists and nodding to his sycophants.

He delivered Emma to Lord and Lady Fanchere.

“What a lovely couple you make!” Lady Fanchere said.

He bowed to both the ladies, and shook Lord Fanchere’s hand. “I hope to claim Miss Chegwidden’s next dance, also,” he said.

In England, such an occurrence was as good as a betrothal.

Emma couldn’t allow that. “Thank you, Your Highness, but I must excuse myself from the ballroom. I will return soon.”

He understood her code; she wished to use the ladies’ convenience. He summoned a servant for her, and swiftly she was whisked from the ballroom and into the depths of the palace. A long, dim corridor led her to the brightly lit lounge. With a curtsy, the maid left her there. And inside sat Countess Martin, leaning into a mirror and staining her lips with red.

Emma curtsied and hurried into the inner chamber. She lingered there, hoping Countess Martin would depart, but when she returned, the woman still sat there, overwhelmingly sensuous in red satin and black lace.

She lolled in her chair and watched Emma splash her hands and face with water, then handed her a linen cloth and said, “You’re afraid of me.”

“Yes. No. That is . . . yes.”

“Because Lady de Guignard told you I can read the future?”

“Lady de Guignard is quite whimsical. I know that.”

“But it’s true.”

The lady was blunt, too blunt, and frightening in her own way, and Emma didn’t know how to blunder her way out of the conversation. Tentatively, she said, “She said you had marks on your hands.”

“That’s true.” Countess Martin stripped off her gloves and showed Emma. Eyes drawn from dark lines stared from her palms, eyes that looked Egyptian and exotic.

“Family birthmark?” Emma asked faintly.

“I don’t know. I was abandoned as a baby, left on the grave of King Reynaldo. Some old man found me. He wanted nothing to do with an infant, so he carelessly handed me over to the nuns in the orphanage. They tell me when the report went out that I had marks on my palms, he came back for me, claiming to be my father and wanting me back. They didn’t believe him; wouldn’t give me to him. They believed I was marked by the devil—or for the devil; I never managed to make that out—and they were determined to beat the evil out of me.” She recited the tale without self-pity, without even much interest.

And her very lack of expression made Emma feel the weight of the tragedy. She pulled up a chair. “I’m sorry.”

Countess Martin chuckled as if she were weary. “I think you are. Compassionate, even though you’ve had none too easy a life yourself.”

“What happened?”

“I was lucky. I grew up to be beautiful. That’s a helpful tool when you’re trying to crawl out of the gutter—or the convent. I caught Count Martin’s attention first, and he has complained that I bewitched him, but he is pleased to be bewitched. I set my sights on Prince Sandre next.” Countess Martin smiled, her teeth clenched together. “I got him, but I didn’t keep him. I think, knowing what I now know, it was a lucky escape.”

Emma nodded.

“I reach out for others, take them when I wish; then when I’m bored, I tell my husband. But I touch none of them except with my gloves on.”

“What do you mean?”

“When I touch a person, I know their future. Pitiful, brief, tragic, sopping with liquor or doused in laudanum, gout ridden or dwindling to a poor, sad end. I don’t want to know, so I keep them at a distance and hold Count Martin close. He’s boring, but he will live long and die a sudden death in his sleep.” Fervently, Countess Martin added, “Lucky bastard.”

Emma stared at her, stricken by the realization that knowing the future was to know tragedy.

“But something about you calls to me. I
want
to know your future, or I’m meant to tell you your future. Or something like that. I never comprehend why I’m called, only that I am.” Countess Martin offered her bare hands. “Come. Let’s see what I’m told.”

Tentatively, Emma placed her palms in Countess Martin’s.

The countess’s eyes went out of focus; she was here, but she was not, and in a dreamy voice, she said, “Ride for honor. Ride for justice. But don’t ride for friendship.” Her hands tightened on Emma’s. “If you give in to the anger, disaster will follow, and only the bravest deeds can save you from cruelty, from the everlasting dark . . . or a grave that will hold your soul forever....”

Emma swallowed and wished she were anywhere but here, facing a crazy countess babbling nonsense about Emma riding when she could barely sit a horse. “If I will make you less unhappy, I promise not to ride at all,” she said.

Countess Martin snapped back to the present. She scrutinized Emma from top to toe, and laughed. “I’m sure that you mean that promise, but I fear you’ll not keep it. Very well.” Standing, she waved a dismissive hand. “Give Sandre my best.”

Emma stood, too.

Countess Martin started to leave, then returned. With a tight smile, she said, “I try to shake this feeling, but I still worry about Lady de Guignard. Tell her . . . tell her again to avoid high places. The fall is very far.”

The intensity with which she spoke made Emma feel ill with fear. “I’ll tell her,” she promised.

“Good girl.” Countess Martin chucked her chin as if she were a child. “And remember what you already know—Prince Sandre is foul in every way. Run from his attentions.” She laughed. “But of course. I forgot. You can’t. The Reaper holds you in place.” She swept from the room.