Teresa Medeiros (40 page)

He managed to swallow back his rage, although his indulgent smile lacked its usual sparkle. “Not to worry, my dear. Even the most graceful of us are sometimes prone to blunders.”

He rose, took up his cane, and gingerly shuffled across the dining room. He made it all the way to the door before throwing back his head and bellowing, “Potter!”

Esmerelda and Anne nearly jumped out of their guilty skins. As the sodden thud of his cane faded, they sank back into their chairs, dizzy with relief.

“Thank you,” Esmerelda said stiffly.

Her aunt took a bracing gulp of her tea. “It was the least I could do.”

“The very least,” Esmerelda agreed, feeling less than charitable. “We may have diverted him from the society pages with their hints and innuendos, but how long is it going to be before someone tells him exactly who that
lady
and her
cowboy
were?”

Anne waved away her concerns. “Reginald is a very influential man. His circle of acquaintances have always lived in terror of his censure. No one will dare breathe a word of scandal about his beloved granddaughter in his presence.”

“Perhaps not, but I’m sure they’ll be more than delighted to whisper about her behind his back at the ball
next week.” Esmerelda rose to pace around the table. “How could you do it, Aunt Anne? Wasn’t it enough that he broke my heart once? How could you bring him here to break it again?”

Anne cast her a beseeching glance. “When I wrote Sheriff McGuire and suggested he bring Mr. Darling here, I truly believed it was for the best. You were so very unhappy.”

“Well, congratulations. Now I’m miserable.”

Esmerelda sank into the chair next to her aunt and buried her head in her folded arms. Anne reached over and stroked her hair. Something about that awkward touch made Esmerelda remember Zoe Darling tying a faded ribbon in her hair. Made her remember how her own mother used to divide her unruly strands into neat braids before bedtime each night.

She lifted her head, seeing her aunt’s kind, stern face through a veil of tears.

“I saw the way he was looking at you last night, Esmerelda. If a man had ever looked at me that way …”Anne’s wistful sigh melted into a rueful laugh. “Well, I certainly wouldn’t still be here, playing nursemaid to my overgrown child of a brother.”

“He told me he never meant any of those unkind things he said. But how can I believe him? What if he’s lying?”

“What if he’s not?”

Utterly at a loss for an answer, Esmerelda rose and started for the door. “Dear?”

She turned to find her aunt’s face lined with concern.

“Isabelle D’Arcy told me St. Cyr may very well be planning to declare for you at the ball.”

Esmerelda straightened her shoulders, using supreme effort to turn her self-pitying sniffle into a sniff of disdain.
“Perhaps I’ll accept his suit. That would show the arrogant Mr. Darling that he can’t just waltz back into my life and expect me to fall into his arms.”

Esmerelda shuddered as she watched the earl of St. Cyr help himself to a fistful of shrimp balls from a footman’s silver tray. Catching her appalled gaze from across the ballroom, he smirked and wiggled his greasy fingers at her. He took her grimace as a smile of invitation, but before he could cross the ballroom, he was mercifully distracted by the sight of another footman bearing a freshly laden tray. Licking his bulbous lips, he took off in pursuit.

Esmerelda ducked behind a marble column and adjusted her half mask, wishing the ivory silk and feather trifle provided more of a disguise. Although the masquerade ball was being given in her honor, she felt more like the hired entertainment than the hostess. The cream of London society undoubtedly found her predicament highly diverting.

As Anne had assured her, not even the most vicious gossip among them had dared to confront the duke about his granddaughter’s scandalous behavior at the Wild West Extravaganza. But that hadn’t stopped them from accenting their lavish ballgowns and elegant black evening dress with mocking reminders of her folly. In lieu of velvet and silk masks, some wore colorful bandannas in the dashing style of the Darling gang. Others wore masks of gingham and calico. One solemn fellow had even managed to scrounge up an entire Union uniform.

Her grandfather might be oblivious to their sly glances and coy asides, but Esmerelda was not. Although few of them deigned to address her directly, their discreet whispers and muffled laughter vied with the tinkling strains of the musicians.

Hoping to creep from column to column until she reached the French windows leading to the terrace, Esmerelda peeked around the pillar only to discover that a man had appropriated the next column. He stood with one ankle crossed over the other and one brawny shoulder braced against the marble column. The muted glow of the gasoliers burnished his hair to gold.

Unlike some of her wittier guests, he wore formal black evening dress and a stark black mask. His flawlessly cut trousers and the graceful flare of his tailcoat only emphasized the leanness of his hips. The dazzling white of his bow tie offset the sunhoneyed hue of his skin. A fluted glass of champagne dangled from his long fingers.

As he met her frustrated gaze, he lifted his glass in a silent toast.

Esmerelda had no desire to begin a flirtation with some randy young nobleman, no matter how unnervingly handsome. She leaned the other way just as Potter appeared in the vaulted doorway. She might have been alarmed by the butler’s unhealthy pallor if she hadn’t already suspected he slept in a coffin. Flaring his pinched nostrils, he announced another round of guests, his consumptive croak all but in-audible.

Groaning aloud, Esmerelda ducked behind the pillar. It was too late. She’d been spotted. The Belles came trotting across the parquet floor, the pitter-patter of their dainty slippers portending her doom.

“Why, Esmerelda, is that you?” trilled the boldest of them.

“No,” she replied glumly.

They surrounded her anyway, their heart-shaped faces aglow with excitement.

Annabel (or was it Isabelle?) clasped her lily-white
hands beneath her pointed chin. “How incredibly brave of you to show your face in public after being so scandalously manhandled by that rogue.”

“I, for one, nearly swooned when he swept you into his arms,” chirped the shy little Belle named Belle. “We were all afraid he was going to carry you off and ravish you.”

They bobbed their heads in eager agreement, sending their elaborate clusters of curls bouncing. Esmerelda could do nothing to stop the flush that crept into her cheeks.

Slyly noting her heightened color, Isabelle (or was it Annabel?) crooned, “Surely even a woman of your advanced age and limited prospects would be tempted to surrender her virtue to such a dashing villain.”

Esmerelda couldn’t bear another second of their smug pity. Leaning down until she stood nose to nose with the impertinent little vixen, she said, “I already have.”

A chorus of gasps greeted her announcement. Leaving them aghast with shock, she gathered her skirts and marched away. Thinking only to escape to her bedroom or perhaps to the darkest reaches of Africa, she veered right to avoid her grandfather, then swerved left to evade St. Cyr.

And crashed right into the arms of the stranger who had sought refuge behind the other column, nearly knocking his glass of champagne out of his hand.

“Oh, I’m terribly sorry!” She dabbed at the damp spot on his crisp shirtfront with her handkerchief. “I don’t know what possessed me to be so careless, sir. Please do forgive me.” Genuinely embarrassed by her clumsiness, she glanced up into the eyes framed by the narrow slits of his mask.

Gray-green eyes fringed with thick gold lashes and sparkling with devilish merriment.

“I’ll forgive you, honey,” he drawled, capturing her hand and pressing it flat over his heart. “But only if you’ll forgive me.”

Billy’s heart throbbed beneath her palm, much as it had that day in the jail when she’d believed him to be some demon or phantom out to steal her soul. Only it hadn’t been her soul he’d ended up stealing, but her heart. As she gazed up into his dear, familiar face, she knew he still had the power to crush it with nothing more than a careless twitch of his fingers.

His appearance shouldn’t have taken her breath away, but it did. He’d proved himself capable of such a transformation once before in Eulalie. His casual elegance made all the other men in the room look like graceless buffoons.

Painfully aware of the curious stares they were attracting, she snatched her hand out of his. “You, sir, were not invited to this ball.”

He lifted his shoulders in a laconic shrug. “We Darlings don’t get many invites to fancy shindigs such as this.

But that never stops us from making ourselves right at home.”

“Darlings?” she echoed, her horror mounting. “Darlings? Surely you didn’t dare …” A desperate glance around the ballroom proved that indeed he had.

The entire Darling gang was in attendance, all attired in elegant black masks and formal evening dress. Jasper leaned against the mantel, looking nearly as striking as Billy. Despite his jaded sneer, the Belles had already began to bat their eyelashes in his direction. Enos lurked shyly behind a bronze bust of William the Conqueror, while Sam fidgeted nervously with his hair, trying in vain to drag a lock of it over his absent ear. Virgil was nowhere in sight, but Esmerelda could hear his voice drowning out the valiant efforts of the musicians.

She might have suspected her aunt of inviting the lot of them if she hadn’t spotted Anne in the corner, arguing frantically with a man in a white mask. His flowing silver hair just brushed his shoulders, and the tips of his drooping mustache had been waxed to perfection.

Esmerelda’s panic grew when she remembered the guest in the Union uniform. She sighed with relief when she glimpsed his dark blue back retreating from the room. The last thing she needed was a war on her hands.

Another war, she amended, meeting Billy’s challenging gaze with one of her own. “You can make yourself at home if you like, Mr. Darling, but that doesn’t make you welcome.”

“I remember a time when you welcomed me, Miss Fine. Into your heart. Into your arms.” He leaned down, making sure his next words would be heard only by her. “Into your bed.”

Her skin prickled with desire at the husky reminder. Before she could recover her composure, her grandfather materialized out of the crowd. Esmerelda nearly panicked,
but the duke gave Billy a look that was more cursory than curious. She’d forgotten that he was doing an impressive imitation of an aristocratic gentleman.

“There you are, my dear!” her grandfather exclaimed, blinking behind his brown velvet mask trimmed in owl feathers. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you. I was hoping we could have our guests adjourn to the music room for a brief interlude before the dancing begins.”

Esmerelda’s hands were trembling too violently to hold a champagne glass, much less a violin bow. “Oh, no, Grandpapa. I don’t think that would be a very good idea.”

“Why, I think it’s a capital idea,” Billy said, his drawl sharpening to a clipped English accent.

The duke looked him up and down. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure, sir.”

Before Billy could point out that the pleasure had been all hers, Esmerelda grabbed her grandfather by the elbow and steered him away with such haste he nearly dropped his cane. “Nor should you right now. There will be ample time for introductions later.
After
I play.”

Although her sweet smile remained fixed on her lips, she cast Billy a look promising revenge over her shoulder.

At her grandfather’s urging, their guests eagerly crowded into the music room. Esmerelda supposed some of them were secretly hoping for a performance as riveting as the one she’d given on Drury Lane. The Darling gang lined the right wall. Enos, Sam, and Virgil were beaming with excitement, and even Jasper’s sneer was softened by a hint of anticipation. Andrew McGuire soon joined them, followed by a scowling Anne.

Billy leaned against the mantel of Venetian marble, his arms folded across his chest and a mocking smile playing around his lips.

Esmerelda reached for the Stradivarius propped against the music stand, but some sentimental urge compelled her to choose her mother’s violin instead. While she was tuning the instrument and searching her beleaguered brain for a piece to play, the man in the Union uniform slipped into the room.

Knowing her avid audience would strain to hear every word uttered by the duke of Wyndham’s eccentric granddaughter, Esmerelda said softly, “Since everyone seems to be buzzing with talk of the American West tonight, I’d like to honor that fair young nation and its courageous countrymen with one of their most beloved songs.”

Tucking the violin beneath her chin, she gave Billy a smile so tender it earned him several fascinated stares. Then, without further ado, she launched into a rousing rendition of “The Battle Hymn of the Republic.”

Billy’s grin faded. His eyes narrowed.

Jasper reached for a gun he wasn’t wearing. Virgil lunged toward her, forcing Sam and Enos to jerk themselves out of their own horrified stupors to hold him back. The man in the Union uniform stood stiffly at attention until she had played the last majestic note.