The Runaway Countess (38 page)

When she did not reply, Cat pressed on. “Of course I understand your wish to keep any plans secret. But I will not interfere, not in this. I would see you here as a sister, not as a prisoner. I am a trapped wife. I would not wish that on anyone.”

Mazie glanced down at the wet hem of her skirts.

“Besides,” Cat continued, “from what Trent told me, I do not think you nor the Midnight Rider deserve to be punished. It was my father who did this.”

She felt even worse as she walked the last few paces to the shooting line and dropped the arrows into the upright quiver. So many people were affected, hurt in this tangle.

Cat took up her bow, fussed with the string. “I see how Trent looks at you. He will be terribly hurt.”

Again, she felt the beginnings of a scream that would to shake loose the rain from the clouds. “He never should have allowed himself to develop feelings for me. I am his prisoner, his enemy.”

“And you have not developed feelings for him?”

She wished she could say no. “I love him.” The words were strangled, tortured. Cat reached her hand out and touched Mazie’s arm.

“Stay,” she said softly.

“I cannot.” The words made her throat ache.

“Why?”

“What could come of it? Nothing. This is not a love meant to last.”

“How do you know?” Cat pulled her to the shooting line as if they were talking of ball gowns and not her escape.

“It is complicated.” Mazie positioned an arrow on her bow.

“You will run.”

“I don’t know.” She was honest. “Trent knows the truth, understands why the Midnight Rider did what he did. It is his decision what happens next. I am not going to stay and help your brother find my br—my friend. There is nothing left for me here.”

“There is love.”

Mazie shook her head. She took her stance and pulled back on her bowstring. “No matter what happens, we will hurt each other terribly.”

“Does it work, running away?” Cat’s voice was marked by concern and frustration. “Is that why Forster has been gone so many years?”

With a shift of her fingers, Mazie sent the arrow flying through the air. The two women watched the arrow hit the target a hand’s width from the center.

“Haven’t you ever wanted to be someone else?” Mazie turned toward her. “To leave the past behind and start fresh?”

“Yes, of course. But I am not eager to start again with nothing; I am too attached to my life.”

Cat was right. Mazie would have nothing. Again. No community, nowhere to belong. She had just begun to feel settled here in Radford after years of wandering.

“A rolling stone gathers no moss,” Cat muttered.

“Do I look like I want to be mossy?” Mazie did not care that her voice was sharp.

“No.” The other woman considered her carefully. “But you look like you want to be held.”

“I want to be free,” she insisted, but the words lacked the conviction she wanted to feel. Everywhere her skin recalled Trent’s warmth and heft as he held her. She would be spinning again, out into the horizon, with nothing to hold on to.

Roane would be there, she assured herself. And maybe Mrs. Pearl. She wouldn’t be alone like before.

“I know he seems like a brute sometimes, but Trent really is a sweetheart. He will be crushed if you flee. Especially now.”

Mazie shook her head, biting back tears. Her arms felt weak, listless as she pulled back on the bowstring. “I would rewrite our story, if I could.” In her story, the one she had written these last days, Trent would turn to their side. He would act with benevolence.

He would not hang her brother.

But fiction was not reality. She could not afford to forget that again.

“I would like to dance with him, to have that memory to carry.” Mazie couldn’t look at Cat as she told the truth that was also a lie.

“The Mortons’ ball, then?”

Mazie shrugged, hoped the motion looked unsure and wistful, not crafty and devious and all things false.

Chapter Twenty-Three

“Virtue is bold, and goodness never fearful.” Shakespeare

The Mortons’ house party was a renowned event that drew even the most devoted Londoners from the city. This year’s ball was greatly anticipated, to Mrs. Morton’s delight, as the Midnight Rider had everyone abuzz with his proximity. Constables from other counties had arrived to help patrol the High Road and keep it safe for the rich and titled travelers. Guards were stationed at intervals, torches blazing and guns at their side.

Mazie had witnessed it all from the window of the Radford carriage earlier that eveningthe eerie glow of the firelight in the dark, the smell of smoke and the loud clatter of horse hooves as the armed outriders escorted them through the gauntlet.

The gates to the Morton’s estate were even more ablazehuge, bright fires gave a dramatic punctuation to the event. The back gardens as well were brilliantly illumined by torches and swinging lanterns. From her vantage point at a window in the ballroom, Mazie watched couples wend their way through the statues and flowers outside.

In all, it was not the ideal situation in which to rendezvous with Roane. It was crazy, in fact.

But she knew how to do this, how to push aside her fear and bluster her way forward.

She took a long sip of champagne and tried not to wince at the crisp sharpness on her tongue, then took another sip, ignoring the knot of sickness in her belly. Beside her, Cat was chatting with a white-haired lady about some special variety of roses. Since their arrival thirty minutes prior, Mazie had recognized a number of guests but had yet to speak with any of her old acquaintances.

She had yet to speak with Trent either. As soon as they were announced, he’d been swarmed by people. He still stood by the stairs, a circle of men around him. A strange jealousy burned in her skin. She did not like sharing him with a room full of people. It was a ridiculous emotion, especially considering they had gone to great pains to avoid each other in the last few days. Since that fateful argument in his bedroom, there was nothing left to say between them. He would never forgive her brother, and she would never give him up. It was as if a shadow had fallen over the house with the quiet meals and thick tension.

But no matter how many times she told herself to
stop looking
at Trent across the ballroom, her gaze wandered over like an ill-trained dog hoping for affection.

The man was too gorgeous by half. In his formal black-and-white attire, he was a shock to her system.

And tonight would be the last she ever saw of him. But she must not think of her impending loss or her heartbreak would show on her face.

At this moment, he looked far from pleased. His face held that overly polite expression that she knew too well. The men surrounding him appeared stiff and uncomfortable and she assumed they were upset about the Midnight Rider.

Were circumstances different, she would wander over and see if Trent needed saving. But circumstances were as they were, and she could not help him.

He must have felt her gaze though, for he lifted his eyes to her. So somber. She felt his heaviness everywhere. Her heart ached with it.

All the more reason to leave. She could not afford to be in love with this man.

She shifted her gaze back to the ballroom. Would Roane be here, in the throng? She scanned the cavernous room draped in billowing green silk for a tall, sandy-haired gentleman. The floor was thick with dancers and the windowed wall, where she stood with Cat, was crowded as warm revelers sought a touch of breeze. Her heart thumped in her chest as she studied the guests. She hoped Roane wouldn’t be so audacious as to enter the house, that he would wait in the not-so-dark gardens.

There was too much at stake if they were caught.

She couldn’t help it—her eyes sought out Trent again. He was watching her. He leaned on one leg, restless, his wide shoulders blocking out the men behind him. Even at this distance his eyes were a clear, penetrating grey.

Heat rushed to her skin. Guilt. Desire. It was a game she no longer chose to play.

He turned and murmured something to the men then disentangled himself from the group, left them glaring at his back. He walked toward her, his gaze trained on hers. What was he doing? Did he suspect something?
Boom. Boom. Boom.
The rush of blood in her veins kicked and sped. He flicked his glance toward a few guests, his mouth moving as he offered some kind of pleasantries, but in moments it was there again, that penetrating stare. Focused on her.

His intention was clear on his face. Anyone could see that he had her in mind.

Seduction.

Punishment.

Her. All of it for her.

He hid none of it as he walked through the crowded room, his body graceful and athletic beneath his formal clothes.

Boom. Boom. Boom.

The noise of the crowd and the music fell away. All she knew was him, unrelenting as he plowed toward her. Her body trilled and hitched, lifted and lifted under his unwavering attention as it did when he pleasured her. When he touched and licked and did not stop.

He did not stop.

Not until he was directly before her. Close enough that she could touch him. And she wanted to. Right there, where his cravat tucked into his waistcoat, where she knew his muscle was broad and thick.

“What is wrong?” His eyes scanned her face.

Boom. Boom. Boom.
“I—what—no.”

Not the most convincing answer. And he did not look appeased at all.

“I suppose I am a touch nervous.” She would never smell sandalwood or lemon again without thinking of him.

He frowned. “I want to see you restored to this life,
your
life. But we can go if you wish.”

“No.” She jerked her head. “No, it is good I have come. You are right. I should face this part of my life. I
am
Lady Margaret. I always will be.”

His hair was slicked back, revealing the powerful handsomeness of his face. The hollows of his cheeks, the line of his jaw. His mouth twisted in a rueful smile. “To be honest, I don’t think it matters if you are Mazie or Lady Margaret. You seem well enough as you.”

She flushed hot as she recalled her own words the night she appeared at his door. Then the way he had stripped her bare with his lovemaking. So surprising, this man. Again, he reminded her of a many-faceted jewel. A black sapphire that could cut glass.

Or break her heart.

She lowered her gaze, studied the innocent linen of his cravat. Perhaps she would not dance with him after all. To touch him might be her undoing.

Despite herself, words slipped from her mouth. “Will you be all right?”

With these men. With the betrayal of your father. With my escape.

“They will not vote me on to the Committee on Foreign Trade.”

She lifted her gaze to his. “The men by the stairs?”

“Yes.” Trent took her empty glass from her hand and gave it to a passing footman. His mouth tightened and small lines fanned out from the corners of his lips. After weeks of judging the tone and landscape of his expression, it was easy to see that he was worried. Oh, she did not want to ache for him.

“I know how much the committee means to you.” Her voice was soft and betrayed too much.

He looked at her, his grey eyes cutting.
Then tell the truth, help me find the Midnight Rider.

“Perhaps it is for the best.” He was trying hard to hold it all in. To be kind to her. Oh, it was terrible. “I need to spend more time here in Radford, among my tenants. I have neglected them too long.”

He reached out and fingered her hair, here, in the ballroom, for all to see. “I like these sparkles in your hair.”

Mazie shivered at the contact. It would hurt less, her mind promised, once she was gone.

He lowered his hand but studied her, touched her with his gaze—her neck and the sweep of her shoulders, her décolletage. She felt herself greeting him, her skin welcoming him.
Stay. I am yours.

He lifted his gaze, held hers. She would cry. Here in the ballroom.

He held out his hand. “Dance with me.”

He spoke the words as intimately as if he had said “touch me”.

She hesitated. Pain and longing made a muddle of her mind. But she gave him her hand. Of course she did. She’d never truly had a choice. His gloved fingers tightened over hers and he led her away from the window into the crowd. Mazie couldn’t help but think of her mother and how pleased she would be at this moment.

The orchestra was playing a waltz.

She couldn’t possibly touch him here in front of all these people.

She couldn’t pretend she did not love him.

“I haven’t waltzed in an age.” Her voice sounded unusually breathless, nervous.

“Trust me.” He took one of her hands and placed it on his shoulder, then the other he secured in his grip. His large palm landed on her back, and his touch branded her skin.

His touch. His hands. Would she one day forget how they felt on her body?