Читать книгу Regency Pleasures and Sins Part 1 - Louise Allen, Christine Merrill - Страница 71

It was, Laura decided, the nicest dinner party she’d ever attended. Despite the sparkling gown that had initially drawn her to the attention of the company, the far-more-glittering presence of Lady Ardith guaranteed that she was soon able to return to her preferred role as a quiet observer. And so, wearing a dress that made her feel like a princess, being treated with kindness and even a touch of deference by her neighbors, she could relax and with perfect propriety let her gaze stray down the table to Lord Beaulieu.

Who was without question the most impressive gentleman in the room. The midnight-black of evening dress suited his raven hair and dark eyes, and the stark simplicity of the color and cut of his garments merely emphasized his breadth of shoulder, litheness of body and aura of power. Though she could not make out his words, even at a distance she could tell how, despite the impediment of Lady Ardith, whose rapid, laughter-punctuated banter scarcely paused long enough to allow her to draw breath or consume a morsel, he skillfully handled his end of the table, managing to coax even the normally silent Lady Winters into the conversation.

Occasionally he glanced in her direction. When he caught her eye, his mouth would curve in that compelling, intimate smile, and she would again be seized with the absurd notion that despite being surrounded by a tableful of people, one of whom was an accredited beauty, he was interested in her alone.

Absurd, but on this magical night when like Cinderella she’d appeared in borrowed finery and caught the eye of a prince, she’d ignore the prosaic voice of common sense.

Giddy delight, like champagne bubbles rising, swelled in her breast, and she could not help smiling. How different this evening was from the mostly wretched dinner parties she’d attended as a shy and nervous debutante, then as an inexperienced young bride.

The smile faded. She’d come to hate social functions, knowing her hawk-eyed husband would observe her every gesture and remark, and after the guests departed subject her to a scathing critique. She was too forward or too timid; she spoke too little or too much, played cards badly, danced too frequently or too seldom.

Even after she’d stopped caring about his good opinion, realizing it impossible to obtain, she so dreaded those post-party diatribes she could scarcely eat during dinner. Especially since as Charleton seemed to sense her will to please him diminishing, over the passing months he became increasingly angry, demeaning—and violent.

An involuntary shudder passed through her. With an effort, she shook her thoughts free. She mustn’t spoil a moment of this perfectly lovely gathering—the only occasion she would ever appear outside her dull brown persona—fretting over demons who were, she reassured herself again, safely consigned to the past.

“Is something the matter? You look … disturbed.”

The vicar’s question startled her. “N-nothing!” she replied, damping down an automatic alarm. “I was woolgathering, which was terribly rude. Please excuse me.”

“No forgiveness necessary. I must simply redouble my efforts to entertain you. ‘Twould be a crushing blow to my self-esteem to know the loveliest lady in the room found my dinner conversation dull.”

She dutifully smiled at the compliment, though in truth the only mild distress she’d experienced since coming to the table was generated by rather too solicitous attention of Reverend Mr. Blackthorne. It seemed, as the courses were brought and removed in turn, that every time she glanced in his direction, she found his admiring and uncomfortably intense gaze resting on her.

“It is the excellence of your address, I fear, that condemned you to this end of the table, so far away from the belle of the evening,” she replied, gesturing toward Lady Ardith. “For that I must truly apologize. Knowing how skillfully you converse with every member of society—” with a nod she indicated the querulous dowager to one side of him and the shy spinster on the other “—I’m afraid ‘tis I who placed you here.”

Mr. Blackthorne glanced at Lady Ardith, currently laughing as she plied her lashes at Dr. MacDonovan. “It cannot be lost on any gentleman present—” he leaned forward to murmur in a voice pitched for her ears alone “—who the true belle of the evening is. A lady whose beauty of countenance is matched by gentility of manner.”

Unsure how to politely discourage his ardency, Laura blessed Lady Winters, who rose at that moment, signaling the ladies to withdraw. “You will excuse me, sir?”

“If I must,” he said. “Until later, then.”

I certainly hope not, Laura thought as she followed her hostess from the room.

‘Twas time for Cinderella to depart, and not just to evade the attentions of the unexpectedly solicitous Mr. Blackthorne. Protected by the length of a dinner table, she’d been able to indulge her frivolous fantasies about Lord Beaulieu. But once the gentleman returned, there would be no barrier to his approaching her. Better to leave now, before Lord Beaulieu brushed away the fragile cobweb of her silly dream by ignoring her completely.

Or worse, made it all too real by approaching her.

In the parlor, the ladies took seats by age and inclination, save for Lady Ardith who, denied any other masculine attention, stood by the door dazzling a young footman. After the lad sprang away to fetch the wine she commanded, the lady drifted over to the window and stared out over the moonlit garden, one slippered foot tapping rhythmically against the floor.

Laura approached Lady Winters, intending to present her compliments and withdraw. But before she could utter a word, Lady Elspeth called to her.

“Please, Mrs. Martin, come sit by me.” Lord Beaulieu’s sister indicated the place beside her. “I’ve not had a chance to speak with you all evening.”

Much as Laura would prefer to leave forthwith, she could not do so without being rude to the lady who’d befriended her. Forcing a smile, she walked to the sofa.

“How fortunate you are, Lady Winters, to have such a charming, intelligent neighbor as Mrs. Martin. No, my dear, you must not blush!” Lady Elspeth patted Laura’s hand. “Dr. MacDonovan has sung your praises since the moment I arrived, and he is not a man to offer idle compliments. Indeed, have I not witnessed your skill for myself? I’m breeding, you see,” she informed the others, “and have been most horridly ill. Mrs. Martin prescribed a tea that has eased the discomfort.”

The neighborhood ladies all nodded. “’Tis a rare blessing she is to the whole county, just like her dear aunt, Mrs. Hastings,” the knight’s wife said. “Especially since one never knows whether or not Dr. Winthrop will be … available.”

“All the more rare to find such skill in a lady of gentle birth,” Lady Elspeth continued. “How comforting it is to be able to discuss intimate matters with an equal.” She cast a glance toward Lady Ardith as she emphasized the word.

As if pricked by the remark, that lady looked back toward the company, her disdainful gaze coming to rest on Laura. It seemed she would speak, but apparently deciding that without a masculine audience to exploit she’d not bother, she turned back once again to the window.

“With me feeling so peevish, Mrs. Martin has kindly stepped in to take my daughter for her walks,” Lady Elspeth continued. “What a champion you have there, Mrs. Martin! Catherine can scarcely be contained until it is time for her outing, and comes back chattering of the clever things you’ve shown or said or read to her.”

“Ah, children,” said Lady Ardith from her window. “Charming creatures! So inexperienced, they possess no discrimination whatsoever.”

“The intelligent ones do, from quite an early age,” Lady Elspeth replied. “A shame you’ve apparently never encountered the like among your own family and friends.”

Lady Ardith pivoted to face Lord Beaulieu’s sister, a martial light sparking in her cold blue eyes. Fortunately for Laura’s peace of mind, at that moment the parlor door opened. In a rush of conversation flavored with the lingering odor of cigar, the gentlemen entered.

With a smile as glittering as her gown, Lady Ardith at once made for Lord Beaulieu. “Ah, my lord, thank you for joining us so speedily!” she cried, latching onto his arm. “Deprived of your company, we women are such dull creatures. Babies and potions … I declare—” she swept a dagger glance at Lady Elspeth “—Squire Everett’s winter garden is more interesting than the conversation we summon up.”

Dr. MacDonovan halted beside them. Was it Laura’s imagination, or did a subtle glance pass between the two men? “Ah, lass, I canna believe the lips of such an exquisite creature could pass on anything less than … delicious. Come,” he urged, taking the hand the lady had pressed on Lord Beaulieu’s arm, “let us find some wine. Then ye must speak to me and prove the yea or nay of it.”

It appeared that the lady might refuse, until the doctor leaned closer and murmured something that brought a satisfied smile to her face even as she laughed and batted his arm. “La, but you’re wicked,” she reproved, allowing Dr. MacDonovan to lead her to the sideboard.

Before Laura could look away, Lord Beaulieu’s gaze met hers. He rolled his eyes briefly, a gesture so indicative of relief she almost laughed out loud. Then he smiled again, a slight curve of lip and fire of glance that once again ignited every nerve and set the champagne bubbles dancing through her veins. His eyes holding hers, she sensed more than saw him approach.

“Thank you, brother, for the rescue,” Lady Elspeth murmured. “I was in dire danger of becoming … unladylike.”

Lord Beaulieu bent to kiss his sister’s cheek. “That, I could never believe,” he said with a grin.

With Lord Beaulieu a mere forearm’s length away, Laura could feel the heat emanating from his body, catch the faint scent of shaving soap and brandy. Almost, she could feel his hand once more resting on her shoulder, those lips dipping to brush her cheek. A shiver swept over her skin.

He turned to her, his grin fading as his imperious eyes found and commanded hers. Scraps of conversation, the popping of the fire, the clink of glasses faded, until she heard only the rapid beat of her pulse. While they both remained motionless, staring, she forgot even to breathe.

“Mrs. Martin,” he said at last. “How very beautiful you look tonight.”

“Th-thank you, my lord.”

“I had hoped we might—”

“Excuse me, my lord,” Squire Everett’s hearty voice startled her. “The card tables are set, and Lady Ardith is demanding we choose partners now and begin play.”

“Play,” the earl repeated, and shook his head as if to clear his thoughts. “Yes, of course. If you’ll excuse me, ladies.” He made them a quick bow.

Almost dizzy with happiness, Laura watched him walk away. He thought her beautiful. As she’d dreamed all evening, he’d come to her, stood by her, gifted her with that special smile that transported her to a magical realm where nothing existed but the two of them alone.

Better to leave now, before anything occurred to mar the perfection of an evening she would recall with wonder the rest of her days. Cinderella, mirrored in the eyes of her prince as “beautiful.”

In a daze, she murmured thanks to Lady Winters and Lady Elspeth and floated toward the door.

Before she reached it, Lord Beaulieu called out, “No, Mrs. Martin, we cannot have you departing so early! Squire Everett needs a fourth at his table.”

“Aye, madam, ye’ve had evenings enough of sick lads and laudanum,” Dr. MacDonovan said. “Having kept vigil late these past days, ye canna be weary yet.”

“You must stay, Mrs. Martin,” Squire Everett said. “My sister declares she will not play unless you join us.”

Desperately as she wished to break free, to tuck away this fragile gem of an evening in a protective tissue wrap of memory so she might preserve it forever, once again civility dictated she remain.

And so she let the squire lead her to the table, knowing in truth that the reticent Lady Winters, an indifferent card player, would be wretchedly uncomfortable unless matched with a forgiving partner.

And besides, depending on where Lady Ardith maneuvered Lord Beaulieu, she might be able to observe the earl a bit longer, add a few more gilded treasures to the trove that must warm her through the long lonely days after he departed. As soon he must.

A surprisingly bitter regret spiraled through her. Damping it down, she took her place.

Laura gamely played through several rubbers, though her modest skill was not sufficient to outweigh some of Lady Winters’s disastrous discards. Their team ended by being solidly trounced, much to the delight of the squire and his partner Sir Ramsdale.

Naturally, Lady Ardith had snared the earl and Dr. MacDonovan for her table, with Lady Elspeth making up the fourth. The beauty seated the gentlemen—deliberately?—so that Laura could view only the back of his lordship’s head, but from the frequency of Dr. MacDonovan’s hearty laugh and the coos and squeals emanating from Lady Ardith, Laura surmised their table was enjoying a rousing good game.

The other tables were finishing up. Repressing the desire to linger, Laura turned to the squire.

“Thank you and Lady Winters both for such a delightful evening. I must go check on our patient now.”

“Nonsense,” Lord Beaulieu said, surprising her by appearing behind her chair. “Kit’s valet will summon help if the need arises. Lady Winters, shall we not have some dancing? This handsome chamber seems designed for it.”

“D-dancing?” Lady Winters repeated faintly.

“Capital idea!” Squire Everett said. “We’ve numbers enough for a respectable set. You can play for us, Emily.”

Lady Ardith walked over then to put an entreating hand on the earl’s arm. “Oh, yes, you must dance with me! Do say you will play for us, dear Lady Winters.”

“Nay,” Lord Beaulieu said, slipping his arm from under Lady Ardith’s grasping fingers in one smooth movement. “I insist on leading my charming hostess into the first set. I’ve heard, Lady Winters, you were such a belle at your debut Season the gentlemen called each other out over the privilege of escorting you.”

“Aye, a regular diamond our Emily was,” the squire confirmed proudly. “Winters was smitten the moment he saw her. Weren’t the only one, neither—even the old Duke of Clarendon came calling on her.”

“I’ll wager she can outdance us all still,” Lord Beaulieu said. “If you would do me the honor, my lady?” He made her the exaggerated leg of a Georgian courtier.

“Oh, la,” Lady Winters said, her face pinking with a mingling of pleasure and alarm. “I—I …”

“Excellent,” the earl said. “Squire, Dr. MacDonovan approaches, so you’d best be quick if you wish to capture Lady Ardith for the first set.” Ignoring the dagger glance that lady shot him, he turned to the rest of the company. “Ladies, gentlemen, choose your partners.”

He turned back to Laura. “You will play for us, Mrs. Martin? I understand you are quite skilled.” Without awaiting a reply, he offered his arm to the blushing Lady Winters and led her to where the couples were assembling.

Laura made her way to the piano, trying not to feel so … deflated. What had she expected—that the earl would ask lowly Mrs. Martin to dance? A woman who, whatever her origins, now occupied a position less elevated than a governess. A woman who, as Lady Ardith had cogently reminded the company earlier, had to earn her own bread.

She should focus on that fact and forget the seductive magic so briefly evoked by a borrowed gown.

“Let me help you find some music.”

Mr. Blackthorne stood beside the piano, distracting her out of her dispiriting reflections.

“A country dance, perhaps?” he suggested.

She nodded, as perversely comforted now by his attention as she had been unsettled by it earlier. After selecting a piece, she began to play.

Within a few moments, joy at the mellow chords produced by the squire’s fine instrument succeeded in dissipating her melancholy. She glanced up to the dancers—and found the reverend’s eyes focused on her with alarming warmth. A smile leaped to his face as their eyes met and he winked. Then, as he bent to turn the page of music, he placed a hand on her bared shoulder.

She jumped, missing the next chord. The earl whipped a glance over to them and frowned. Removing his hand, Mr. Blackthorne stepped back, but she had to struggle to recapture the beat, her quiet enjoyment shattered. Though he did not touch her again for the remainder of the piece, Laura remained uncomfortably conscious of his presence beside her.

After the music ended, Laura looked up to find the earl regarding them frostily. “Mr. Blackthorne, we have ladies in need of partners. I’m sure Mrs. Martin can keep her place in the music without assistance. Lady Ramsdale, did you not request the reverend’s escort?”

“If you please, sir,” the knight’s wife said. “You’re ever so fine a dancer.”

Laura thought for a moment Reverend Blackthorne would refuse. Then with a sigh, he murmured, “You will excuse me?” and walked to the dancers.

Waiting for a cue to begin the next piece, Laura watched the earl bow over the hand of Lady Winters who, flushed and laughing, shook her head in demurral. Whatever he said in those deep, even tones must have been persuasive, for after a moment, still shaking her head, she let him lead her once again into place beside him.

To her horror, Laura felt a shaft of bitter envy pierce her.

If she were reduced to resenting the gentle, silly Lady Winters, it was long past time to depart. The minute the dancers tired of their sport, she would take her leave.

Laura tried, but was unable to recapture her previous delight in the music itself. After the current dance ended and the earl, insisting Lady Winters dance now with Dr. MacDonovan, turned to claim a waiting Lady Ardith, what tepid enthusiasm she had mustered dissipated completely.

She tried to ignore the girlish giggles and arch tones that disrupted her concentration whenever the movements of the dance brought the earl and Lady Ardith nearby. When, after the last chord faded, the beauty immediately implored Lord Beaulieu to partner her again, Laura had to fight to keep from grinding her teeth.

She should have escaped earlier. Now her lovely memories of the party would be soured by the sound of Lady Ardith’s breathy voice and high-pitched titters.

Which is exactly what she ought to recall, argued the wiser, more cautious part of her. She’d been given a lovely gown and treated with deference by the company, which was everything and more than a woman in her position could expect or desire. She should banish once and for all every other moonstruck fancy.

“Yes, my lord, one more dance,” Lady Ardith cooed. “And we simply must make it a waltz!” She looked over at Laura, her expression a mixture of triumph and disdain. How dare you try to garner any attention at my party, it said. “You do know how to play a waltz, Mrs. Martin?”

Ignoble but instinctive fury shook Laura. But before she could mendaciously deny she knew anything about the waltz, Lord Beaulieu intervened. “A treat we shall have to postpone, my lady. Our hostess is looking fatigued.”

Lady Ardith’s smile faded to a moue of annoyance, but the earl had already relinquished her hand to stride toward the small group gathered around Lady Winters. Their hostess did in fact look ill, swaying on her feet as her brother supported her and Lady Ramsdale fanned her rapidly.

“Lady Winters, are you all right?” the earl demanded.

“A bit overcome by the heat,” the squire replied. “I think I’d best take her up to bed. I’ve instructed the staff to bring in the tea tray. Mrs. Martin, would you kindly pour for us?”

With a flare of irritation, Laura nearly refused performing this additional service. If she did so, however, she knew the hostess’s task would fall to Lady Elspeth, who ought to be delivered a cup and allowed to rest. “Of course, Squire Everett.”

“She’ll be as right as a trivet once her woman gets her tucked up in bed,” the squire assured the rest of the company. “Come, my dear, and wave your goodbyes to our guests. I’ll have you upstairs in a hound pup’s lick.”

“Please allow me to assist,” the earl said, “and selfishly steal a few minutes longer with the most graceful dancer of the evening.” Having received a weak smile from Lady Winters, he motioned in the servants who stood at the doorway, heavily loaded trays in hand. “Mrs. Martin will serve.” Taking Lady Winter’s other arm, he helped the squire lead her from the room.

My lord of Beaulieu was certainly good at ordering people about, Laura thought resentfully as she took her place behind the tea tray. But the small civilities of serving tea and the friendliness of Lady Elspeth, who insisted on installing herself at Laura’s elbow, gradually soothed her irritation. By the time the squire and the earl returned to the parlor, Laura was able to prepare their cups with a fair measure of her usual calm.

Don’t meet his eye. Don’t listen for his voice. Pour the tea, smile politely, leave. Now that, at long last, she was finally about to depart, she felt an irrational sadness that the evening was truly going to end. Cinderella, returning to sackcloth and ashes.

“Another round of cards?” Reverend Blackthorne suggested. “I’ve not yet had the pleasure of partnering Mrs. Martin.”

“Not for me, I’m afraid,” Lady Elspeth said, smothering a yawn. “My daughter has me up betimes. My warmest regards to all, but I shall have to retire.”

“I expect we should leave, as well,” Sir Ramsdale said. “A capital party, though, squire! Be sure to convey our warmest thanks to Lady Winters.”

Amid murmurs of agreement among the other guests, the squire motioned the butler to summon the carriages.

“I’m past needing to check on our patient. Please excuse me,” Laura said with a curtsey to the company.

“I should like to look on him, as well,” the earl said. “Squire, my lords and ladies, a delightful evening. If I might escort you, Mrs. Martin?”

Beau climbed the stairs beside Mrs. Martin in a silence that was both edgy with awareness and paradoxically, companionable. After Peters answered their soft knock, Mrs. Martin walked to the side of his sleeping brother’s bed. “Has he been resting comfortably?” she asked the valet.

“Aye, ma’am. He argufied some, but I got ‘em to drink all his broth.”

“Good.” She reached out to touch Kit’s forehead, ran her fingers down to his temple, then moved them to the pulse at the base of his jaw and let them rest there. Beau felt a sharp, involuntary pang of envy.

“Fever is not much elevated, and his pulse is quiet,” she observed. “Has he been coughing?”

“A bit. But not what’s you might call excessive.”

She nodded, then carefully laid her head against his brother’s chest. Beau sucked in a breath, thinking it might be worth getting shot to be in Kit’s place. Especially with a tad fewer witnesses and a lot fewer garments.

“Just a bit of a whistle in his lungs, and his breathing is easier,” she said. “I expect he should do fine tonight, although perhaps it would be best if I—”

“There’s no need, Mrs. Martin,” Beau interrupted hastily. “Dr. MacDonovan would not have turned Kit over to Peters if he had any doubts about his well-being.”

“You get some rest, ma’am,” Peters said. “Young master will be fine.”

Kit murmured and stirred. Beau took that opportunity to place a hand under Mrs. Martin’s elbow. “Come, we don’t wish to disturb his slumber.”

She hesitated a moment before nodding. “Very well. Good night, Peters.”

“Good night, ma’am, your lordship.”

His hand still at her elbow, Beau urged her toward the door. He paused at the threshold to glance back—and caught Kit watching them. His brother flashed him a wink before snapping his eyes shut. Suppressing a chuckle, Beau led Mrs. Martin from the room.

At last he would have her to himself. Anticipation surged through his veins.

“You missed your walk with Lady Catherine this afternoon,” he said, willing his voice to calm. “Or so she informed me during our ride, with no little indignation. You mustn’t neglect your exercise, though, and so unless you are fatigued, I suggest you take that walk now. The evening is clear with no trace of wind, the garden near bright as day under a full moon, and with a wool wrap you should be perfectly warm.”

“What an appealing thought! I believe I will.” She smiled. “I’ve always wondered if roses smell as sweetly at night.”

“Shall we find out?”

Her smile dissolved, her eyes widening. “W-we?”

“I can hardly allow you to walk about the grounds after dark without an escort. And since ‘tis I who urged you to it, ‘tis only fitting that I do the honors.”

“Oh, but my lord, you said you had work … I could not—”

“My papers will wait. Lady Winters’s white garden was designed to be seen in moonlight, she told me. I should like very much to inspect it with you.” His touch feather-light, he put a finger to her chin, tilting it up so her eyes were forced to meet his. Come with me, his gaze implored. “Please, Mrs. Martin.”

He held his breath, frantic with impatience as he awaited her response. She had no guile; he could read on her face the distress, uncertainty—and longing his invitation evoked. All his energy concentrated in wordless imperative, he willed her to yield to the desire that warred with caution in her eyes.

Each moment she did not flee brought her closer to consent. Acquiescence trembled on her lips, and he sought to help it find voice. “Does a white rose truly smell as sweet at midnight? I, too, should like to know.” His eyes never leaving hers, he offered his arm. “Let us see.”

Say yes, say yes, say yes. The refrain beat so loudly in his head he might have spoken it aloud. If she demurred now he wasn’t at all sure he could make himself leave her.

The briefest flicker of a smile creased her lips. “It would be much wiser if we did not. But …” She uttered a small sigh, as if having won—or lost—some great struggle. “Let me fetch my shawl.”

Relief, excitement and gladness shot through him like an exploding Congreve rocket. Knowing he was grinning like an infatuated schoolboy but unable to help himself, he said, “My cloak is in the library. ‘Twill be warmer.”

Before she could change her mind and bolt, he clasped her arm and led her downstairs, across the deserted entryway where the case clock ticked loudly in the stillness, and into the library. Snatching up the cloak he’d left there after his late ride, he fastened it beneath her chin with care, the deliberate avoidance of contact with the soft skin so tantalizingly near his fingers a delicious game of heightening awareness.

“Come,” he whispered. Taking the gloved hand she offered, he led them out the French doors onto the terrace. As they descended to the garden, Mrs. Martin gave a gasp.

“It is a fairyland!”

Illumined by moonlight, each urn, bench and planting stood in its usual place, yet the silvered light and the odd, amorphous shadows it cast gave everything a strange, otherworldly aspect.

His senses seemed uncommonly acute, as well. He heard the plaintive call of an owl, the scurrying of some small animal in the bushes, the crunch of the gravel under their feet, the silken rustle of her skirts. Her subtle scent carried on the chill night air, teasing his nose with the warmth and fragrance of her. Moonlight painted her dark hair, silhouetted her small straight nose and delicate lips with a crystalline line. Each time she took a step the opaque darkness of his cloak parted to reveal a sparkling flash of gown, as magically luminescent as phosphorus in the wake of a ship.

In awed silence they walked down the center allée, then turned toward the west wing into the white garden.

Ghostly roses glowed against a shadowed trellis on the stone wall opposite them. The silver leaves of artemesia and curry drifted onto the pathway, a splash of Stardust at their feet, while tiny white brushheads of asters stood out like dots of exclamation against a dark mass of greenery.

“It’s beautiful,” Mrs. Martin whispered.

He lifted her hands to his lips, exulting when she did not pull them away. “You are beautiful,” he said as he kissed them, his voice husky. “Not a lady in the room tonight could compare.”

She laughed, her voice unsteady. “With your sister and Lady Ardith present? Mendacious flattery, my lord.”

“Absolute truth.”

She made a scornful noise. “I am to Lady Ardith as a candle flame to a Yule log’s blaze.”

“You are to her as fine gold to dross. And so I would have told you earlier, but your having endured enough of her spiteful tongue at dinner, I did not wish to single you out and attract more sweetly acid commentary.”

She tilted her head and gazed up at him with that inquisitive look he found so endearing. “It would not have been fitting in any event.”

“Is propriety so important, Sparrow?”

“You must not call me that.” The quiver of a chuckle belied the stem tone of her reproof. “Nor am I sure I like being called a plain brown sparrow, even were it proper.”

“But you are a sparrow—quiet, observant, intelligent. Endlessly fascinating and entirely overlooked. Although tonight you were transformed into a swan, glittering and graceful.” He held up a hand to forestall her protest. “And now I’ll revert to observing the proprieties. I shall call you ‘Sparrow’ only when we are alone.”

He heard her choke of stifled laughter and grinned. She’d caught his little joke, clever Sparrow that she was.

“As if our being alone together were not much more improper,” she replied. “I should not have allowed you to accompany me.”

It was too soon to ask, but the urgent need to know overrode caution. “But you wanted my company?”

For a long, anxiety-ridden moment she remained silent. “Yes,” she said finally, her voice a low whisper. “Having admitted that, now I shall observe the proprieties, and leave you.”

“Wait!” He caught her shoulder as she turned. “I’ve a question I’ve not yet asked you.”

She lifted one hand, and for an instant he thought she meant to place it over his, strengthening his hold on her. Instead, she let it flutter back to her side. “One question, then.”

“Will you dance with me?”

Her eyes registered surprise. “Dance?”

“Here, now.” He gestured to the sky above them. “Accompanied by a symphony of stars, to the music of the wind’s rustle.”

“You want to dance with me here?” She repeated, her tone still incredulous.

“I didn’t dare ask you in the drawing room, fearing my proper Sparrow would probably refuse. But there are no prying eyes now to criticize or condemn. So, my lady beautiful, dance with me.” Beau held out a hand.

For a moment she simply stared at him. “This is madness,” she murmured at last. And slipped her fingers in his.

He eased her into waltz position, shocks jolting through him as they touched at shoulder, waist, hip. How well she fit against him, he thought; how absolutely right and natural it seemed to have her in his arms. Tucking the silk of her hair under his chin, he moved her into rhythm.

Under the spangle of stars they dipped and twirled while Beau hummed a tune in her ear. The racing of his heart owed little to the exertion of the dance, everything to the feel of Laura Martin’s hands clutching his shoulders as he swung her in ever-faster spirals, the press of her torso against his through the maddening thickness of his cloak, the warmth of her rapid breaths floating up to caress his face. Not until she gasped an inarticulate appeal did he slow, then halt, though he could not bring himself to let her go.

He didn’t want her to leave the dance or his side, he realized suddenly. No, he wanted her solemn eyes and incisive mind and wood sprite’s charm beside him for the rest of this night. Perhaps for always.

Still clasping her waist, he raised his other hand to trace her trembling lips. “I’ve been waiting all night to have you in my arms,” he murmured.

But he lied. He wanted much more than that. He hungered to arouse the vision he’d glimpsed in her cottage garden, the siren with tumbled hair and passion-languid eyes and soft mouth tilted temptingly to his own.

Beyond strategy and caution, he bent his head toward her lips. To his joy, with a murmur she clutched his shoulder and strained up to meet his kiss.

He retained enough sanity not to plunder her mouth with the urgent need that pulsed in him, luring her instead with quick, glancing touches meant to tantalize, entrance. Not until she twined fingers in his hair, tugged his head closer did he deepen the kiss, licking and sucking at the fullness of her lips until on a moan they parted.

A tremor shook her, shook him when their tongues met, before she darted hers away. An unexpected tenderness welled up—amazingly, his Sparrow did not even know how to kiss. Holding in ruthless check the desire to swiftly conquer and possess, he made himself slow, his tongue once more teasing within the softness of her mouth, letting her accustom herself to the feel of him. After a moment, she rewarded his patience as, tentative, uncertain, her tongue sought his.

He returned that guarded tap, the oblique contact like the sparing blades of cautious fencers. And when she met him again, lingering this time, he boldly stroked her tongue’s full length in a hot velvet slide that struck sparks to every atom of his body.

A strangled moan escaped her throat and he felt the bite of her fingers at his shoulder, her other hand delving into his coat, nails scratching at the buttons of his shirtfront as if seeking entry.

In some dim corner of his mind he knew control was eroding, that he was rapidly approaching the point where not even the October chill of the moonlit garden could rein in his desire. But before sense was lost in a mindless search for a bench, a terrace, even a softly yielding patch of grass, she abruptly wrenched her mouth from his.

In automatic response he tried to pull her back. She fended him off with one hand, her eyes focused on something behind him.

And then he heard it. A woman’s high-pitched, provocative laughter, emanating from the chamber just beyond the garden.

He turned. Through the mullioned window, he saw Lady Ardith standing with her bodice undone, candlelight and moonlight illuminating the bareness of her breasts. Mac leaned toward her, sliding up her skirts as he bent to capture one shadowed nipple in his teeth, while Lady Ardith fumbled with the straining buttons of his trouser flap.

The consternation he felt was reflected in Laura Martin’s horrified stare. Before he could utter a word, she shoved him away and fled down the path toward the library.