Dreaming
RICHARD DID HIS BEST TO IGNORE HER . . .
What are you drinking,”
Letty
asked. “Brandy?”
“A little destruction.” He gave a mock salute and laughed bitterly, then made the mistake of looking at her.
Her expression turned serious. “Why do you do that?”
He brought his face
intimidatingly
close to hers. “Because it makes me feel good.”
She drew in a breath and her eyes widened, but to her credit she didn’t move. He felt as if he held her heart in his hands. He didn’t want to be handed any hearts.
“I like things that make me feel good—strong drink, hard rides across the moors”—he lightly touched her cheek—“debauching innocent girls.”
“And shocking people,” she added, her face scant inches from his, her expression showing no signs of intimidation.
He could smell the scent of lavender lingering about her, clean and sweet . . . and pure. It triggered something inside him. His mouth closed over hers, hard and demanding. He intended to do exactly what she accused him of: shock the bloody hell out of her . . .
The Novels of Jill Barnett
The Novels of Jill Barnett
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BEWITCHING
DREAMING
IMAGINE
CARRIED AWAY
WONDERFUL
WILD
WICKED
THE HEART'S HAVEN
SENTIMENTAL JOURNEY
THE DAYS OF SUMMER
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About Jill Barnett
Jill Barnett sold her first book to Simon and Schuster in 1988 and has gone on to write 19 novels and short stories. There are over 7 million of her books in print, and her work has been published worldwide in 21 languages, audio and large print editions, and has earned her a place on such national bestseller lists as the New York Times, USA Today, Washington Post, Publishers Weekly, Barnes and Noble and Waldenbooks —who presented Jill with the National
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.
Dreaming
By
Jill Barnett
Bell
Bridge
Books
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead,) events or locations is entirely coincidental.
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Bell Bridge Books is an Imprint of BelleBooks, Inc.
Copyright 1994 © by Jill Barnett
2010 Electronic publication - Bell Bridge Books
Electronic ISBN: 978-1-935661-65-8
Originally published 1994 by Pocket Books, mass market edition
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Interior Design: Hank Smith
Artwork Credits:
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:Md-01:
Prologue
London
,
England
, 1813
She believed in dreams, but this evening was fast becoming a nightmare. Alone in a small alcove of the crowded ballroom,
Letty
Hornsby watched the crush of English society swarm onto the dance floor for another set. Dripping in feathers and finery, they laughed and danced, flirted and fanned, all to the accompaniment of an orchestra of strings and woodwinds.
Anxious dandies fluttered around this season’s bouquet of fresh females like butterflies in search of the richest nectar. They moved through the crowd, bowing and filling in dance cards, arguing in gentlemanly style over who would pluck a treasured waltz from this season’s Incomparable.
Her first ball of her first season. Yet she had never felt so alone and far from home. She had wanted her father to be with her, but on that morning so many months past when they’d first spoken of her come-out, he had raised his head from behind the latest issue of
Roman Antiquities
and said he was long past balls and the season’s pleasures. She’d do much better with her mother’s aunt providing her introduction.
However, Aunt
Rosalynde
hadn’t introduced her to anyone except the hostess, then she’d shuffled
Letty
over to this side of the room whilst she scurried off to hear the latest
on
dit
, leaving
Letty
to fend for herself in a ballroom filled with strangers.
She might be standing in a lonesome corner, but in her mind she twirled and spun and
schottisched
to the music. Beneath the long skirt of her gauze gown, hidden under a satin
underslip
and petticoat, she tapped a silk-
slippered
toe to the tune of a country dance. She closed her eyes and imagined that she was dancing and laughing and smiling, the belle of the ball, the princess she’d always dreamed she’d be, with long flowing titian hair and an even longer line of admirers waiting to dance with her.
The music ceased, the dance ended, and so did her dreaming. She sighed for what she wished would happen and opened her eyes to face sad reality. She wasn’t a titian-haired princess and the belle of the ball. She was
Letitia
Hornsby, with nut-brown hair, long and curly as a pug’s tail, and she was standing in a corner at her first ball, alone and forgotten.
From nearby a girl’s gay laughter rippled into the air. Intrigued,
Letty
took a couple of steps out from the shadows, leaving a tall marble statue of Cupid alone in his alcove. Standing next to this icon of romance had done little to improve her situation.
The laughter sounded again. She watched a lovely blond girl snap open her fan, wave it playfully, and then, skirts in hand, sink into a deep curtsy before a group of doting young men. She fluttered her eyelashes slightly, then smiled up at her swains, who fought over themselves to offer her a hand up.
The girl denied them all, then rose so smoothly even
Letty
felt the urge to applaud. The men did applaud and argued over who would lead the divine and graceful miss in the next set.
Letty
wished she knew the girl; then perhaps she could ask her to share. One dance was all she wished for. Just one.
As if in answer to her wish, a young dark-haired man stepped from the crowd and scanned the room, searching until his gaze stopped on her. His look changed to one of decided interest.
Every muscle in her body tensed in anticipation.
He slowly, purposefully, strode toward her.
Oh, this was it! Her breath caught in her chest and she prayed she wouldn’t do something shameful, like burst into tears or swoon, especially before he reached her.
Beneath her gown she could feel her skin sweating nervous tears of its own. She supposed she should have fanned herself—she had made an attempt to learn the art of fanning—but at that moment her fan hung uselessly from Cupid’s drawn arrow.
With each step the dandy took,
Letty’s
heart pounded louder in her ears. In a flash of fancy she imagined it was a drum roll signaling the joyous moment she’d been awaiting. To dance. Oh, to finally dance!
The violins sang out an introduction to the next set. He was almost there. Not realizing she had even done so, she took a step toward him and stumbled, then felt his glove on her arm as he steadied her. She gazed up into his face and smiled her gratitude.
“Beg pardon, miss.” His voice was so welcome a sound after no conversation for two hours. But not half as welcome as he himself was.
Still smiling a thank you, she raised her left hand, her dance card dangling from it by a pink silk ribbon.
“Pardon me,” he repeated.
“’
Twas
my fault,” she said in a nervous rush. “I stepped on my hem. It’s a bit long, you know. I told Aunt
Rosalynde
—she’s a Hollingsworth, of the Exeter
Hollingsworths
? I told her it was too long, but she wouldn’t listen, just told me to hush because I chatter too much and to let her handle everything since she knew what she was about.”