Enchanted Rendezvous: A Tangled Hearts Romance (8 page)

She had no time to observe more before Lord Brandon caught her by the elbow and began to propel her in the direction of some French windows. “What are you doing?” she asked indignantly.

“You were wonderin’ how to escape all those tiresome people, weren’t you?” his lordship demanded.

There was surprising strength in Lord Brandon’s arm, and Cecily was swept effortlessly forward. Knowing that to resist would cause a scene, she allowed herself to be walked through some French windows onto a balcony. As soon as they were alone, she rounded on him.

“Of all the rag-mannered tricks,” she exclaimed. “I did not ask to be brought here, sir.”

“No, but you’ll have to admit it’s more pleasant than in there,” Brandon drawled.

About to sweep back into the drawing room, Cecily felt a breeze laden with the scent of roses and honeysuckle touch her cheek. She could not resist pausing to glance over her shoulder and saw that the balcony overlooked Sir Carolus’s gardens.

It
was
much more pleasant there, but the forms had to be observed. “I must go in,” Cecily said.

“Why?” Lord Brandon wanted to know.

Cecily started to speak, then stopped as Lord Brandon continued. “Don’t let customs dictate your behavior. Think for yourself.”

In spite of herself Cecily could not help smiling. “My father used to say that. He said that manners change but truth stays constant.” She leaned forward, so that her elbows rested on the marble edge of the balcony. “He warned me that if I did not think independently, I could never be a free woman.”

“Then he was a clear-thinking man, a rarity in any age.”

Was it a trick of her imagination, or had Lord Brandon’s voice changed somehow? Cecily glanced at the man beside her, but his face was in shadow.

“No wonder you are the kind of woman you are,” he continued.

“I do not think—” Cecily began, but he silenced her.

“You
do
think. That is what I find so delightful about you.”

This was not a proper conversation. Cecily knew that she should end it, put Lord Brandon in his place, and return to the others. Instead, she heard herself say, “Others do not share your view. I am persuaded that Colonel Howard cannot credit that a female has two thoughts to rub together, and there are many more like him in the world.”

“If you could create your own world, what would it be like?” Dimly Cecily realized that Lord Brandon was also leaning against the edge of the balcony. He was so near that his coat sleeve brushed her bare arm as he said, “Come, pretend with me that we are a universe away from anyone else.”

With a jolt of consternation, Cecily realized that she had been thinking that same thing. Sir Carolus’s guests had disappeared. Annoying memories of Colonel Howard and James Montworthy had become unimportant. All that remained was the flower-drenched night and the man by her side.

“We must rejoin the others.” She had meant to say the words firmly, but they came out in a hen-hearted whisper.

Brandon could feel her arm tremble against his, and when he turned to look down at her, he could discern the uncertain look in her eyes. The curve of her mouth made her appear vulnerable, and a fierce need to kiss that mouth rose in him. Though he reminded himself of the reason that had brought him to Dorset, his logic seemed to have taken French leave. In this magical instant nothing mattered more to Brandon than this girl beside him with moon-silver in her eyes.

She
must
rejoin the others. Cecily had half turned
to go when she heard Lord Brandon say, “Don’t go, Celia.”

Her startled eyes flew up to meet his, and at the look in his eyes her heart seemed to pause. It was incredible—impossible—that she wanted the effete Lord Brandon to kiss her, but this man did not seem to be Lord Brandon. It was as though a stranger, and yet not a stranger, stood beside her in the rose-scented night. When he took her hand, Cecily did not have the strength of mind to pull away.

“Celia,” Lord Brandon murmured.

Just then, a shadowy form came striding out of the French windows. It stopped short, and a startled male voice exclaimed, “Is someone else out here?”

Chapter Five

L
etting go of Cecily’s hand, Lord Brandon took several steps backward and collided painfully with the marble rail of the balcony. Meanwhile the intruder was apologizing, “Only wanted to blow a cloud. Talk in there’s as moldy as old cheese. No wish to disturb anybody. By Jove, no.”

“You are not disturbin’ us,” Lord Brandon replied. “This lady felt faint and was takin’ the air. If you’re feelin’ restored, ma’am, shall we go in?”

He offered Cecily his arm, but before she could take it, the newcomer exclaimed, “It
is
you, Brandon!”

He seized Lord Brandon’s hand and began to pump it forcefully. “Thought so earlier but wasn’t sure. What are you doing here in Dorset?”

“I could ask you the same thing, Jermayne. I thought you were in Portugal.”

“Furlough, old man.” By a shaft of light that filtered through the open French windows, Cecily could see that the newcomer was tall and had a long face bisected by a drooping, sandy mustache.
The scar on his cheek stood out starkly against his sun-darkened skin.

“Boney’s quiet for the time being,” he continued, “so I’m rusticating.” He paused, coughed behind his fist, and made a jerky bow in Cecily’s direction. “Servant, ma’am,” he said shyly. “Didn’t mean to intrude. Hope you’re feeling more the thing. I’ll leave you now.”

“Let me present you first. Miss Verving, this is Captain Allan Jermayne, of the Fourth Dragoon Guards.”

The captain reiterated his jerky bow and professed himself to be Cecily’s most obedient. Then he said, “Happy to run into you, Brandon. Traveling through Dorset and stopped to see Sir Carolus. He was friends with my father in his school days. He insisted I stay for his party.”

He sounded morose, and Lord Brandon asked languidly, “Not enjoyin’ the evenin’?”

“Oh, God, no—beg pardon, ma’am. Hell—I don’t mean, that, neither,” the captain stammered. “More used to battlefields than drawing rooms. Rough tongue. Soldier. Used to foul language. Sorry I swore.”

He looked so uncomfortable that Cecily’s sympathies were aroused. “I pray that you will not regard it,” she said gently. “In certain peoples’ company, I often
want
to use foul language.”

The captain peered at her, then smiled a shy smile. “Good of you to say so, ma’am. Very kind. But females—I mean, ladies—with fans and gewgaws make me nervous. And the men in fancy dress are worse. Eh? A lot of counter-coxcombs—”

Here his eye fell on Lord Brandon’s attire, and he stammered into silence. “It is getting quite cool,” Cecily said hastily. “I think we should go in.”

Trailed by the captain, Lord Brandon escorted
Cecily back into the drawing room, where members of the orchestra were taking their places. The floor had been cleared for dancing, and chaperons were positioning themselves. Younger ladies were beginning to cast hopeful glances at the cluster of the colonel’s Riders, who were still holding forth on the war with the colonies.

“Young muttonheads,” Captain Jermayne remarked dispassionately. “Don’t look like they know the first thing about war. I wonder what they’d have done in our shoes at Salamanca, Brandon.”

“You were at Salamanca together?” Cecily asked, astonished.

The captain nodded. “We were that. I nearly died there. Would have, if Brandon hadn’t—”

“Ah, the orchestra has begun,” Lord Brandon interrupted. “Will you honor me, Miss Verving?”

Before she knew what he was about, she was in his arms and being whirled away onto the floor in a very fast waltz.

It all happened so quickly that Cecily had no time to protest. And after the first astonished moment, she did not particularly want to protest, for she realized that Lord Brandon was an accomplished dancer.

Almost from the cradle Cecily had loved to dance. Her unconventional parents had encouraged this, and one of her happiest nursery memories was that of waltzing with her laughing young mother while her father accompanied them on the pianoforte.

She had forgotten all about that golden moment, but now as she spun about in Lord Brandon’s arms, the memory was rekindled. “Am I going too fast for you, Celia?” he was asking.

Cecily would not admit to a breathlessness caused, no doubt, by the fast pace of the dance.

“To tell you the truth, I do not know why I am
dancing with you,” she retorted. “And my name is not Celia.”

“It suits you.” Cecily felt the surprisingly strong arm around her waist tighten. “You’ve read what Jonson writes ’To Celia,’ haven’t you? ’Drink to me only with thine eyes, and I will pledge with mine—”

“I do not see,” Cecily said severely, “that that has anything to do with me. And pray stop singing, Lord Brandon. You are making a cake of yourself.”

“—‘Or leave a kiss but in the cup, and I’ll not look for wine,’ ” Brandon warbled blithely. “It’s only a song, of course. I wasn’t suggestin’ that you leave kisses lyin’ about.”

Cecily attempted an icy stare. It was a failure, for the corners of her mouth had begun to twitch suspiciously. “A waste of time,” Lord Brandon went on, “leavin’ kisses inside cups. There’s a much better use for them.”

The bold black eyes that rested on her lips were neither sleepy nor lazy, and Cecily found it even more difficult to catch her breath. It was, she thought, high time to end this extremely improper conversation.

Abruptly she changed the subject. “Why did you not want to speak with Captain Jermayne?” she questioned.

“Because I’d rather have the honor of waltzin’ with you, naturally.”

Not taken in by his guileless smile, Cecily continued, “He said that you were both at Salamanca.”

He shuddered. “Not somethin’ I like to dwell on, ’pon my honor. It was one of Pershing’s maggoty ideas that I join a regiment, and I loathed every minute of it. Now come, Miss Vervant, listen to the music and let it carry you away.”

The waltz had slowed, gentled into a softer rhythm. Its dreamy swaying did not ease Cecily’s breathlessness, for although Lord Brandon held her the regulation twelve inches away from him, the expression in his eyes drew her closer.

It took some effort to meet that steady black gaze, but she persisted. “So you wish to forget Salamanca?”

“Why wouldn’t I want to forget cannons and dirt and smoke? Lord, the smoke. Poor Andrews despaired of keeping my shirts white. He would have given notice if he hadn’t been devoted to me. And the food—”

At this moment Sir Carolus, who was dutifully wheeling Lady Breek’s eldest daughter about the floor, almost collided with them. Instinctively, Lord Brandon pulled Cecily closer to him, and for a moment she was locked against a body that was whipcord-tough, lean and tight with muscle. And like a hammer blow came knowledge: she had been in this man’s arms before.

The waltz ended. Lord Brandon released Cecily and stepped back to bow, and without bothering to dissemble, she searched his face. No. Yes. He
must
be the man who had saved her at the Widow’s Rock.

“Miss Vervain, your most obedient. How do you do, ma’am? I am so happy to see you, give you my word.”

James Montworthy had shouldered himself between her and Lord Brandon and had taken possession of her hand. Still enmeshed in her tangled thoughts, Cecily barely managed a polite reply.

The conceited young man mistook her preoccupation for missish flutterings. “I didn’t see you when you first came in, ma’am,” he said soulfully. “Wanted to remind you of our waltz but saw Bran
don had stolen a march on me. Didn’t think he could bestir himself to waltz, give you m’word.”

Cecily gazed after Lord Brandon, who was sauntering across the room. As she watched, he stopped a servant who was passing a tray of small pastries amongst the guests, chose a tidbit, and with elaborate gestures lifted it to his lips.

“A cotillion’s starting up, Miss Vervain. I hope you’ll honor me,” Montworthy was saying.

Cecily allowed Montworthy to lead her to the floor. But while her feet mechanically tapped her way through the cotillion, she kept her eye glued on Lord Brandon.

He had taken a seat next to little Sir Carolus and was seemingly involved in discussing the dinner to come. Cecily noted that Captain Jermayne had come to stand beside them, and that he was looking at Lord Brandon with a thoroughly bewildered expression. Of course the captain would be bewildered, Cecily thought. The captain did not yet realize that Brandon was wearing a mask.

Did his mask cover a smuggler? Lord Brandon was Pershing’s eldest son, and in fine old families there was often more ancestral pride than ready cash. Even a duke’s son might be tempted by the thought of easy riches.

Cecily realized that James had asked her a question. “You’re an incomparable dancer, Miss Vervain,” he was saying. “Beg you’ll stand up with me again—they’ll play a country dance next.”

Before Cecily could answer, there was a flurry near the door of the drawing room, and Colonel Howard and his daughter came in.

Even disliking the man as she did, Cecily had to admit that he had presence. Tall and broad-shouldered, erect and of martial carriage, the colonel was more than usually imposing tonight in a
steel-gray coat and white breeches of military severity. A medal hung like a star on his white shirtfront, and he wore a ceremonial sword strapped around his waist. One powerful arm was decorated by three strands of gold braid.

He walked among his Riders like a general inspecting his troops, and tripping along in his wake came Delinda, Cecily noted that even while she curtsied to her host, Delinda’s blue eyes searched the room for young Montworthy.

Well, there was no accounting for taste, Cecily thought. Aloud she said, “I am afraid I cannot dance the country dance with you, Mr. Montworthy. I do not care for country dances.”

“Hoy—don’t you?” Montworthy looked momentarily taken aback but recovered himself to ask, “May I hope for a dance later on in the evening, then?”

Just then Colonel Howard bore down upon them. Cecily, who had steeled herself to meet the man’s patronizing smile, was grateful when Sir Carolus pattered up to greet his guests. With relief she turned to Delinda, who said in her breathless way, “How do you do, Miss Vervain? Your dress—how very lovely it is. How well you look—I wish I could achieve that effect myself.”