Jayne Fresina (31 page)

Lance smiled and his eyes narrowed, but he pretended not to notice the large bosom, heaving in his direction. In fact he pretended so hard it was obvious. Now Lucy knew why her brother agreed to attend this banquet and suffer several hours of being sociable.

“Did you come here for Bess Percy?” she demanded pertly, lifting her own mask to give him the full benefit of her fierce glare. “I thought you had higher standards. Is there a man in London she hasn’t ridden?”

Lance didn’t bother hiding it. “Sometimes a man needs a good gallop to keep his parts in working order. It doesn’t mean anything. It’s just an exercise, the type one gives one’s horse to keep the muscles from seizing up.”

Disgusted, she shook her head so violently a few strands of hair burst free from her net and tickled her neck.

“Good old Bess is perfect for that very reason,” he continued, escorting his sister forward. “It’s never complicated with Bess and she never expects anything more.”

Lucy decided not to lecture him any further. After all, who was she to question his morals or the deficient virtue of Bess Percy?

They were late arriving and the dancing was already underway. She stood a while, enjoying the music, comparing the rich brocades and guessing, with her brother, which couples had just argued before they came, which were in love and which kept secrets. It was an old game they’d shared for years, making up stories about folk they watched, sometimes creating conversations between the dancers, making one another laugh.

But her laughter died when she looked across the black-and-white tiled floor and saw a man she knew. Something about him caught her eye and held it. Perhaps it was the way he raised his hands to illustrate a point he made in his conversation. Then she saw his profile - the strong jaw and proud nose of his Norman ancestors. Her heart stumbled to a brief halt. Beside her, Lance chatted away, oblivious. No one else looked at the man in the blue doublet. No one pointed, or said he didn’t belong there.

Perhaps it wasn’t him.

Her heart began to beat again, but slowly.

She wondered if her eyes played cruel tricks. Every night she thought of John before she went to sleep, hoping to dream of him. It never worked. Her nights were restless, often entirely sleepless.

Good God, the man looked very like him.

If it weren’t him, it must be a double standing there, chatting easily with the Earl of Swafford.

Confused, when Lance asked her to dance, she went with him, her hand limp in his.

* * * *

A flare of bronze first sparked in the corner of his eye and he turned to watch, forgetting his conversation. She walked down the dance in her mask, her hair up in a caul, her shoulders very stiff, spine straight. There might have been no one else present, for he saw only her. It felt as if his heart was burning. She looked smaller somehow. Perhaps it was the ornate gown, which almost seemed to wear her, instead of the other way about. He’d never seen her like this, Lucy in her natural habitat, surrounded by finery, gleaming with jewels, a feathered fan fluttering in her small fingers.

Then he focused on the man at her side. Tall. Handsome. Certainly not Winton.

“There is Lucasta Collyer Winton,” his brother-in-law confirmed. “My wife tells me you have some business to discuss with the lady.”

“Yes,” was the curt reply. He watched his lover turn and walk back down the dance. “I suppose my sister didn’t tell you what that business is?”

“Indeed, she did not. I’m generally the last to know anything.”

John rubbed one hand across his mouth. “I mean to take that lady home with me. She’ll have other ideas, I expect.”

His brother-in-law squinted. “The lady has a husband.”

“I’m aware of the fact.”

“I see.” Sadly acquainted with the bull-headed determination running a broad streak through the Carver family, the Earl had nothing more to say. He knew what little point there was in arguing.

“Who is that fellow dancing with her?” John demanded. “He’s looking smug now, but he won’t be soon when he has none of those fine teeth left in his mouth.”

“That gentleman with whom she dances, is her brother, Lancelot Collyer.”

John cleared his throat, took a breath. “Oh.” He flexed his fingers, stretching them out until the knuckles clicked. Her brother.

“A very fine young man in my employ. Perhaps you’d care for an introduction?”

He wondered if her brother would try standing in his way and if so, how best he might be handled. Just then, she looked over at him. Despite the mask, her saw her eyes flicker, that lush green gold spark betraying her emotions. “Later,” he snapped to his brother-in-law. “I’ve other business first.”

* * * *

“Ah, the Earl signals,” Lance whispered as the dance finished. “Duty calls.”

Hurriedly she backed away toward the punch bowl, suggesting she would wait for him there. Under no circumstances could she cross those tiles and stand near the man in the blue doublet, whoever he was. “I expect the Earl wants to know when you plan to marry his daughter, Lady Catherine,” she teased, her voice deceptively light.

Lance looked around the hall, remembering that particular horror. “Hmmm. I don’t see the savage here. Hopefully she won’t come tonight. She should be at court and with the Queen in mourning for Leicester she won’t be able to leave.”

Regarding her brother thoughtfully, she fluttered her fan. Men could be so incredibly blind and stubborn. “How do you know she’s not here, Lance? I doubt you’d know her if you saw her. How many years has it been?”

He scowled deeply, calculating. “Three or four. Or five. But I’d know that savage anywhere.”

“I hope that’s true Lance.” She sighed. “For your sake.”

“Meaning?”

“Lady Catherine Mallory just might take you by surprise.” Stranger things had happened, she mused to herself. A person simply never knew what lay in store.

“Ha!” He laughed at that idea, so sure of himself and his infallibility.

“You’d better go to the Earl before Bess gets her claws in,” she muttered, sighting Bess Percy’s bosomy figure prowling nearby, seeking out her prey.

Lance kissed her hand and left her at the punch bowl, striding over to greet the Earl. She daren’t look. Her brother was about to meet the man with whom she’d just spent one gloriously wicked summer in the country.

If that was John Carver over there and not a very, very clever imposter instead.

Oh Lord! Why was he there?

He must have found some sly way to enter the banquet uninvited.

Suddenly he looked over his wide shoulder and their eyes met through their masks. His gaze was heated, rigorous, knowing, as if he felt that volatile fluttering inside her. He smiled very slightly, raised his mask with one hand and winked very imprudently, leaving her in no doubt.

It was no imposter. John Carver observed her across that crowded hall with a provocative, covetous admiration, so compelling she could not tear her own gaze away. Even if fire broke out she wouldn’t have run. His steadfast, pervasive scrutiny rocked her spine. She tasted him in her throat. She heard him groan as his damp lips played over her nipples and they actually peaked under her gown, taut and hard.

And now, rather than wait to be introduced to her brother, he came toward her through the crowd, pushing people aside ruthlessly until he reached her, bowed his head and offered his hand.

His clothes were very fine, his hair was brushed. He might almost have been another man, if not for those eyes, so blue and deeply searching, the breadth of his shoulders and the rough skin of his hands. As if he feared she might escape, he gripped her fingers and led her into the dance, a sweeping lavolta. She couldn’t have told anyone whether he danced well, or even if she did. They moved through the motions together, but her mind focused on the touch of his hands, the energy thrumming through his fingers. At one point, with his hands on her waist, he lifted her high enough to cause a few gasps from the watching crowd, but since she was already flying, exuberant and giddy, it didn’t matter to her. He might have thrown her in the air completely. As long as he was there to catch her, she wouldn’t protest. Each graze of his fingertips quickened her pulse. His eyes never left her lips, riveted there, predatory.

Dimly, along the border of the dance, she saw the blur of faces watching them, lips whispering, fans drifting. John’s forefinger stroked her palm and she looked up into his masked face. He must stop devouring her with his eyes, touching her like this in a banquet hall full of people, it was positively indecent. Surely everyone saw it. Was he mad? He smiled again, licentious and with a certain peremptory insolence.

No, he was not mad, just a rogue of the worst order. She supposed he was there to cause her trouble because of what she’d done to him. Now he wanted his vengeance.

The dancers spun, the men lifting their partners again amid many squealing, excited, but ultimately demure cries, and when John lifted her likewise, it was again too high and for too long. He put his head back to look up at her, his fingers spread wide around her slender waist, staking his claim. The other women were all down, their feet on the ground again, but Lucy was still suspended, sliding down his body, permitted, by his strong, merciless grip, to go no faster.

“Put me down,” she choked out, her own small hands nervously fluttering against his flexing shoulders.

When he neither obeyed nor answered, she repeated her demand, agitated and pettish.

“I told you before,” he said quietly, “I’m not accustomed to uppity wenches making all the decisions.”

“Put me down, or so help me God…”

“What’ll you do? Scream at me again? Throw your shoe at me again? Tell me you can’t love me, drive me wild with that damnably irresistible, flagrantly wanton, deliciously insatiable little body and then leave me again?”

At last her toes met tile. The moment she felt that reassurance she flew into action, stamping him hard on the foot until he released her. Somehow she made it through the crowd and found her way to the punch bowl.

Her stomach made odd twists and flips. The supper she’d eaten earlier threatened to make a sudden reappearance. She glanced back at the dancers but couldn’t see the audacious, salty-mouthed rogue. Turning away, she grabbed a cup of punch from the servant and drank it down swiftly.

“Lucy, my dear. Lucy Collyer! I’m so glad you came. Your brother wasn’t sure you’d come. I told him he absolutely must persuade you.” The Countess of Swafford glided toward her with a smile that gleamed as brightly as the priceless ruby gemstones, cut in the shape of pomegranate seeds, dangling from her ears. “He feared you were not well, but I am thankful you decided to join us.”

Lucy curtseyed, her gaze lowered demurely. “I would not miss it, my lady. How could I resist a masked banquet with dancing?”

“And that is exactly what I told your brother.” The Countess signaled to the servant for a cup of punch. “Sadly the Queen does not attend. She’s in mourning for her beloved Robin, Earl of Leicester.” The two women stood together a while, watching the dancers, and then the Countess said, “You recently enjoyed a stay in the county of Norfolk, Lucy?”

“Yes.” No doubt the entire city of London was abuzz with rumors about Lord Winton’s runaway bride.

“I was born and raised in Norfolk, you know. I have family there still. A mother and my young brother.”

“I did not know, my lady.” She hesitated. “Norfolk is a beautiful county.”

“You liked it there? I’m very glad. Do you plan to return?”

“Oh…oh no. I don’t suppose I’ll go there again.” She passed her cup back to the servant for more punch. “I am thirsty this evening,” she muttered. “It’s very hot in here.” She was, in fact, extremely dizzy and, as the last word left her mouth, she stumbled against the table, gripping the tapestry cloth. It was possible, she thought drearily, that she’d contracted the sweat, a deadly disease capable, once symptoms set in, of vanquishing previously healthy folk in a matter of days. There were no reports of the sweat in the area, yet she supposed it had to start somewhere. Why not with her?

“My dear Lucy! You’re very white indeed. Perhaps you should take some air on the terrace. I see you’re overheated and it’s not good for the blood. Our lawns lead down to the river. On a starry night there is a pretty view with willows and shrubs. Pity there are no stars or moon tonight, but we have rush torches lit around the house.” The chattering Countess was already steering her out onto the terrace and Lucy couldn’t get a word in edgeways. “You sit there, see the little stone bench? I’ll tell your brother where you are. Now sit there, my dear, and be still. Don’t move! Not a finger.”

Not daring to do otherwise, she sat on the stone bench and stared at the ink black moonless sky. She barely felt the cold. Her stomach still churned, a strange heat lurking there as it had done for some time, since she’d left Norfolk.

Hearing steps on the terrace, she thought it was Lance come to find her, but when she looked over her shoulder she saw John, torchlight stroking the side of his face, casting his strong figure in precious metal.

Even when she closed her eyes and opened them again, he was still there.

“John Carver,” she gasped out, trembling. “Why are you here? What can you mean by this? Have you any idea how much danger you court by coming here?” Her thoughts refused to link themselves in any sensible order. Instead, high ideals of what she ought to say and do mingled like tangled ribbons around a maypole. Ruthless, giddy passions, juxtaposed with plain, trivial matters that tried to work their way through and save her in the name of practical good sense.

He passed her seat, striding to the stone balustrade where trails of ivy rattled crisply. There, he peered down on the black lawn for a moment. “It’s a long way down, longer than I thought. But it’s the only way.” He held out his hand. “Let’s jump together.”

“Ridiculous!” She clenched her fan so tightly, she heard one of the struts snap. “I can’t go anywhere with you.”

He dropped his hand and leaned back against the balustrade, arms folded high. “It’s cold out here.”