Rebecca Hagan Lee (2 page)

Blake thought about keeping quiet and silently retreating from the little room, but impulsively decided to speak his mind. "I think it might be easier if you removed the dress."

Cristina whirled around to face the man leaning against the doorjamb, nearly tumbling in her haste. A guilty flush stained her cheeks as the gold embroidery scissors and a handful of artificial roses fell to the floor. Her green eyes widened in horror. She opened her mouth to speak, but words failed her. She stood silent, clearly embarrassed.

He smiled at her predicament. His dark eyes crinkled at the corners with amusement. "I agree. Something needs to be done about that god-awful dress.

And I know desperate times require desperate measures, but taking a pair of scissors to a ball gown while wearing it seems--well"--he shrugged his shoulders once again--"'a bit dangerous."

Cristina remained perfectly still and speechless as he closed and locked the door behind him before walking toward her.

"Turn around," he commanded. "It will take you all night to do it by yourself."

"Stop! Don't come any closer. I'll scream." Cristina had obviously recovered her power of speech.

"Don't be ridiculous." He spoke softly, but his deep voice held a note of warning. "I'm not going to hurt you. I'm simply going to help you finish whatever it is you're doing to your dress."

"I don't need your help."

"Perhaps not, but you cannot go back into the ballroom without someone's help, and I'm the only one available."

"But you can't--"

"Of course I can." He smiled down at her. "Now, be a good girl and turn around. Your roses need pruning. They're straggling down your bustle."

The corners of Cristina's mouth turned up in a smile, and she obediently turned her back to him.

Blake bent down to retrieve the scissors and began diligently cutting the remaining rosettes from her bustle and train. Stepping back to review his handiwork, Blake shook his head in dismay.

"I'm afraid the bows and ruffles will have to go, too."

Cristina twisted around to see what he'd done. "Are you certain?"

"Trust me," he said, as he knelt behind her once again.

Minutes later, the remains of white satin bows, ruffles, and rosettes littered the floor around Cristina's feet. The only adornment left on her gown was the wide, Belgian lace stretched across her abdomen and the row of pearl buttons that fastened the back of the dress.

Blake levered himself up from his knees then circled Cristina, slowly viewing the dress from all angles.

"Well?" Cristina demanded anxiously.

"Perfection," he said solemnly. "Simple, elegant perfection."

Cristina sighed in relief. "I don't know how to thank you for your help,"

she began.

"Seeing you this way is thanks enough. I was happy to relieve you of that monstrosity." He bowed slightly. "Now you can run along to your ball and enjoy yourself."

Cristina nearly blinded him with the brilliance of her smile. She took a step forward and found herself tangled in the mound of white at her feet.

"What should we do with all this?"

"I'll take care of it," he assured her. "This will be our secret. No one else need know."

Cristina smiled once more as she quietly slipped out the door.

Blake watched her go, then bent to pick up the refuse. He slipped a rosette into his jacket pocket. A memento of the unusual evening, he told himself, a memento of a unique situation--and a very lovely young woman. He smiled at the thought, then carefully stuffed the rest of the white satin decorations between the cushions of the sofas.

Lord, I wonder what fool it was that first invented kissing!

--JONATHAN SWIFT 1667-1745

*Chapter Two*

A whirling mass of white silks and satins filled the ballroom. Interspersed here and there were the colorful gowns of the older women and chaperons, accentuated by the scarlet, blue, green, and gold slashes of the military uniforms of the various regiments from countries throughout Europe and the ever-expanding empire. Their brilliant apparel served as a striking counterpoint to the elegant, black coat and tails of the other gentlemen.

In the center of all the gaiety, Cristina Fairfax stood enthralled by the display, and almost overwhelmed by eager young suitors. Breathless from the previous dance, she balked when the music began once again and her young partner forgot himself long enough to tug on her gloved hand.

"The squares are forming for the quadrille, Miss Fairfax. If we don't hurry, we'll miss the beginning."

Cristina dug in her heels and pulled against him. "No. please, we must stop. I'm exhausted and parched. I must catch my breath before we go any further."

"But..."

"I'm sorry," she stated firmly, "but I simply can't walk another step. A quadrille is out of the question." She flashed a perfect smile at the young man to soften the blow as she refused the dance, but the steely glint in her green eyes made it quite clear she was through dancing for the moment.

She was hot and tired and gasping for breath in long, unladylike spasms.

She hated to disappoint her partner--knew she wasn't being fair to him--but Cristina had never fainted before and had no desire to start a trend by collapsing in the middle of her presentation ball. The eligible young men had crowded around her all evening vying for her attention as they waited for the chance to whirl her around the ballroom and she had met their demands. She'd spent the evening flirting outrageously, fluttering her silk fan and her eyelashes with aplomb, bestowing smiles on admirers, and breaking young hearts right and left. But now she simply had to rest.

Even remodeled, her ball gown was hot and heavy. The rigid stays she wore beneath it bit into her ribs and hampered her breathing and her dancing slippers pinched her toes.

She knew the ballroom was buzzing about her. But this time the whispers were anything but cruel. Cristina smiled as she remembered the look of astonishment on Patricia's face. Her mother hadn't expected her to enter the ballroom in a completely refurbished gown and the tight pinch of her dancing slippers had like seemed a small price to pay for an evening of triumph. But that was hours ago, and now ...

Cristina turned to apologize to her partner. "I'm sorry to disappoint you, Mr. Brown, but I know if I keep dancing I'll drop."

Timothy Brown looked at her with adoring, spaniel-like eyes. "That's all right, Miss Fairfax, I've been quite thoughtless. I should have realized you were tired. If you'll wait here a moment, I'll bring us some refreshment."

"Thank you, Mr. Brown, I'd like that very much." Cristina thanked him with a genuine smile of gratefulness. "I'll await your return over there." She nodded toward the far wall where the crowd had thinned, then made her way through the crush of people surrounding her while Timothy hurried off in the direction of the refreshment tables.

She reached the wall and leaned against a marble column, shifting her weight from one leg to the other as she wiggled her toes in an effort to restore the circulation in her feet. Cristina glanced around to see who might be watching. She was well aware that she was on display--presented into society for the sole purpose of finding a husband--and she couldn't help feeling like a box of Swiss chocolates in a confectioner's window, wrapped and waiting for someone to purchase and devour. She wondered which of the men she'd danced with tonight would call on her in the morning. Could she accept any of them if they did? She was bored by their talk of horses, hounds, and university life, and completely unimpressed by the not-too-subtle mention of titles and wealth. She yearned for romance and adventure, but all she found was the business of merging family bloodlines and increasing fortunes. None of those young pups were husband material, Cristina decided. Not one of them could keep her mind off the pain in her pinched toes.

She sighed, allowing her gaze to scan the room, searching. ... Could anyone compete with the pair of penetrating, black eyes she remembered laughing at her in the antechamber?

Cristina looked around the room and found those same dark eyes glaring at her. She shivered as a mixture of trepidation and excitement coursed through her veins. He was devastatingly attractive. And when he smiled... His was a face one did not forget easily. It was a bronzed, lean face, molded with enticing planes and angles. She noticed that the whiteness of the starched shirt front and collar contrasted sharply with his face, lending it an exotic, almost foreign look. His eyes were keen, sparkling black like chunks of coal beneath straight brows. His nose was straight and aristocratic and his nostrils flared slightly as he scowled at her. Yes, she thought, he was a fine figure of a man from the top of his dark head to the tips of his polished shoes. His handsome, clean-shaven face set him apart from the multitude of men sporting side-whiskers, beards, and huge hussar mustaches.

Cristina pulled her gaze from the mirror-like shine on his shoes and looked him in the eye. Her emerald green gaze clashed with his simmering black one.

She had the urge to pull away, to run and hide from his gaze, but found she couldn't seem to break the contact. She stared at him, fighting a battle of wills that made her forget about her aching feet and made her incredibly curious about the man who shared her secret. What had she done to make him so angry?

"I see you've finally captured every man's attention."

The sound of a voice at her ear startled her. Cristina turned.

A slender young man of medium build stood smiling next to her. He noted Cristina's questioning glance, discerned the reason behind it, and explained with a nod toward the other man. "He is a bit slow. I noticed you hours ago.

As soon as you entered the ballroom."

"Pardon?" Cristina was still slightly bemused by his sudden appearance.

He repeated his observation.

"I don't know what you mean," Cristina told him.

"Don't be coy, Miss Fairfax," he said, his eyes becoming a warmer shade of clear blue. "You must know you stand out in the crowd like a ruby surrounded by diamonds."

His compliment embarrassed her and Cristina ducked her head, suddenly immersed in the patterns of streaks in the marble floor.

"You're blushing! It's refreshing to find someone who actually blushes these days."

Cristina looked up, taking the opportunity to study him. He stood ramrod straight in his British cavalry uniform. The rigid set of his spine made him seem taller than he actually was. He appeared to be about the same age as Timothy Brown, perhaps twenty or twenty-one. But his manner and bearing were that of a much older man. His light brownish-blonde hair was cropped close and there was a distinct accent when he spoke. A military man, Cristina decided, a well-traveled one.

"Why do you suppose debutantes wear white? It's so bland, so ghostly, so virginal."

His blunt statement stunned her. She covered her surprise by pretending a sophistication she didn't feel.

"I don't know why we're required to wear white unless it's to proclaim to all the gentlemen that we are virginal. Just as two ostrich feathers mean unmarried, and three, married. It's polite advertising." Cristina tipped her head forward to indicate the two white ostrich feathers held in place by a diamond clip fastened in her red curls. She shrugged her shoulders. "Then again, it may have nothing to do with advertising. Maybe Her Majesty prefers white gowns and ostrich plumes."

"Another royal whim," he suggested, "like her Indian servants, the Scottish ghillie, and her prolonged mourning. What a pity you could not wear green. You are lovely in white, but I should love to see you in green. And perhaps I'll have that opportunity at a future date..." His discerning perusal instantly reminded Cristina of the imaginary box of chocolates in the sweetshop window.

"I'm afraid you take entirely too much for granted. I spoke to you out of politeness because you spoke to me, but that doesn't mean I'll allow you to call on me." She delivered her haughty setdown and turned in the direction of the door when the young man caught her arm.

"Wait! I apologize for offending you. Give me the chance to make amends."

"I don't want you to make amends," Cristina insisted. "I want you to release me immediately."

"I don't want to release you." He leaned closer. "I want to apologize for my behavior and I insist you allow me to do so. Come dance with me," he whispered very smoothly into her ear. "I want very much to hold you in my arms."

"No ..." Cristina began to protest, but her partner ignored her as he half led, half dragged her into the mass of dancers.

He surveyed the room and with a nod of his head, the orchestra broke into a lively Strauss waltz. The dancers parted like the Red Sea before Moses to allow them onto the center of the floor. As he swept her around the room, Cristina found herself wondering for the first time exactly who he was and how he commanded so much attention in a room full of dignitaries. Everyone in the room, including the Prince and Princess of Wales, was staring at them.

"Let go," Cristina ordered. "You're holding me much too closely. I don't imagine the queen would approve of this."

Her partner threw back his head and laughed at her rebuke. "Why shouldn't everyone stare at us?" he asked when he recovered from his outburst. "We make a striking couple. And it doesn't matter how tightly I hold you. The old queen isn't here and even if she were, she has no jurisdiction over me."

His boast astounded Cristina. While she knew Queen Victoria was greatly loved by her relatives and subjects, Cristina also knew many of them quaked in their boots when summoned for an audience. She had lived in the "upper ten thousand" all of her life and she'd never met anyone who was oblivious to the queen's opinion. The very idea was revolutionary.

As if reading her thoughts, he teased her, "Now, I've captured your imagination, lovely one. Intrigued you, aroused your curiosity."

She opened her mouth to deny his theory, but he cut her short. "Don't bother to protest. I can see the truth in your eyes. You must learn to hide your thoughts. Your eyes betray them."

His last observation was too much for Cristina, who had been trying to rein in her explosive temper since he had swept her onto the dance floor. "My thoughts are my own. You've no right to pry. I've never found dissembling necessary. And I've never met anyone so full of his own importance. I couldn't care less what you think you see in my eyes." Cristina lifted her chin in a gesture designed to show she didn't give tuppence for his opinions.