Sattler, Veronica (70 page)

"Just
a moment, gentlemen," Ashleigh said. Then she looked at the heavily
made-up face she barely recognized from a year ago, so had it changed, showing
signs of age and other ravages. "Monica?" she questioned. "Don't
you know me? It's Ashleigh."

A
frown of confusion, and then dawning horror crossed the blonde's features. She
froze for a moment, and then murmured, "No... no, it couldn't be!"
She began to back away from Ashleigh, the look of horror on her face
increasing.
"It couldn't be!"
she repeated, then, after a
brief downward glance at her ragged dress, followed by a quickly assessing look
at Ashleigh's finery, she whirled and began to run. "No!" they heard
her cry as she disappeared into the darkness.
"No!"

"Ashleigh,
is something amiss?"

It
was Mary's voice.

"I'm
dreadfully sorry to have left you like that, but I thought I'd seen an old
friend. As it turns out, it's not she, but her daughter-in-law. Ashleigh...?
Are you feeling quite well? You look as though you've seen a ghost."

Ashleigh
managed a small smile as she turned to join Mary in walking toward Almack's
doors. "Perhaps I have," she stated quietly. "Perhaps I
have."

Mary
gave her a perplexed look.

"Oh,
it was nothing, really. I—I suppose I'm just nervous about tonight, after
all."

"Well,
don't worry,
cara,"
said Mary. "I'm certain you'll do just
fine."

She
gave Ashleigh a wink as they walked toward the front doors of the gaily lit
building. "For St. George and old England," she whispered, and then,
in an even softer voice, "and for Brett and Patrick!"

The
footman inside examined their vouchers and announced them; then another
escorted them a short distance to the Great Room, as it was called, and they
were announced.

"Her
Grace, the duchess of Ravensford, and the Countess di Montefiori."

A
great many heads turned as they made their entrance, but Ashleigh barely
noticed as she kept her head regally aloft and her eyes focused on one of the
many glittering chandeliers while she and Mary descended the short flight of
stairs to the ballroom. Out of the corner of her eye she saw the small
orchestra that was playing in the balcony; the music was light and energetic,
and she was reminded of the accompaniment for the French contredanse she had
learned as a child.

"That
would be a quadrille they're executing," Mary whispered to her from behind
an exquisite ivory-and-gold fan. "I understand Lady Jersey brought the
dance back from her visit to Paris."

Ashleigh
smiled and raised her own fan, a beautiful piece of workmanship in silver and
jet. "She may thank her stars that she returned well before the twentieth
of March!"

Both
women smiled grimly at her reminder of the date Bonaparte reentered Paris.

They
were quickly surrounded by a number of smiling faces, and after several people
greeted Mary, she proceeded to introduce Ashleigh to those she was unacquainted
with. There was Lady Susan Ryder, Lady Harriet Butler, Miss Montgomery, the
Count St. Aldegonde, Mr. Montagu, Mr. Montgomery and Mr. Standish.

But
then the patroness of the evening, Mrs. Drummond Burrell, arrived and with her,
someone Ashleigh knew only too well.

"Ah,"
said Elizabeth Hastings as she raked Ashleigh's form with cold, silver eyes,
"the little duchess has returned. But, tell me, Your Grace, do you not
find it, ah, rather awkward to be here without the escort of your husband?"

Ashleigh
bristled inwardly, but to Elizabeth and the others—whose conversation had
suddenly grown hushed—she presented a cool, unruffled exterior as she replied,
"Why, no, Lady Elizabeth, I should never call what I feel
awkward.
Regretful,
perhaps, and sad, certainly, that His Grace could not join me, but also
hopeful."

"'Hopeful'?"
queried Elizabeth, clearly put out that her nasty little arrow had failed to
make its mark.

"Yes,
hopeful," said Ashleigh with a cool smile, "for I am every day more
hopeful that His Grace will soon be free to join us."

"Well
spoken!" said Charles Standish who, it was clear, had quickly become an
ardent fan of this beautiful duchess of Ravensford.

The
orchestra, which had taken a pause, started up again, and the Count St.
Aldegonde requested the pleasure of Her Grace's company in the dance.

Ashleigh
hadn't actually given it prior thought, but now she wondered if it was proper
to be dancing while things were the way they were with Brett and Patrick. A
quick glance at Mary, however, caught her mother-in-law's approving nod, and
she accepted.

As
she danced the quadrille with Aldegonde, she recognized various people on the
floor, among them Lord and Lady Holland, who were known for their hospitality
at Holland House, their home in the city; the duke of Devonshire, who was over
six feet tall and, her partner whispered, being unmarried, was considered the
most eligible "catch" in England, now that Brett Westmont was
married; Christopher Edwards, the earl of Ranleagh—who winked at her as she
passed by him—and Lady Pamela Marlowe.

Brett's
former mistress was resplendent in a gown of jade-green silk trimmed with fine
gold braid. Ashleigh didn't expect Lady Pamela to be exceptionally friendly to
her and was astonished when she left off talking to Christopher, who was her
partner, to throw her a bright smile.

Why,
thought
Ashleigh,
she looks positively radiant! What a transformation from the
sour-faced woman I met at Ravensford Hall! I wonder what could have caused the
transformation.

Her
thoughts were interrupted by the sudden cessation of the music. At the same
time, a stilled hush came over the room, and Ashleigh saw every head turn
toward the entry steps. She turned. And then gasped.

There,
standing proudly erect in formal evening clothes and looking heartbreakingly
handsome, stood
Brett!

His
eyes swept the room as the footman announced him, then came to rest on
Ashleigh. A slow smile broke over his handsome face, and he descended the
steps, never once removing his gaze from her.

Ashleigh
felt her knees grow weak and threaten to buckle. She felt the blood begin to
throb in her veins and her heart pound so loudly, she was sure the entire room
could hear it.

Frozen
to the floor, she knew she couldn't have moved if her life depended on it. All
she saw was her husband's face as he moved directly toward her, his turquoise
eyes locked with hers.

Dimly,
she was aware the music had resumed playing; out of the edges of her
consciousness she saw Aldegonde bow and retreat. But it didn't matter. None of
it mattered, except that Brett was free, and he was
here!

Then
he was standing in front of her, his turquoise eyes blazing into her blue ones.
His smile was heart-stoppingly, achingly wonderful in his handsome, chiseled
face as he continued to gaze down at her without words.

Then
she heard him whisper, "Come," in a hoarse voice while he took her
hand and led her toward a door to one of the small antechambers that led off
the great room.

Half
dazed, as if she were walking in a dream, Ashleigh followed until he drew her
around a corner, and they were alone. He turned to her, but Ashleigh could only
stare up at him. It was as if he weren't quite real, and soon she would awaken
and all the loneliness and yearnings of the past days and weeks would come crashing
down on her.

He
stood quietly looking at her for a moment as his eyes drank in her face. Then
his arms went about her and his head lowered as he crushed her to him.

With
a small cry, she threw her arms about his neck even before his mouth found
hers. Then she was returning his hungry kiss as fiercely as he gave it, and the
room, the ball, the night itself disappeared as they melded into a single
being.

Again
and again his mouth slashed across hers. It was as if he couldn't get enough of
her, as if he were starving for her, and she, for him. And when they finally
needed to break for air, he buried his face in her hair, pulling her even
closer, if that were possible, pulling her up, off the floor, from the tiptoes
she'd been standing on, and murmuring her name into her ear, her brow, her
hair.

"Ashleigh,
Ashleigh,
oh,
God, how I've missed you!"

She
gave a breathless little laugh that was half a sob and began to plant little
kisses wherever she found her lips touching his face. "Oh, Brett!"
she cried, and then laughed again, a bright, musical sound. "Oh, I missed
you, too!"

At
last he found her lips again, and giving them a quick, light kiss, managed to
pull himself away slightly to look at her.

"My
God," he whispered, shaking his head in wonder, "is it possible that
you've grown even more beautiful?" He eyed the delicate contours of her
face and then her figure, evident beneath the gossamer folds of her gown, and
noted that childbirth had changed her, and for the better. There was an
increased roundness to her lithe curves, a fullness of a kind that hadn't been
there before. Her breasts had a lush ripeness to them that he hadn't noticed
aboard ship, even though he'd been present when she'd nursed their daughter.
But here he wasn't viewing her so much as the mother of his child, as the woman
he loved.

"Do...
do I please you, Brett?" she whispered worriedly. She was aware, if only
from alterations Madame Gautier had had to make in her measurements, that her
figure had altered since childbirth, and she was suddenly afraid he would find
her less attractive.

"Please
me?"
he
breathed.
"Just let me take you home, and I'll show you how much you please
me!"

There
was no mistaking his grin and the desire that flashed in his eyes as he said
this, and Ashleigh found herself blushing furiously.

He
laughed softly, then drew her to him in a warm hug. "But the truth is,
sweetheart, I fear we'll have to wait a while before I can do that. There are
people here tonight whom courtesy demands I at least speak to. Ranleagh, for
one, and Lord Castlereagh. They were two of several who worked tirelessly to
have me and Patrick released, and I must thank them."

"Patrick!"
she exclaimed. "Where—"

"Gone
home to his apartments—after stopping at King Street for Megan, of
course." He grinned. Then he cast a roguish eye over her hair, mussed
somewhat from their embraces. "You look delectable, Your Grace, and if you
don't want me to disgrace us both, right here at Almack's, you'd best hasten to
the ladies' withdrawing room and repair your coiffure while I make my
obligatory rounds."

"Oh,"
she murmured, her hand going to a tendril that had worked its way loose from
the pile of Grecian-style curls on her head. "Oh, yes, of course."
The blush was back.

"Meet
me in the cloakroom when you're finished," he said huskily as his eyes
continued to roam over her. "I'll tell Mother to make your farewells for
you." He reached out to lightly touch the dimple in her cheek, then turned
back toward the Great Room.

Ashleigh
was pleased to learn she could gain entry to the room reserved for ladies who
wished to withdraw, without going back into the ballroom. She was tingling in a
dozen places from their encounter, as well as from the anticipation she'd read
in his eyes, and the last thing she wanted was to be seen publicly in such a
state—especially since everyone out there had seen them disappear together and
would realize at once what was afoot.

The
alcove led to another chamber where footmen directed her to her destination.
The room she entered was beautifully decorated in shades of powder blue and
ivory. Several Sheraton mirrors were on the walls, and in one corner there was
a washstand with basin and pitcher, as well as soap and a pile of fine linen
hand towels. In the opposite corner stood a large folding screen, and a blue
velvet upholstered settee faced a pair of matching chairs near one wall. No one
was about.

Ashleigh
was in the process of tucking the errant curl in place before one of the
mirrors when she heard the door open. She looked up to see Elizabeth Hastings's
snidely smiling face in the mirror.

"Well,
well, well," sneered Elizabeth, "if it isn't
Her Grace,
hiding
away in here after making a complete fool of herself!"

Ashleigh
whirled to face her old tormentor. "Lady Elizabeth, I don't think—"

"You
really shouldn't allow yourself to be so completely obvious where your husband
is concerned, my dear," Elizabeth continued. "It will only make him
more sure of himself with you, you know."

"Wh-what
do you mean?" Ashleigh asked slowly.

"Why,
only what I've already warned you about in the past, little Ashleigh. A woman
who falls all over Brett, as you obviously just did, can only expect to bore
him and drive him into, ah, other waiting arms."

Ashleigh's
winged brows drew together in a frown. "I have no intention of listening
to any more of your viperish lies, Elizabeth. Now, if you will excuse
me..." She turned to leave.