Some Enchanted Evening (12 page)

"Yes." He seemed quite without guilt. "Please make yourself available tomorrow afternoon for the fittings on your dresses."

"My
dresses
? I don't need
dresses
!"

"Wait. Listen." He touched his finger to her lips to indicate quiet. His stroke lingered like lightning. "I want you to come in disguise."

Chapter Eleven

Everything goes easier with a wee bit o’ a smile.

— The Old Men of Freya Crags

Dumbfounded, she asked, "In disguise? What do you mean, in disguise?"

He seemed to think he was making himself perfectly clear. "I have a guest who suddenly can't attend the party, so you'll pretend to be her." He grimaced. "She got married."

The sheer, sweeping arrogance — no, stupidity — of his scheme took Clarice's breath away. She hardly knew how to start explaining how impossible it was, but she would try. "First of all, unless no one knows this person, I can't convince anyone that I'm her, because I'm not. You do comprehend that, don't you?"

Enigmatically he watched her as they Paced along. "I comprehend a great deal."

What did he mean by that? Why was he looking at her that way?

Outside, the full moon had risen. Its white light poured through the open curtains. The candles fluttered in the draft. Hepburn moved through moonbeam and then shadow, adjusting to the changing illumination like a man bred to blend into his environs. "I'm giving this ball for a particular purpose —"

"Yes, to honor Colonel Ogley."

"Of course, that too." Hepburn smiled so pleasantly, he frightened her. "But another purpose as well, and my guest was going to help me. Now you'll take her place."

The idea was absurd. Why did he think this would work
? "What purpose?"

"I am not going to explain myself."

"You mean — not to me, the woman who pretends to be a princess." When she heard her own animosity, she caught her breath. Why did it matter whether Hepburn believed her? In the larger scheme of her life, he was not important. Or, at least, not important as long as she remained safe while in his custody. "Why must this person be at your ball?"

"Some of the guests know her, hence she must be here."

Again Clarice glanced around at the deserted corridors. If Hepburn were mad, and right now it seemed likely, she could do no more than ease away from him and consider her best escape. Back the way they'd come? He could outdistance her if she ran. Out the window? No, for the servants' quarters and the kitchen was below them, and the twenty-foot drop from the window to the ground would probably result in a broken leg. So she had to stay and try to talk him out of his crazy ruse.

"You're about her height. You have her form." He flicked an analytical glance at her figure, one devoid of masculine interest. "Your tone isn't as deep as hers — she smokes dreadful cigars and they give her voice a huskiness that most women cannot achieve. But you have a similar accent."

In exasperation she said, "Grand! As long as no one sees my face, I'm identical. What about the people who've met
me
already? Don't you think they'll notice the disparity?"

He ignored her as if she hadn't spoken. "The lady's hair is straight and black, and she wears lace mantillas. I have acquired black wigs and mantillas for you to disguise your curls." He took one strand of her hair between his fingers and rubbed it like a silk merchant assessing the merchandise.

She pushed his hand away. "The scheme is ridiculous."

He paid so little heed, she might never have spoken. "You'll change your voice slightly. I know you can do it. I've heard you don a Scottish accent when you think it profitable."

She bit her lip.

"I have a miniature of her, and I want you to make your face as similar to hers as you and your craft are capable."

"That's not going to work." She might as well have saved her breath.

"You'll be seen from afar. You'll wear her clothes and wave with consummate disdain, like a woman scorned."

Something in his tone gave her pause. "Is she a woman scorned?"

"Used, scorned, and abandoned."

"By whom? You?"

"You've the tongue of a shrew."

She didn't care what names he called her. She had to think of Beaumontagne, of her position . . . and of her sister. Of Amy alone in Freya Crags, laboring as a seamstress while Clarice entertained the ladies in lavish circumstances.

Yet she couldn't help insisting, "Was it you who used this lady?"

With his distinctive cheekbones and determined jaw, he looked like a creature who prowled the night, at home with darkness and violence and despair. "Not me."

And Clarice was relieved. Relieved that it wasn't this man who could so easily convince her of his integrity. "Who, then?"

"There are things you don't need to know."

"Things you don't want me to know."

"Exactly." It was almost eerie the way he moved, a slow, sinuous stalking that made Clarice glad that it wasn't her he hunted.

For he
was
on the hunt. She had no doubt about that. "So you seek vengeance for the lady?" she insisted.

"
For
her, no — although I have her blessing. No, I seek vengeance for the lies told to me. Lies that made me act to my discredit."

Incredulous, Clarice said, "You would mount this elaborate charade because someone
lied
to you? You're in for a difficult life, my lord, if one simple falsehood shocks you so completely you exact retribution at such cost." And she was in for a difficult time if she couldn't dissuade him from his crusade.

"Sometimes a simple falsehood is more than a lie. Sometimes it's a promise broken and honor betrayed."

"You're being enigmatic, and I promise you, it will get you nowhere with me!"

He spoke at cross purposes, as he seemed wont to do. "Are you an actress, Your Highness?"

"I beg your pardon!" Actresses were courtesans and loose women, and she didn't appreciate his query.

"And I beg yours. I didn't mean to impugn your morals. I was asking simply — can you play a role?" The lids drooped over his eyes and he contemplated her seriously. "Can you look on the embodiment of cruelty and wickedness and pretend to see a champion? Can you pretend equanimity when every fiber of your body screams that you fight the evil before you?"

His words, his tone, made her skin prickle with alarm. With every step she took at his side, she was walking into danger. She sensed it. She smelled it. Yet she didn't know how to avoid it. Painstakingly she said, "I used to think myself a tolerable performer, but not long ago, in England, I discovered that I had my limits." She hadn't been able to hide her aversion to Magistrate Fairfoot. If she had, matters might have concluded without hostility — but probably not. Remembering the vicious twist of Fairfoot's expression, she conceded — definitely not.

"Then you cannot know why I make these demands. But you can trust me and obey."

"Why would I do that?"

Without seeming to move he joined her. His arms slid around her waist. Leaning close to her ear, he murmured, "Because of this."

His breath lifted the soft hair on the base of her neck and spread a chill down her spine — and a bubbling heat throughout her body. Yet she enunciated every word. "Get your hands off me."

His breath touched her just below her ear ... or was it his mouth that touched, caressed, made her breath catch?

"Stop it." She sounded breathless. "You promised you would look after my reputation."

Lifting his head, he looked down at her and smiled. Not one of his cynical smiles, nor one of his polite, empty smiles, nor one of his dangerous, predatory smiles, but a smile that charmed and beguiled.

Oh, no
. It had never occurred to her that he could smile like that. As if the sight of her gave him pleasure. As if he intended to give her the same pleasure.

Oh, no.

For he did give her pleasure. With a mere embrace and a single smile, he made a fool of her.

She gave voice to her dismay. "Oh, no!"

He seemed not at all dissuaded. "Aye." He pulled her close, so close that she experienced the warmth of him from her thighs to her breasts. "It seems impossible, doesn't it?"

"What are you saying?" He couldn't mean what she thought he meant. That would be too horrible.

But he read her mind. "That you and I could be so much alike when we scarcely know each other. What do you suppose makes us so much alike?"

"We're not."

He mocked her with his probing gaze and answered his own question. "Similar experiences."

"We share nothing."

"We were both raised in privileged backgrounds and turned out into the cruel world to fend for ourselves without support of any kind."

Oh, no
. He was saying the right things. The things she wanted to hear.

And she rejected his empathy. She had to. Truculently she asked, "What are you talking about? Why are you pretending sympathy for me? You don't believe anything about my story is true."

"Convince me." In a sneak attack against which she had no defense, he placed his mouth over hers.

His lips looked like silk.

They felt as cool and smooth as polished marble. They brushed against her mouth in wicked enticement. It was as if her girlhood dreams had come true, as if the statues in her father's palace had come alive.

Her eyes fluttered closed.

Gently Hepburn sucked on her lower lip, mouthing it as if the texture delighted him. Certainly the texture of
his
lips delighted her. And she could almost taste him. Almost . . . and she wanted to taste him. She wanted to devour him, every last delicious drop of his luscious, forbidden body.

Hepburn's hands roamed her back, her waist, slid down to her bottom and urged her hips into his. The pressure of his groin stirred something wanton in her, something that tightened in her belly and clutched at her throat.

She tried to wedge her hands between them and accomplished nothing but the enchantment of touching him. Through all the layers of his clothing, she felt the heat and the firmness of his chest. Foolishly she pressed her palms to the muscles, exploring the contours with willful gladness.

Her caress changed his careful exploration just as the sun's heat brings the spring. His arms tightened on her. Giving an eager muffled exclamation of excitement, he deepened the kiss. His tongue slid between her lips and caressed the sensitive inner flesh, her teeth, and then her tongue. Her knees weakened under a rush of ... there was no use pretending she didn't know its name. Under a rush of
desire
.

This was delicious opulence, a feast for her senses. His scent was exhilarating — his lemon soap mixed with masculine pleasure. The aroma went to her head like brandy's intoxicating fumes. His taste strengthened her, created needs she had never imagined. Each lap of his tongue bound her tighter to him, gave her a greater knowledge of him, created so much intimacy that every breath she took was his breath, every beat of her heart matched his. She had never wanted a man before, but she wanted him.

Running his hands down her arms, he lifted them to his shoulders. She clutched at him and whimpered with delight. She allowed him to probe deep within her mouth, then shyly returned the favor, wanting to take him as he took her. Their tongues sparred, each seeking to win bliss, to give bliss, until the other collapsed in surrender.

Of course, he would win. He had experience on his side, and ruthlessness, and a need that recognized hers.

When she was limp with joy yet clawing him with need, he lifted his mouth from hers. In a husky whisper he said, "Tell me you'll do as I ask."

She lifted lids so heavy she could scarcely raise them. His beautiful damp mouth hovered over hers, offering more of the drug he dispensed with such skill. In a daze she asked, "What?"

Pressing short, sweet kisses on her cheeks, her nose, her throat, he said, "Tell me you'll perform my masquerade . . . for me."

But although his skill at seduction was undiminished, his eyes were sharp, his chin firm. He weighed her response to him, judging her a slut for desire.

Common sense clouted her between the eyes. Her spine snapped into a straight, rigid line. "You . . . you blackguard!"

Without warning she brought her crooked elbow down hard against his sternum.

With a cough of pain he released her and stumbled away.

She backed up and leaned against the wall. Indignation and insult burned in her gut, but she needed the support. "You . . . you did that on purpose. You kissed me on purpose. Did you imagine my character was so weak, I'd give in to your temptation and your extortion?"

A half-smile creased his cheek. He rubbed his aching chest with his palm. "Actually, no. It never crossed my mind that your character was weak, or that you'd do as I wished — but it was an enjoyable attempt."

His admission made her froth with fury. "Did you think your kisses are so valuable that I would lose my mind and my principles?"