Stolen Love (19 page)

"Why, Mr. Willard, of course," she answered. "I imagine he would be quite shocked to discover he was someone else." To her relief, he did not seem to take offense at her flippancy.

"I meant, what is his background?"

"I do not know. I have never met him."

"Then you are entirely in the care of your uncle?"

"Yes. He has raised me as if I were his own."

"I suppose, then, your uncle will be as generous to you as he is to your cousin?"

Elizabeth stiffened. "I haven't any money of my own, Mr. Gayle."

"I assure you, Miss Willard, I was not thinking of—"

"No," she interrupted, "I don't suppose you were." He ought to have had the decency to pretend he was interested in her for reasons other than money. "Let me put your questions to rest. I am not at all rich, nor will I be. Now, Mr. Gayle, forgive me, but it is beyond my power to dance with you." With those words, she walked haughtily away.

The ballroom was crowded, and she had to push her way past several people before she came to a spot where she could stand without being jostled. Understatement indeed, she thought. She might as well have been wearing sackcloth for all the notice Mr. Gayle had taken of her. She sighed, feeling more than a little sorry for herself. She felt awkward standing alone and glanced around for someone who looked familiar. Considering the number of people here, it was no surprise that she did not recognize a soul. She completely disagreed with Mr. Gayle. She thought everyone was brilliantly dressed; all the men were handsome, and all the women were beautiful. Never in her life had she seen so much bejeweled skin. If the Mayfair Thief had any sense at all, she thought, he was here somewhere. She began to study the men in particular. Any one of them might be the thief.

Suddenly she saw someone she recognized. The policeman, Mr. Percy Johns. He was in formal clothes and, like her, was standing alone, surveying the crowd. Mr. Johns suddenly turned, almost as if he had sensed her interest. He was near enough that she could not be so rude as not to acknowledge him. He returned her tentative smile.

"Miss Elizabeth Willard, is it not?" he asked, eyebrows lifting.

She nodded. "Good evening, Mr. Johns."

His gaze darted to where she was nervously fingering her necklace, then lifted to her face. "Have a pleasant evening, Miss Willard." He moved off into the crowd, leaving Elizabeth alone once more. He must have the same idea she did, Elizabeth thought. Somewhere among this press of exquisitely dressed men and women was the Mayfair Thief.

After several more minutes of scrutinizing the gentlemen, she was struck by how many appeared to be interested in something near where she was standing. She glanced over her shoulder in order to catch a glimpse of what they were looking at. A tapestry hung on the wall behind her, but it hardly seemed worth staring at; certainly one could not get the full effect of it without being a good deal farther off than these gentlemen were. She turned back, and as she did it occurred to her that they were looking at her. All thought of the Mayfair Thief left her. As a sort of test, she smiled at the next man to look her way, just a small lift of the corner of her mouth in case she was wrong. His eyes widened, and he nodded, giving her a look that was almost positively a leer.

"Elizabeth." She recognized Nicholas's voice before she saw him. He was one of the few men wearing black, his white shirt and cravat in stark contrast with the rest of his clothes. Even his waistcoat was black and like the lapels of his coat was trimmed in black satin. His hair was tousled and curling over the top of his stiff collar. He looked devilish and so handsome that Elizabeth almost lost the power to speak. "How long have you been here?" he asked when he had kissed the back of her gloved hand. He seemed to take his time lifting his eyes to hers.

"Long enough to have been rude to one poor gentleman already." She clasped her hands tightly, suddenly nervous because she had often seen Nicholas look at Amelia the way he'd just looked at her.

"I can't imagine you being rude to anyone."

"I'm afraid I was, Nicholas." She resisted the urge to reach up and brush the hair from his forehead.

"Then he must have deserved it." He spoke quickly, with hardly a pause before he continued. "Are you engaged for the next waltz, or am I too late?"

"There you are, Mr. Villines."

He frowned and turned. A smile was quickly in its place when he saw Amelia.

"I have been looking for you simply everywhere," she said when she reached them. She paid no attention to her cousin. "Is this not the most elegant house you have ever seen?"

"Good evening, Miss Willard."

"I positively adore this music. Lord Lewesfield has hired a most remarkable orchestra, do you not agree? You simply must dance this set with me." She put a hand on his arm and looked at him so imploringly that Elizabeth did not see how he, or any man, could have refused her. And, of course, he did not.

"Excuse me, Elizabeth." Nicholas looked apologetic. "Will you promise me the next waltz?" He grasped her hands. "Well? I shan't let you go until I have your promise."

"The very next one," she said. The look he gave her before he turned back to Amelia made her stomach suddenly tighten. She took a deep breath against the sensation as she watched the two walk to the dance floor.

She was not alone for long. Beaufort Latchley approached her, taking her hand and holding it firmly. "Good evening, Miss Willard." She colored when she felt his lips against the back of her hand. "One imagines a woman as lovely as you is engaged for every dance," he said.

"Does one?" She was still trying to catch a glimpse of Nicholas.

"Indeed." He inclined his head. "Therefore, I shall not presume to engage you to dance until after supper." He looked at her thoughtfully. "Perhaps," he said, "you will save me the one just after?"

Elizabeth glanced at him inquiringly, too engrossed in remembering the way Nicholas had pressed her hand for so long to pay much attention to Beaufort Latchley.

"If that one is promised, perhaps the one after that?"

What had Nicholas meant by holding her hand so long, and by looking at her with such a penetrating gaze?"

"I would consider it a great honor if you deigned to dance with me," he added with another smile that barely curved his lips.

A waltz, he had asked her for a waltz.

Beaufort took her silence for agreement. "Thank you, Miss Willard. I look forward to it."

She and Beaufort stood talking—aimlessly, it seemed to Elizabeth—until Mr. Stacey came to ask for a dance. She had several partners after that, none of whom she paid any more than polite attention. She looked constantly for Nicholas. Was she daring too much to think he felt something more than friendship for her? She ought to suppress such a hope at all costs; disappointment would be too unbearably cruel. She refused the dance just before the waltz. She did not want to miss Nicholas.

Nicholas had no trouble finding Elizabeth for their waltz. She was surrounded by gentlemen. Even Mr. Stacey, whom everyone knew was smitten with Amelia, was a member of the crowd around her. "There you are, Elizabeth," he called out when he was still several feet from where she was standing, listening to something Mr. Stacey was saying. She turned when she heard him.

"Nicholas!"

"You promised me a waltz, you know," he said when he reached her.

"Did I?"

"You know you did." He held out his hand. "You would break my heart if you did not dance with me." He thought she almost might.

"I should hate to break your heart, Nicholas," she said softly.

"Would you, now?" He smiled what he was sure was his first genuine smile of the evening. His tension dissipated enough for him to be aware he was glad to be with Elizabeth. It seemed he must have been waiting for this moment since he arrived. He puzzled over what a relief it was to finally be with her until the music began and they were close. Then he ceased to think about it at all. She danced well. It was effortless to move around the floor with her in his arms; her cousin did not dance half so well. He glanced down. Her eyelids were lowered so that her eyes were nearly closed. There was a dreamy expression on her face, as though she were remembering some long-ago pleasure or, maybe, savoring a present one. Another time he might have teased her about it, but now he was content just to watch her. It was magical, this sense of well-being; he was not used to it, nor did he know what to make of it. He pulled her closer when a couple danced too near, and though it was improper, he did not immediately relax his embrace. She looked up when his arm remained tightened around her waist. He gazed into the cool gray of her eyes, wondering as he did whether it was possible for two people to be any closer than were he and Elizabeth.

"Is something the matter, Nicholas?"

"Nothing at all," he replied, smiling because her cheeks were turning pink.

When the music ended they were standing by a doorway. He walked with her into the hall. "You're flushed," he said, raising one hand to touch her cheek with the backs of his fingers. Her skin was still impossibly soft.

"Am I?"

"Yes."

He signaled to a passing footman, frowning when he saw there was only champagne on the tray he carried. "Can you tell me," he said to the servant as he took a glass of champagne, "who the devil that is?" He pointed to a man standing resolutely at one end of the hall.

"Him?" The footman glanced down the hall. "Don't know, sir. Probably one of the policemen."

"Policemen?" echoed Elizabeth.

"Yes, miss."

"Will you bring a glass of punch?" Nicholas asked.

"Directly, sir."

"You know, Nicholas, Mr. Percy Johns is here this evening. I think he expects to catch the Mayfair Thief tonight."

"Perhaps he will." The footman returned with the punch, and Nicholas handed it to her.

"That wing of the house is closed off." The servant nodded to the end of the hall where the policeman stood guard. "So you might prefer to walk in the other direction."

"Thank you, we will."

"Why did you make him bring this?" Elizabeth complained when they started walking slowly toward the open end of the hall. She made a face at her punch. "I'd rather have champagne."

"Does your uncle permit it?" he asked.

"Why ever not? I was permitted to come to this ball and even to dance with you."

It seemed incredible to him that she could be so nonchalant when his own nerves felt stretched to their limit. He somehow managed to adopt her bantering tone. "I don't believe you.

She laughed and wrapped her free arm around his. "Naturally, you're right, Nicholas. Uncle Havoc said that on no account was I to dance with you."

Her teasing made him feel slightly ridiculous for keeping her from having a glass of champagne, as though she really were a child. He would not have questioned Amelia if she had asked for a glass. He looked for another footman, but they had walked some distance down the hall and none was in sight. "Here," he said. "You may have mine." Her nearness to him was making the skirt of her dress brush against his leg, and that, more than anything else, made him uncomfortably aware of her.

"Thank you, sir." She held out her punch until he took it from her. He placed it on a nearby table and watched her take a small sip of his champagne. She stared into the glass before taking a second sip. "It's quite good," she said with a surprised look at him.

"Lord Lewesfield would hardly serve inferior champagne."

"I'm afraid I wouldn't know the difference. I've never had it before."

He whirled to stand in front of her. "Give me that!"

"Uncle Havoc never said I could not, Nicholas." She held the glass away from him, but he reached around her and took it.

"I should hardly like to be accused of corrupting a young lady's morals." She was laughing, and he could not keep a stern face. "You ought to be ashamed, Elizabeth," he said, putting the champagne down on the table.

"Yes, I suppose so." She spoke matter-of-factly. "But I'm not."

"It's a wonder your aunt and uncle let you come."

"Not really. Have you noticed my dress?" She spread her fingers over the skirt of her gown. "It seems Uncle Havoc thinks there's hope for me, if I display a little more bosom than I like." She flushed pink.

"What do you mean, 'hope for you'?" He tucked her hand back under his arm. A faint wisp of the violet scent she used made him wish he dared move closer to her.

"I'm not beautiful or charming like Amelia," she was saying. "If I were rich, Aunt Mary says I might be married…" She finished the sentence with a shrug. "It isn't likely, but hope springs eternal in Uncle Havoc's breast."

They had reached a corner where there was a window, and Nicholas stopped to open it. "What makes you say that?" He turned to face her. She took a step forward to let the breeze from the open window cool her, closing her eyes for a moment. It was almost painful to look at her.

"There are some things, Nicholas, that one simply knows." She opened her eyes. "I'd thought about it even before Aunt Mary and I talked." She sighed.

"May I ask what she told you?"

"Mostly that a poor girl will not have many offers of marriage."

"Do you think a man will marry only for money? There are other reasons besides that." Well, so, she looked undeniably grown-up in that dress. If her uncle was responsible for the gown, he seemed to have known too well what he was doing.

"Perhaps so." She smiled. "But so far, no one has fallen in love with my lack of fortune."

He scowled, angry to hear evidence of how successful Mrs. Willard had been in keeping Elizabeth humble. "Don't joke about it, Elizabeth. There are a thousand reasons for a man to fall in love with you, even before he knew you." He leaned into the corner to look at her because she did not answer him. "You don't believe I mean it," he accused.

"If you do, I wish you would not say such things to me."

"Why not?" He reached to take her hand and pull her to him. Strains of music from the ballroom could be heard even from their corner. He pushed one end of her scarf back over her shoulder. "I do mean it." She shivered when his fingers brushed over her bare skin.