The reluctant cavalier (9 page)

"No, of course not, Mama. It is just that Mr. Wentworth seems so very reliable. Indeed, he even offered to leave my presence when it seemed we might be alone for too long. Besides, Lady Bowerland would never invite anyone disreputable. She did not invite Lord Grafton, after all." Lady Smith's look was doubtful.

Annabella smiled beguilingly. "And Mama,
you
will be there with me. You may disguise yourself as a terrible dragon, and I am sure Lord Grafton will avoid me for the whole of the masquerade."

"A dragon! I am surprised that you did not suggest a witch's costume!" Her mother tried to look offended, but failed, for she burst out laughing instead. "Oh, you odious girl! Very well then! I shall accompany you and scare off any admirers."

"Thank you, Mama!" Annabella gave her a brief, impulsive hug.

Lady Smith smiled fondly at her and brushed away a stray lock from her daughter's forehead. "You are a sweet child, my dear, and I shall miss you sorely when you become a duch—when you marry."

Annabella just caught herself from turning abruptly away from her mother. She made herself smile. "I have not given my answer yet, you know. You will have me with you for at least three months." Her mother rubbed her hands, as if they still pained her. "Do you wish me to bring you some ointment, Mama? You know it helps with the ache in your hands."

"Yes, please," replied Lady Smith, and patted Annabella's cheek. She watched her daughter leave the room, and close the door gently. She sighed deeply, and it echoed in the large drawing room, now seeming less bright and more empty once Annabella had quit it. The month had already turned; Annabella did not have three months until she must give her answer to the duke, but two and a half instead. Her daughter seemed not to want to acknowledge the passage of time, and Lady Smith feared that Annabella would refuse the duke.

For the first time, Lady Smith wished her husband was not so set on the marriage. It would be a triumph indeed for their daughter to marry the duke. But she was the last to wish Annabella to marry unwillingly. What was there to object to in the duke? Nothing, really.

A twinge of pain made her rub the back of her hand, and she thought of a few unpleasant rumors about the duke she had just heard a few days ago. No doubt they were told her out of jealousy that Annabella had attracted such a great matrimonial prize. It was also rumored that he was a very persistent man. If that were so, then surely Annabella would be convinced to accept his suit. Such flattering attentions from a distinguished man could not fail to make any lady think kindly of him.

And yet, as she watched Annabella enter the drawing room again with the ointment, Lady Smith could not rid herself of a growing sense of uneasiness. Despite the obvious falsity of the rumors about the duke, and his otherwise sterling reputation, she could not like him. His demeanor was cool, and she sensed little warmth in him.

Annabella smiled at her, and smoothed the ointment on her mother's hands, rubbing the ache away. Lady Smith smiled in return. Her daughter was like a bright sun to her, warming the room with her very presence. Lady Smith knew it was necessary one day for Annabella to marry and leave her home. And yet, she could not help wondering if the duke's coolness would somehow dim her daughter's warmth. She hoped it would not be so.

Annabella ceased her rubbing, and held her mother's hands, heating them with her own. No, thought Lady Smith, no, surely her daughter's spirit could never be doused, but warm whatever came close to her.

She smiled. The duke would come to love her—who would not?—and Annabella would have a happy life. She was a silly woman to worry so, to be sure.

Parsifal drew in his breath and let it out again as he stared into the mirror. He did not look at all bad in the Cavalier costume, he admitted to himself. Perhaps Miss Smith would recognize him—that is, recognize his costume—and agree to dance with him again. He had just been on the verge of asking Caroline to invite Miss Smith to the ball when he had spied the invitation, thank God. The last thing he wanted were weeks of Caroline's teasing. He well knew that there were other, more eligible suitors for Miss Smith's hand, and he did not need to be reminded of it over and over again.

He dismissed his valet and descended the stairs, frowning. Caroline and his mother had also invited the Duke of Stratton, for he was a neighbor, but Parsifal could not feel easy about it. He shrugged. To be honest, could he really say he was unbiased in his opinion of the man? No, he could not. It was better not to think of the duke, but to enjoy what he could of the evening.

The music and laughter that burst in Parsifal's face when he opened the door to the ballroom made him pause. He liked music, but not the noise and the closed-in feeling that came over him whenever he entered a crowded ballroom. But he opened the door wider and stepped in.

The ballroom was crowded indeed, the air thick with heat and excitement. Hundreds of candles shimmered and sparkled through newly polished chandeliers upon the guests below, and the costumes were a bright pastiche of history and fantasy—at once colorful and confusing. Parsifal suppressed a groan. So much for his wish to dance with Miss Smith.

He almost retreated so as to be away from the noise, the heat, and the confusion, but a faint, stubborn hope that he might find Miss Smith and dance with her brought him farther into the room. The ball began early, and he knew it would end late. If he were persistent, surely he would happen upon her. He'd have more chance at that than if he left.

He turned to scan the room, and to his alarm saw Lady Bowerland looking straight at him. But that lady merely stared at him for a moment, gave a puzzled shake of her head and turned away to stare at another man dressed as a Cavalier. Parsifal let out the breath he'd been holding. She had not recognized him. No doubt the darkness of the night in which he had come to the Bowerlands' rescue had been sufficient to obscure his features totally. Thank God! He'd hate another embarrassing display of gratitude from her. He turned and asked a petite, dark-haired sylph for the next dance, but knew when she accepted that it was not Miss Annabella Smith.

Neither was the next lady, or the next. He danced with blond-haired ladies, and with red-haired ones, for he could not be sure that Miss Smith was not wearing a wig. For one moment his heart beat a little faster when he encountered a fancifully dressed shepherdess who seemed similar to Miss Smith about the chin and mouth. But a glance at her hair showed the dark brown to be streaked with grey, and Parsifal knew it was not she.

Then he turned and took the next lady's hand in the line as the set moved down the room in a sprightly country dance. Behind her mask, her eyes widened, and she gave a little gasp. Ah! Parsifal smiled in relief. He had not needed to search so diligently, after all. The lady recognized
him.
Therefore...

"Good evening, Miss Smith."

"How . . . how did you know?" She was dressed demurely, in the guise of a Puritan girl, her hair gathered underneath its cap and hat so that only a tiny curl showed upon her forehead. Except for part of her forehead and her lips and chin, a black mask obscured all of her face. He would have not guessed it was she, except for her gasp of recognition.

"I knew—" he began to reply. The dance parted them, but he could see her watching him. He turned and bowed to a medieval princess who was next in the line, as the dance required, and took her hand as they stepped in unison to the music. Frustration pulled at him. There was no guarantee that he'd end the dance beside Miss Smith, and in this crowd it was not likely he'd find her again.

A sudden, sizzling tension came over his body, a heat came over his mind. His breath left him in a soft, reckless laugh. Quickly, he counted the dancers in the line. As things stood now, he would be across the room from Annabella when the dance ended, and it would end soon. It was not what he wanted, not at all.

A gasp of bewilderment came from his partner as Parsifal swung her into his place on the gentlemen's line and stepped into hers. He grinned and made a mock curtsey to the partner she was to have, a somewhat paunchy Apollo. The Apollo's jaw dropped and his face grew red, but before the man could protest, Parsifal had already taken him by the hand and twirled him into the ladies' line. A small scream and then laughter broke behind Parsifal as he progressed down the set, now only a few dancers away from Annabella.

"What the devil—!"

"Oh, heavens—!"

A shriek, a curse, and more laughter burst behind Parsifal. Another step and skip, a bow, and another mock curtsey. A violin in the orchestra wailed a sour note, the dance came to a crashing halt—and there was Annabella in front of him once more. He seized her hand.

"Come with me," he said, pulling her away from the dance floor.

And then the odd heat that had come over his mind began to fade, and a horrified embarrassment flooded him. Oh, God. What had he done? He looked hurriedly about him, then plunged into the crowd of guests. For once he was glad he was not tall and that his costume was not remarkable, for he blended easily amongst them. He slid quickly between the guests, most of whom were craning their necks away from him, trying to see what all the jumble was about on the dance floor. Ah, there! One of the windowed doors was open. Parsifal slipped through it.

The night air welcomed him with a cool breeze, and he felt he could breathe again. He became conscious of a small hand clutching his tightly, and he looked down. No. Oh, no. He had dragged Annabella—Miss Smith—with him outside.

What a fool he was! Parsifal almost groaned, but stopped himself in time, for she looked up at him, silent. Even in the shadows he could see her lips pressed tightly together, as if keeping back some deep emotion. Her shoulders started to shake, and Parsifal felt worse than ever. She was going to weep, he was sure of it, and it was all his fault. He had no doubt humiliated her by raining the dance and taking her out of it. He released her hand and looked away. "Anna—Miss Smith—"

A peal of laughter burst from her, and Parsifal jerked his head back to look at her.

"Oh, heavens! Oh, oh, my goodness!" Miss Smith pressed a hand to her lips to suppress her laughter, but a giggle escaped her. "Th-their faces! Oh, how could you? I c-could s-scarcely keep in step for laughing." Another burst of laughter came from her—bright and infectious. Parsifal began to smile in spite of himself.

She tucked a finger under her mask, wiping away a tear of laughter. "Oh, that Apollo—it was the vicar, I am sure of it—he turned
such
a shade of red! And the musicians—! I am certain they were trying to watch the dance instead of their scores, for the music—it went so sour at the end!"

Parsifal's smile turned into a grin. A bubble of lightness swelled inside of him. He could not help himself; he threw back his head and laughed.

It only made things worse, for it seemed to set off Annabella's laughter once more. "Oh, dear!" she cried. "How
did
you do it? How did you dare? They didn't know which way to turn and scrambled about the dance like— like—"

"Frightened chickens," interjected Parsifal, and almost fell against the wall, for the image of the normally dignified vicar running about the room like a distracted hen made him want to howl.

"Chickens! Heavens—!" Annabella gasped, and went off into fresh convulsions. "Oh, their f-faces! I can s-see them still!" She pressed a hand to her stomach, "Oh dear, oh dear!" She had leaned against the wall as well for support, but now tried to straighten herself. It was for naught; she began giggling again, and stumbled instead. Quickly, Parsifal put out his hand to steady her, and just as quickly she was in his arms.

He did not know how it happened. Their laughter ceased abruptly, and the silence between became hot and still. Annabella gazed up at him, her lips parted, her breath coming fast—he did not know if it was from the laughter or from the same sensation that made his own breath catch.

"Bella," he whispered, pulling her closer, and kissed her.

He had kissed her once before, a light brush of lips. But this kiss was not light, could not be light, for a heavy rush of passion made him move his mouth over hers firmly, deeply. And Annabella did not pull away. She stayed, supple and warm, in his arms, and even leaned into him. "Bella,
mi corazon
..."

"What... ?" She pushed slightly against him, and they parted. Parsifal gazed down at her, at her eyes wide and dazed. "What did you say?" she asked.

"Mi corazon
—" He felt himself in a daze, and touched her face, as if to assure himself she was real. Her skin was warm and soft, firm beneath his fingers.
"Alma mia
..."

"You are not English, then."

"What?"

"You are not English."

A shock went through him, and everything—the night's cool breeze, the music and low roar of the masquerade ball just inside the windowed doors—came into sudden, sharp focus. He did not know why he had spoken Spanish just then—it was something from the past he thought he'd forgotten. And Annabella: her lips, sweet and soft, her wide eyes puzzled and vulnerable and lost. He should not have kissed her like that; he could have compromised her reputation if anyone had come upon them, and if anyone—her mother, his family—had recognized them. What could he say to her?

"Bella—Miss Smith, I am—"

A loud cry came from below them, and Parsifal turned swiftly. There, just where some steps led down to the gardens from the ballroom, two figures struggled, and one of them clearly a woman. Anger flared through him, and the heat returned to his mind. He only just managed an apology to Miss Smith before he sprinted down the steps from the ballroom doors.

Too many steps! Muttering an impatient curse, Parsifal vaulted over the low wall and landed firmly on the ground. A strange exhilaration sped his feet toward the struggle before him—but too late. The man froze for a moment, clearly seeing Parsifal bearing down upon him, and thrust the lady away in his haste to run off. With another cry the lady stumbled, fell down the few steps, and lay still.