Amanda McCabe (10 page)

“Well, well,” a voice said. “What is all this?”

Rosalind jerked away, as if she was burned, and almost tripped over the table. As she righted herself, clinging to the cold marble, a hot, red rush of shame flooded through her. What was she doing, standing here in the dark, practically
embracing
Lord Morley? Morley, of all people! She had broken at least six—no, seven—of her own rules in just those few seconds.

Moon madness. That was the only explanation. Or perhaps the spell of the city, the unfamiliar social whirl, that made her lose her head. Made her forget what was truly important.

She peered down the corridor to see Georgina standing there, her famous sapphires glittering like a blue fire in the candlelight. Georgina watched her with no hint of condemnation—that would never be Georgina’s way. There was speculation in her eyes, and a hint of amusement.

That amusement was almost worse than condemnation. It was like a splash of icy water, bringing her back into reality. Rosalind slipped past Lord Morley and hurried down the corridor toward her friend.

“Georgina,” she said, and was dismayed to hear the breathlessness of her voice. “I was just—just coming to find you.”

“Oh, yes? I trust your headache is better.” Georgina’s gaze shifted past Rosalind to Lord Morley, who had moved away from the wall and stood in a flickering beam of candlelight. “Viscount Morley, is it not?”

“Indeed it is, Duchess.” Aside from a faint thickness in his tone, there was absolutely no change in his demeanor. It was as if he was completely unaffected by their brief, strange, unsettling scene. He pushed the waves of his dark hair back from his brow, and came forward to bow over Georgina’s hand.

“I was not aware you knew my friend Mrs. Chase,”
she said, tilting her head as she looked up at him speculatively.

“My sister attends her excellent Seminary,” he answered, and glanced over at Rosalind. There was a plea in his eyes—perhaps an apology?

But Rosalind could not bring herself to look directly at him just yet. She could scarcely even think.

“Lady Violet, yes,” said Georgina. “I have met her. She is a lovely girl. My friend’s school obviously agrees with her. No doubt you were chatting about her education just now?”

“Among other things,” Lord Morley murmured.

“Fascinating
things, I am sure,” Georgina said. “I would love to stay here and chat with the two of you, but I fear we have no time for that at the moment. Rosalind, I came to find you to tell you there is something in the ballroom you
must
see.”

Something in the ballroom she had to see? Rosalind could not imagine what it could possibly be. More dancers? More gossiping dowagers? But she found she longed for the crowded ballroom, for the noise and distraction of it. At least there Georgina could not question her about this scene, as Rosalind could see her friend longed to do. There, she could not think about all this nonsense.

That could wait for tonight, when she was alone in the quiet opulence of Georgina’s finest guest bedchamber.

“Of course,” she said. “I will come at once.”

“Good. Though I fear you will not be at all happy when you see it.” Georgina took Rosalind’s hand and started to turn away, back to the staircase to the ballroom. Then she glanced back at Morley. “Lord Morley, we would be happy to have you call at our house at any time that is convenient. My husband and I so enjoyed your last volume of poems.”

Lord Morley bowed. “That is very kind of you, Your Grace. Thank you.”

Georgina nodded, and drew Rosalind along with her up the stairs.

“Why did you invite that man to your house, Georgina?” Rosalind whispered.

Georgina turned to her, auburn brows arched in surprise. “I thought you liked him, Rosie! Why else would you be standing there alone with him? He
is
very handsome.”

Rosalind just shook her head. She had no words, not right now. The usually unflappable Mrs. Chase was—flapped. She felt like an unsure young girl, not like the thirty-year-old widow she was.

“We must speak more of this later,” Georgina said, as they reached the closed ballroom doors. There was a strange rumbling noise from behind those inlaid panels, a crash, a roar. “But for now, my dear—you must brace yourself.”

Blast!
What was he thinking of?

Michael turned away as Mrs. Chase and the duchess hurried off, and closed his eyes to suck in a large breath of air. It did no good, though—the corridor was still filled with the fresh, green scent of her perfume.

He braced his fists against the wall, and restrained the fierce impulse to drive them through the painted silk paper.

He knew what he had been thinking of. He had been thinking of Mrs. Chase’s bright curls, her white skin above the silken line of her bodice. The look in her blue eyes as she watched him. Once he had thought of them as ice. But tonight, they glowed as brilliant as starlight.

Brilliant with dislike, mayhap? Or a deep, hidden desire? The same desire that sparked inside him when her hair curled about his finger. As he looked at that one red curl, he had envisioned the wealth of her hair spread over her shoulders, over his chest and arms, the whiteness of linen pillows…

He pounded against the wall, until a painting hanging above him rattled perilously. He had been having those lustful thoughts about Mrs. Chase!
Mrs. Chase
,
of all people. The woman who wore ugly caps, and trumpeted the rules to all and sundry. She would not know a free moment, a spontaneous act, if they reached up and snatched one of those caps off her head.

And yet she was beautiful tonight, in her fashionable gown, her chic coiffure. She almost appeared like a normal female. Yet what he had forgotten was that beneath that pale green satin beat the heart of a true rule-follower.

But she had not been thinking of the rules when they stood there, so close together in the near darkness. And neither had he, despite their words to each other about manners and etiquette. He had thought only of tasting her kiss, breathing in the scent of her.

Her lips were surprisingly lush and pink when not pinched together disapprovingly. Her eyes were wide and wondering, so young for just that moment.

There was more to her than what she showed the world. She went to great pains to appear cool, prim, proper, always so very in control. And she was quite successful—even he had seen only that façade. Now he suspected there was something else, something hidden there. Perhaps so hidden that not even she herself could see it.

And
that
was what drew him to her, he realized. He wanted to discover her hidden heart, the free soul she buried beneath her manners and her ugly gowns. He had glimpsed her for the merest instant tonight, he had even held her, felt the trembling inside of her.

Then she was snatched away, and he had watched the veil of her propriety fall over her again. There was a hectic red flush on her fair cheeks, the freckles she tried to hide standing out in golden relief. She would not even look at him, and seemed appalled at her friend’s invitation to him to call.

It was deeply saddening to see. He wanted to go after her, to catch her in his arms and
demand
that she give him back the woman he had seen so fleetingly.
But he had not, of course. That would only have driven Mrs. Chase further away, made her retreat deeper beneath her careful façade.

Now that he had glimpsed her inner secrets, he wanted to know more of her. He
had
to know.

He would accept the Duchess of Wayland’s invitation to call. Very soon, before Mrs. Chase had time to scurry back behind the high walls of her school.

Perhaps he would even go tomorrow.

Michael pushed himself away from the wall, and straightened his coat and his cravat (not pink tonight, but sky blue—much like Mrs. Chase’s eyes). As he turned away, he glimpsed a flash of something pale against the dark carpet runner. He bent down and picked up a fan. A pale green satin fan, edged in white lace and scattered with tiny, glittering beads.

Mrs. Chase’s fan. She must have dropped it when they were standing here together. The soft pleats still smelled of her perfume.

Michael tucked it inside his coat. Now he had the perfect excuse to call at the Wayland house, if the duchess’s invitation was not enough.

With a smile, he strolled to the staircase leading to the ballroom. Halfway up, he became aware of an odd noise from the party, a rush of wild laughter, a crash, a shriek. He hurried his steps, along with the other stragglers from the ball who lingered on the stairs—and stopped abruptly in the doorway.

He could scarcely believe what he was seeing!

R
 osalind could hardly believe what she was seeing. The ball was not quite the crush it had been when Rosalind left; no doubt many people had gone on to other soirees or home to their beds. But there were many people remaining, and several of them—nay, most of them—were riveted on one spectacle.

Rosalind froze as she stepped into the ballroom. This could not be happening. This was just a nightmare. Obviously, she had not yet awakened from her dream-scene in the corridor with Lord Morley. Her face, her hands, her whole being froze with the hot-icy feel of sheer humiliation.

Sprawled out flat in the middle of the parquet dance floor was Allen, dressed in a most outlandish Pierrot costume. The loose black and white satin of his baggy pantaloons and tunic spread about him in a shimmering puddle, and his black velvet cap fell drunkenly over his eyes. He slowly sat up, pushing the cap back, and the observers gathered in a ring around him stepped back—all but a large, buxom matron in purple satin, who menaced Allen with her reticule, and a petite, sobbing miss.

Laughter and titters rose as an inexorable tidal wave
through the crowd, audible even over the lovely music that still played.

Rosalind rubbed her gloved hand over her eyes, but it did not make the surreal scene disappear. Another young man, whom Rosalind did not know, went to help haul Allen to his feet. This man, too, wore a costume, the garb of a Roman centurion with a clanking brass breastplate.

She turned to Georgina, who was trying, not very successfully, to hide her smile behind her fan.

“What happened here?” Rosalind demanded.

Georgina lowered her fan, and used it to tap thoughtfully at her chin. “I am afraid I could not say exactly. I was over there, talking with some friends, when we became aware of some, er, disturbance. People running about, girls shrieking. Then—this.” Her voice ended on a tiny hiccup that sounded suspiciously like a giggle.

Rosalind sighed. She could not really blame Georgina for laughing. It
did
look so oddly comical. Yet, somehow, she could not quite laugh herself. Not with her cheeks burning and her head pounding. There was probably no chance she could just pretend not to know Allen. Everyone in the
ton
knew everything about everyone else—even such insignificant sprigs as Allen and Rosalind.

As Rosalind turned and prepared to wade into the fray, Georgina’s sister-in-law Emily rushed up to them. Her china blue eyes sparkled with excitement. She was in her third Season now, but had obviously never seen anything like
this
at the many, many balls she attended!

“Oh, Georgie!” she cried. “Isn’t it just too funny? And I was right there when it happened!” Then her gaze fell on Rosalind, and some of the sparkle faded. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Chase. I did forget that Mr. Lucas is your brother.”

“That is quite all right, Lady Emily,” Rosalind said. “But what exactly
did
happen here?”

Emily glanced back over to Pierrot and the Roman,
who had now been joined by Louis XIV in powdered wig and high-heeled shoes. The matron in purple still shouted incoherently at them, and swiped at Allen with her beaded reticule. “Well, I was dancing with Mr. Elliott, and we were very near Miss Anderson and her partner, Lord St. Regis. Miss Anderson is Lady Anderson’s daughter, you know.” Emily gestured toward the matron and the sobbing young lady hidden in her shadow. “It was all quite ordinary. Then, all of a sudden, Miss Anderson screamed! And Lord St. Regis hit poor Mr. Lucas.”

Rosalind was completely bewildered. “But what was Allen doing here at all? He was not invited to this ball, and even if he was this is
not
a fancy-dress event.” The cabbage-head was not even supposed to be in London, but hard at his studies at Cambridge.

“I do not know,” Emily said. “Miss Anderson was saying he just grabbed her and kissed her! And when he was on the floor, having been planted a facer by Lord St. Regis, Lady Anderson came up and hit him with her reticule. I have heard that she carries a very large vinaigrette in that reticule.” She lowered her voice confidingly, and added, “I do believe, Mrs. Chase, that Mr. Lucas is quite foxed. He smelled rather—pungent.”

Foxed.
Oh, wonderful. That was just what this situation required. Not just an idiot, but a drunken idiot.

“Thank you for that information, Lady Emily,” Rosalind said. Her tone was surprisingly calm, considering the roiling turmoil in her heart. She curled her hands into fists, and marched across the ballroom, Georgina and Emily hurrying behind her.

Fortunately, before they reached the violent scene Georgina’s husband, Alexander, the Duke of Wayland, joined them. He had apparently just returned from his farming conversation, and seen his wife and sister being drawn into a scandalous scene. He took Georgina’s arm, and whispered, “What have you done now, Georgie?”

Georgina looked at him indignantly. “Why do you
assume that just because there is a disturbance
I
had something to do with it?”

He grinned at her. “Because, my love, you usually do.”

She laughed. “Well, I did naught to cause it this time. It is poor Rosie’s brother.”

Alexander looked to Allen, and his handsome face darkened as Lady Anderson landed another blow on Allen’s head. “So I see. Well, ladies, shall we discover what can be done?”