Anne Barbour (16 page)

Eden found her attention wandering during these interchanges, and she allowed her thoughts to drift to the events of the morning. Had she imagined the warmth in Seth Lindow's dark eyes? Surely he had been pleased to see her in Green Park. He could have, with perfect propriety, bid her farewell at the Piccadilly Gate and left her in the care of her groom. Instead, he had consumed a good bit of his no doubt valuable time to return her to her home himself. In the process, he had arranged to see her again in two days. Surely, that meant...

Meant what? Merely that he enjoyed her company. Was that not enough? Before Seth Lindow's advent into her life, she would have thought having a friend in London—a male friend—a very pleasant circumstance. What else could she want from Seth Lindow besides friendship? A vision of the devil-glow she had imagined earlier flashed before her.

Really, she thought, aware that her pulse had quickened, she was being the veriest—

"Why, it is you, my lord," Zoë's voice trilled at her side. Eden's head jerked up at the tone in her sister's voice. Good Lord, the girl was virtually purring. The next moment, Eden's heart sank, for the gentleman who had drawn up to the carriage and was now bent caressingly over Zoë's fingertips, was the Marquess of Belhaven.

Chapter Twelve

The difference in the marquess's appearance since their encounter earlier in the day was marked. For one thing, he seemed to be sober. He was still dressed carelessly, but this, Eden knew, was a studied effect. He rode astride a showy bay, and his buckskin riding breeches clung to muscular thighs. His coat of dark blue superfine bore several whip thongs thrust through the buttonhole, and his cravat was tied in a semblance of neatness. Golden curls, tossed in an untidy Brutus, glinted in the late afternoon sun as he swept his hat off in an exaggerated gesture.

"Miss Zoë," he murmured, his tone indicative of stolen kisses in secluded bowers. "I was hoping I might see you today." He glanced cursorily over Eden. "Miss Beckett," he said coolly.

"Good afternoon, my lord." Eden's nod was insultingly brief, but the marquess, whose milky blue gaze had swung immediately back to Zoë, apparently did not notice.

"Now I know it is truly spring," the marquess said with an intimate smile. "For all the sunlight and birdsong seem collected right here in the park."

"Really?" replied Zoë, glancing about ingeniously. "I hadn't noticed. In fact, I was just saying to my sister that we should be going, for the breeze is turning chill." She bestowed a coquettish smile on the marquess.

"That's odd," he responded instantly. "I think it's uncommonly warm today. Indeed, I feel flushed—all over."

Zoë twirled her parasol and lowered her lashes.

"Sir!" interposed Eden. "You go beyond what is proper."

Bel's glance slid from Zoë to herself, putting Eden in mind of a lizard considering its next consignment of flies. "Apparently, Miss Beckett, our opinions of what is proper and what is not are eons apart." He turned again to Zoë. "Have I insulted you, my dear?" he asked, smirking.

Zoë, apparently feeling somewhat out of her depth at this exchange, contented herself with another smile and a flutter of her eyelashes. "If none was meant, sir, none was taken, although"—she giggled—"I do not believe I am your dear."

"Do you not?" Bel did not elaborate further, but fell silent. He continued at Zoë's side for a few moments before asking meditatively, "Do you go to the masquerade at Covent Garden this evening?"

Zoë leaned forward. "A masquerade? I did not know there was to be a masquerade!" She turned to her sister. "Oh, Eden! Do you think—?" she asked, her eyes sparkling.

"No, I do not think," was Eden's curt reply. "Those masquerades are not at all the thing, Zoë, particularly for a young girl. You know Papa will not—"

"Oh, what fustian!" cried Zoë gaily. "We will get Mama to go with us, and we can dragoon a footman or two to satisfy Papa." She swung to face Bel once more. "Of course, we shall be there. I wouldn't miss it for all the world!"

Bel's mouth curved in a pleased smile. "Then I shall no doubt see you there." Raising his hand to his hat, he murmured, "Ladies," and cantered off to greet a party of horsemen just approaching.

Zoë leaned back in the carriage and sighed beatifically. "Is he not the handsomest creature you've ever seen?"

"Oh, Good Lord, Zoë," replied her loving sister impatiently, "you are not seriously proposing to set up a flirt with that odious man?"

"Odious?" Zoë sat up very straight. "Why, he is nothing of the sort. He may not dress in quite the first stare of fashion—I believe he sets his own—but do you not think him very dashing?"

"No, I do not. Heavens, you sound the veriest feather-wit. The man is a complete degenerate, and I cannot believe you think him an appropriate target for your wiles."

Zoë could not fail to perceive the disdain in Eden's voice, and she bounced indignantly against the carriage squabs. "Eden Beckett, I believe you are jealous!"

"Jealous!"

"Yes, I think you're so set up in your own estimation, having captured Mr. Lindow's attention for a few minutes, that now you're spitting like a cat just because a duke's son has taken a fancy to me."

Eden sat in affronted silence for a moment, several spirited rejoinders churning on her lips. In the end, she decided on a dignified silence. No good could come of setting Zoë's back up any further. Another word against the Marquess of Belhaven would have the silly chit flinging herself into the reprobate's arms—with disastrous results. For if ever she perceived a certified viper, bent on seduction, the Marquess of Belhaven filled the bill.

"No, Zoë," she said at last in a quiet tone, "I am not jealous. I know it does no good to warn you against a man whose intentions are so obviously, er, improper, for you always go your own way, but I beg you will consider carefully before you give him any encouragement."

Zoë's perfect lips curved in a repentant smile. "I'm sorry, dearest. That was a horrid thing to say. You haven't a jealous bone in your body, after all. As for the marquess, I assure you I have taken his measure. He shan't persuade me to do anything against my will. Believe me, it is not in my plans to find myself ruined by the likes of the Marquess of Belhaven."

With that, Eden had to be content, and she turned her thoughts to the evening ahead. For there was not the slightest doubt in her mind that she and Mama would be attending the masquerade at Covent Garden with Zoë.

Events proved her entirely correct. Upon being apprised of the plan. Lord Beckett issued his usual veto. This was followed by Zoë's usual blandishments, concluding with her customary tantrum when the blandishments failed to produce their desired results. The fashionable hour of eleven of the clock that evening saw the Beckett ladies disembarking from their carriage, with the assistance of two footmen, at the steps of the Opera House in Covent Garden. All three wore voluminous dominoes.

"Ooh, isn't this exciting?" exclaimed Zoë, her eyes sparkling through the slits of her mask. She arranged her domino about her shoulders. "I do wish we had a gentleman with us."

"So do I," remarked Eden. "We present a decidedly odd appearance, if you want my opinion."

"Well, I don't," snapped Zoë. "Want your opinion, that is, Miss Sobersides. For heaven's sake, Eden, we are here to enjoy ourselves."

Eden smiled grimly. She doubted that she would be deriving any enjoyment from this evening's adventure. She had never felt so uncomfortable in her life. Three women on their own would be the cynosure of at least a few pairs of eyes—probably those by whom she would least prefer to be seen. From what she had heard, the prospect of encountering any ladies of quality at the masquerade was remote. However, the gentlemen of the
ton
were not so nice in their tastes, and it was highly likely one or more of them would discern the presence of Miss Zoë Beckett at this far-from-genteel function. Word would inevitably drift back to wives, sisters, and daughters. Any hopes Zoë might cherish of procuring vouchers for Almack's would go a-glimmering. In addition, the masquerade would most likely turn into a romp in a few hours. The footmen would afford protection against unwanted advances, no doubt, but they could provide little respectability to the Beckett entourage. Eden could only hope their dominoes and masks would guarantee anonymity.

She stared about her as they made their way to the box procured for them earlier by one of the footmen now striding behind them in attendance. At least, thought Eden, the box was on an upper tier. The ground floor boxes were altogether too accessible to the young men strolling about the pit, quizzing glasses at the ready, ogling the ladies seated there in costumes that displayed alarming décolletages. These damsels received the lavish masculine attention with unladylike squeals of mirth, accompanied by much slapping of fingers with fans and the masks they had removed at the outset of the fun.

Not, Eden mused, that the setting was less than elegant. Huge crystal chandeliers illuminated a painted ceiling and four tiers of boxes draped in crimson. The stage, upon which the dancers disported themselves, was huge, extending past the first several boxes, and backed by an idyllic rural scene. The whirling couples glittered, and the music was lively. She might have enjoyed herself, she reflected, were she with someone whose company she relished and upon whom she could rely to protect her from either unwanted advances or social censure. A sober figure with night-colored eyes rose in her mind, to be firmly banished.

Eden's uneasiness grew as the evening progressed. She did not perceive any of their acquaintances, but she was hard put to quash Zoë's ebullience. From the moment they arrived, the males present, as though the girl sent some sort of aphrodisiacal fragrance into the air, began to flock around her like wolves scenting a female in heat. Zoë, as Eden has feared, encouraged their advances in a scandalous manner, tossing her head and flirting with abandon. All the while, she searched the crowd expectantly.

Neither of the ladies, to Eden's surprise, lacked for dance partners, and Eden found herself enjoying the music and the glitter despite herself. Mama remained in the box, keeping a sharp eye on her daughters, and waving discreetly when the dance brought them into proximity.

It was, however, not long before the festivities began to lose whatever propriety had been maintained earlier. The noise level increased in pitch and intensity as the gentlemen began pursuing the ladies in earnest. Screams and piercing giggles issued from these females as they capered about the pit, skirts raised to their knees. After repulsing a particularly inventive fellow in pirate's garb, Eden took refuge in the second-tier box beside her mother.

Accepting a glass of punch from a passing servant, she sipped quietly for several moments, regaining her breath and searching the seething crowd below for Zoë. Her gaze finally fell upon the girl on the far side of the room. She was still masked, but the hood of her domino had fallen back, exposing golden curls that hung down over her shoulders in disarray. She was dancing with an obviously inebriated Romeo. With each turn, her eyes scanned the crowd, and an ecstatic smile sprang to her lips when a man in a black domino suddenly approached the couple. With a touch of his hand, he dispatched Zoë's partner, and placing an arm around her waist, he whirled her into a scandalously intimate waltz. Zoë's entire demeanor was transformed. Where before she had sparkled, she now glowed with an almost febrile incandescence. As Eden watched, the girl's body seemed to mold itself to fit every curve of the stranger's body.

"Oh, dear God," murmured Eden, for despite his mask, she had no difficulty in discerning the identity of Zoë's mysterious partner. To no one other than the Marquess of Belhaven, Eden felt, would her sister express such an unspoken adoration. Pale curls glimpsed below the rim of the domino's hood dispelled any doubts she might have had.

Eden rose. This must be stopped! Before she could move from the box, however, Zoë and the marquess disappeared. Wildly, Eden's glance swept the stage and the pit below it. She hurried from the box, pausing only to summon one of the footmen standing in somewhat careless attention at the box's entrance.

She was accosted at almost every step as she descended to the ground floor, only the presence of the burly footman saving her from several unpleasant encounters. The pit was crowded with milling party-goers, all in mindless pursuit of their varied pleasures. She did not attempt to seek Zoë on the stage, for she was sure her sister and her partner were no longer interested in dancing. She remained in the pit, searching the perimeter for exit doors. As it happened, there were several of these, and Eden, summoning up all the fortitude she possessed, began on the first and proceeded around the room. Most of them exited onto the street, but several led into secluded alcoves, each of which was populated by a shadowed couple in some stage of undress. Eden was shaking with humiliation and disgust as she murmured disjointed apologies in the doorways of one chamber after another before slamming the doors shut again. She did not know how many times she had repeated this embarrassing procedure before she at least discovered her quarry.

In one of the smaller nooks, illuminated by a single candle, stood Zoë, locked in Belhaven's embrace. He had drawn her to him so tightly that Eden wondered if the girl was still breathing. His mouth was fastened on hers in a kiss that seemed as though it would pull her soul from her. Zoë moaned in response to the movement of Bel's hands on her back and reached up to clasp his hair with both hands, pulling him to her as though to absorb his straining passion into her very bones.

"Zoë!" cried Eden in horror. She was forced to repeat herself not once but twice before Zoë, with great reluctance, began to free herself. Belhaven, his breath coming in gasps, gazed at her, dazed and almost unbelieving.

"Sir!" Eden exclaimed. "You will have the goodness to unhand my sister."

Belhaven, however, did not release Zoë. He dropped one hand, but kept the other about her waist, his expression still one of bemusement.