Enchanted by Your Kisses (3 page)

"If you like, I could have John bring the coach around."

"Leave?" Ariel asked, black brows lifting. "And miss all this?" She motioned to the heavily decorated room. Flowers dotted every available surface, huge vases of them; no doubt some poor gardener was lamenting the loss of his precious blooms. The scent of those petals filled the air, barely but not quite masking the smell of overheated bodies, scented gowns and the candle wax that spotted the floor and guests. "Perish the thought."

"Are you quite sure? It would be no problem for John to come back for Reggie and me."

Ariel turned to her longtime friend and shook her head. Powder from her wig
poofed
around her like mist from a bag of flour. Gracious, but she'd forgotten how annoying society's fashions could be. Her own silly wig itched her near to distraction, the single gray curl that rested near her neck making her long to scratch beneath it.

"I'm quite content to stand here, my dear," she answered.
Next to standing on a bed of hot coals, this would be my second favorite thing to do,
she silently added. "Now go. Reggie has been patient enough."

But her cousin still looked unconvinced. Ariel took matters into her own hands by spinning her around and giving her a gentle shove toward the bespectacled man waiting by the dance floor. He gave her a tight smile. Ariel returned it.

"Go," she repeated.

Phoebe went, though not without one last backward glance. Her gray wig looked askew, Ariel noted. Ah, well, the whole night felt askew.

Her cousin so wanted this night to be a success. Ariel should have known it would go differently.

She watched Phoebe go, sighing. She tried to tell herself she didn't look as conspicuous as a tick on the bum of a pig. Still, she took a small step back, the potted palm next to her affording her a bit of concealment, though not as much as she suddenly wished for. She should have stayed in the country. Truly, after the first few months of her exile she hadn't missed society one iota. Who would miss pasting black patches upon one's skin? Or drafty hooped skirts? Or so much powder in one's hair, one looked like a giant breast of chicken just as it was shoved into the baking oven? No. No. She'd not missed it. Not at all.

But it was hard to ignore the scandalized looks frequently shot her way. Still, somehow she managed to maintain the indifferent mask she'd practiced in the mirror. It wasn't fair. ‘
Twas
not as if it was she who had been at fault. She had not been the lying cad, the one who'd tried to seduce an innocent girl. And yet society did not care. They knew only that she'd been found in a compromising position with a man who was not her husband. That Ariel had believed with every innocent beat of her heart that Archie would, indeed, come up to scratch mattered not at all. He hadn't loved her. Hadn't even wanted to marry her afterward.

Fie on them all.

"For someone so fair you look remarkably blue-deviled, my lady."

Ariel started, turning toward the baritone voice. For a moment she found herself gawking, then that practice session in the mirror came to her rescue. She straightened. Truly, he was the most sinister-looking man she'd ever seen, yet handsome—fan-yourself-with-your-hand handsome. He had a scar across his cheek that ended near the corner of his left eye. He looked like a panther who'd been in one too many fights. Dressed all in black he was: black coat, black breeches, even a black diamond winking from his black cravat.

She blinked, telling herself to stare was rude.

Yes, but what a sight to stare at.

"Which really is a pity," he continued, his silver eyes glowing. Those eyes were remarkable, truly his best feature, a myriad colors all coalescing into one. "For such a pretty face should never have a frown upon it."

And Ariel went back to staring, for when he smiled, the scar drew tight across his face. The sight fascinated her, although she supposed some women would have swooned at the sight he made. He wore no wig. That was unusual, too. More unusual still was the way he wore his hair. The ink-black strands were pulled into a tail so tight that it stuck out behind him. No powder. No hair ribbon. Just a leather thong.

"I'm sorry, do I know you, sir?" It must have been her time in the country that made her feel suddenly gauche and tongue-tied as she waited for his response.

"No, my lady, I do not believe we've been introduced."

No, indeed, for she would remember such a man. He looked devilish with an odd half-smile lighting his face. Ariel swallowed, suddenly wanting to escape his presence. "Then I do beg your pardon." She curtsied. "We should not be conversing."

He threw back his head and laughed, the scar brought to ominous, disturbing attention. People stared, Ariel realized, and not just at her. She looked away, trying not to let him see how much he disturbed her with his strange face and all-black attire.

"Do you think, my lady, that talking to me will harm your reputation?"

She drew back, though she told herself not to react to his words. So he knew of her past? Well, she supposed the whole ballroom knew. Half of
London
probably, too. No reason to feel hurt.

"Funny, I did not think you so naive," he added.

She straightened her shoulders. "I will agree, sir, that my reputation is a bit tarnished, yet despite what they say, I
am
a lady. As such, I intend to act like one."

She moved to leave, glad to be departing from his disconcerting company. A hand on her arm stopped her. The contact jolted her, so much so that she found herself snapping, "I beg your pardon."

"Don't go."

She looked at his hand pointedly. There was a ring upon it. The stone was unusual. Green with what looked to be faint red spots upon its surface. But then he removed his hand. The ring dipped out of sight. She could still feel where he'd touched her through the silk of her lavender gown.

"I meant no offense. I merely wanted to make your acquaintance."

"Well, now you have made my acquaintance, so I bid you good-bye."

"No," he said quickly, his eyes pleading. "Do not go. I sense that you are as lonely for company as I am."

She stiffened. "I am not lonely."

"Ah, but I think you are."

Suddenly she didn't care that she risked hurting his feelings by being blunt. "I do not care for company right now, sir. Now, please leave before you cause even more of a stir."

"Have we caused a stir?" He looked around, then faced her again. "I see we have."

"How fortunate that your eyes work when it appears your ears do not."

He smiled, the unsettling half-smile returning again. "Yes, well, despite my scar I'm told my mouth works very well, too."

She felt jolted that he would so openly acknowledge his blemish. But if he didn't care, neither should she. "My mouth works, too, and it's telling you to go."

"But I don't want to leave. '
Tis
much more fun conversing with you."

"Very well, then I will leave." She turned on her heel.

He stopped her. Again. She glared. He released her.

"Are you afraid to talk to me?"

She lifted her chin. "I am scared of nothing, least of all you."

"Really, then I wonder why you looked about ready to flee the ballroom a moment ago."

"I was not going to flee."

"Poppycock, my lady. You were."

"And if I was, what concern is it of yours?"

He shrugged. "I merely wonder why you would ever give them the satisfaction of seeing their arrows hit true and why you would give them the added satisfaction of running away."

He saw too much. "What do you mean, sir?"

His lips tightened, his eyes turned challenging. "You know very well what I mean."

Yes, she did, but she would not acknowledge it to him for all the guineas in the world.

"Dance with me, my lady. Show them you're made of sterner stuff."

She blinked up at him. "Who are you?"

He didn't respond immediately, almost as if he weighed whether or not to answer. "I am Nathan
Trevain
."

Trevain
.
She stiffened. "Relative of the duke of
Davenport
?"

The right side of his face tipped in a sardonic smile, but then he bowed. "My uncle."

Which made him—

"His heir." He must have read the question in her eyes.

"Congratulations, sir. I hear that that particular dukedom is very profitable. You must be pleased to find yourself the future recipient of the title."

For the first time she thought she might have pricked him with her words. "I hardly give it a thought."

And something was not quite right about his accent. His last words had come out sounding a bit flat. "No? And here I thought all men counted their wealth before inheriting it."

"Not this man."

"
Mmm
mmm
. I'm sure you haven't."

"If you're trying to anger me, it will not work. My offer to dance with you still stands."

"And I refuse, or should I write my response down since you seem to be so hard of hearing?"

"If your penmanship is as pretty as you, you may do whatever you wish."

"Find me pen and paper, then, and I will do as you ask."

His smile returned again. "What? Leave your side so you can run off and hide? I think not, my lady."

Ooo
, but he frustrated her.

"Dance with me, Lady
D'Archer
. I will allow you to impress me with your handwriting later."

She looked up at him in disgruntlement. "Pity about that pen," she growled. "I do believe I could have stabbed you with it."

He drew back, as if he were startled that she dared to spar with him. She saw his eyes spark, a definite improvement over the coldness she'd glimpsed there. "Such bloodthirsty words."

"My hope was that they would make you go away," she huffed in exasperation.

"They will not," he said firmly. He leaned toward her. She resisted the urge to step back. Gracious, but he was handsome. And intimidating. "Within five minutes of your arrival I was being regaled with scandalous tales of your past. You are infamous, my lady."

"Then why, sir, are you standing here conversing with me?"

"Because I rather like to associate with infamous people. So much more interesting. And they do complement my devilish looks, don't you think?"

"And that is why you wish to dance with me?" she said, ignoring his question.

"No, I wish to dance with you because I think it a mistake for you to run away."

"I was not going to run away," she bit out, exasperated.

"Yes, you were."

She stared up at him unblinkingly. "You're not going to leave me alone, are you?"

"No."

She continued to stare. Bothersome man. But he had a point. Society would be scandalized if she deigned to dance at its posh soiree, especially after making its disapproval of her return so well known. And wouldn't that be lovely? For a change she would be behaving exactly in the manner they believed her capable of.