Nicola Cornick, Margaret McPhee, et al (33 page)

With a small cry of frustration, she ducked her head and plunged
resolutely into the crowd.

Standing beside one of the open doors to the gardens, James once
again scanned the crowded ballroom. He’d heard that nearly two thousand guests
had come here to the embassy tonight, to honour Admiral Nelson’s fortieth birthday,
and to celebrate their victory at Aboukir Bay.

On a makeshift dais at one end of the room sat His Majesty King
Ferdinand and his wife Queen Maria. Beside them stood Sir William and Lady
Hamilton, and in a smaller armchair nearby sat Admiral Nelson, by special
favour of King Ferdinand. The admiral looked happy and pleased, and why
shouldn’t he? Pinned to his breast was some new honour from His Majesty, and
around his neck hung the rare ancient medallion given to him earlier by Sir
William. The room was draped with banners singing the praises of Nelson and the
Nile, and every lady wore ribbons embroidered with twin Ns in his honour. This
was even more remarkable considering how the majority of the guests were
Neapolitans and, beyond James’s fellow officers, precious few English faces
were to be found in the ballroom’s noisy crush.

Which, for James, made Abigail Layton’s absence all the more
obvious.

He’d been seated with a group of Neapolitan officers and their
wives at dinner, whose conversation had been limited by their determined
efforts to speak English. He’d searched the dining room in vain for Abigail
then, too, though she’d asked him that very afternoon to look for her. She’d
been so charmingly shy about the invitation that he’d never doubted she’d be
here, but it was now nearly ten, and he’d yet to find her. Could she have
changed her mind or, worse, been swept away by some Neapolitan gallant?

Again James scanned the room. His eyesight from the masthead had
always been as keen at spotting distant ships as any foretopman, yet tonight he
couldn’t seem to spot a sensible young woman dressed in mourning in this gaudy,
spangled crowd and—

‘Lieutenant—my lord. My lord—here!’

He’d know her voice anywhere, and eagerly he turned. But instead
of the sombre, black-clad Miss Layton he’d been working beside all this week,
he found someone else so radically, radiantly different that it knocked him
speechless.

She was dressed in a silvery pale high-waisted gown so delicate
and insubstantial that it seemed to drift around her like a scrap of morning
mist. The gown had tiny sleeves and a low neckline that revealed more than it
hid—more lovely creamy skin than he’d ever dared imagine. She wore no jewels or
ornaments beyond the little gold heart at her throat, nor did she need any. But
threaded through her hair—such hair as he’d never imagined she possessed,
either—dark chestnut hair piled high on the back of her head in fat, shining
curls—was a thin blue ribbon the exact colour of her eyes.

She laughed with delight. ‘Did I truly surprise you?’

‘How could you not?’ he asked, still unable to look away. ‘It’s
not that you were plain before, but I’d never guessed you could be—well, like
this.’

She laughed again, a sound he knew he’d never weary of hearing,
and other men turned towards her with an eagerness that James didn’t care for.
Swiftly he reached for her hand, claiming her as his, and without hesitation
her fingers curled into his.

‘It’s all Lady Hamilton’s doing, you know,’ she said. ‘She told
me it was time I put aside my mourning, and though I hesitated I knew Father
would have wished it, too.’

‘How would he not?’ He still couldn’t believe the change in
her—the new lightness that seemed to glow from her face. Yet still she remained
the same Abigail whose spirit and intelligence had already charmed him beyond
measure as they’d worked together.

The Abigail that he’d now have to send away, or else put her life
in jeopardy.

‘But you like it as well, don’t you?’ she asked, too sincere and
anxious ever to be a ballroom coquette. ‘I’ve never had a gown as fine as this.
It’s only because of Lady Hamilton that I have one now. But I wanted to look as
if—as if I were worthy of being with you tonight.’

‘Oh, Abigail,’ he said softly, smiling. ‘You’re so beautiful. How
could I not want you always at my side?’

‘I?’ Her laughter faded, her eyes filling with amazement. ‘You
cannot truly believe that, James, can you? It’s a pretty sentiment, yes, but
surely—’

‘I believe it,’ he said firmly, ‘because it is true.’

‘Oh, my,’ she said, her smile wobbling. ‘That is—Oh, excuse me,
Signor
!
Mi scusi!
’

The man who’d jostled into her back bowed and leered, his face
flushed with drink and his voice thick.
‘Ah, ma bellissima donna. Sei piu
bella d’un angelo!’

‘Shove off,
signor
,’ growled James possessively, drawing
Abigail closer and slipping his arm around her waist for good measure. ‘This
lady is with me. Come, Miss Layton. This is our dance.’

Before the man could react, James pulled Abigail away, guiding
her before him through the crowd.

‘What did that man call me?’ Abigail asked, twisting around to
look back. ‘He was so fuddled, I couldn’t make out his words. What did he say?’

‘He said you were beautiful—more beautiful than an angel,’ James
said grimly. There were certain Italian phrases that every English sailor had
learned; that was one of the few that were civil. ‘He’d no right saying that to
you. That is, you
are
more beautiful than an angel, but I’d rather I
were the only one saying it to you. Come, I’ll claim that dance now.’

‘Oh, James, no,’ she said, stopping abruptly. ‘Please.’

‘Why in blazes not?’ he asked, still irritated with the man who’d
bumped her. ‘You’re always telling me about Christmas dances.’

Her eyes were wide, almost panicking, for no reason that he could
see. ‘
You
spoke of those dances, James. I never did.’

‘Well, then, I’ll give you something to speak of now.’ He might
dread dinners, but his whole family loved to dance, and there was precious
little chance for officers at sea. He’d been looking forward to dancing with
Abigail, to guiding her through the steps and moving together in time to the
music. ‘Hah—they’re calling an
allemande
.’

‘Please, no.’ She pulled her hand away from his, folding her arms
for good measure. ‘I’m sorry, but I—I cannot dance, James. Father thought
dancing was idle foolishness, a waste of time and money. I never learned how,
and I’ve no wish to blunder in such fine company, to shame you as well as myself.’

Without a word, he reclaimed her hand and led her not towards the
gathering dancers but back through the garden doors to the courtyard, and then
to the farthest corner away from the ballroom, near the balustrade. The evening
was warm—the air tangy with the scent of the sea, the sky filled with stars and
a quarter-moon—and while other couples lingered in the shadows, they had this
side of the courtyard to themselves.

‘I told you, James, I’m sorry,’ she said again, turning
defensive. ‘But I’ll not make a fool of myself trying to do something I can’t
or—’

‘Hush,’ he said. ‘Do you really believe I’d expect you to do
that?’

Her chin rose. ‘I don’t know what you’d do.’

‘Oh, yes, you do,’ he said. ‘Leastways you should, considering
all the time we’ve spent together. I wanted to dance with you, not shame you.
We can do that well enough out here, where we can still hear the music.
Here—stand before me.’

‘James, please!’

‘Stand there, Abigail, and listen to the music,’ he said. ‘I’ll
count to four, and on four we’ll step to the right. Follow me, and the music.’

She let him take both her hands, yet still fussed with
uncertainty. ‘James, I’ve no gift for this, and I’ve never—’

‘Any lady who’s clever enough to parse Greek and Latin like you
can dance an
allemande
,’ he said. ‘Steady, now. One, two, three,
step
.’

‘James, please,’ she protested, yet she stepped to the side as
he’d ordered. She stumbled on the next two steps, unable to follow his lead,
then tried to pull away. ‘You see—I told you. I am hopeless,
hopeless
!’

‘No, you’re not,’ he said calmly. ‘Not at all. It’s not that
hard, truly. Stop looking at your feet, and look at me instead.’

‘Look at
you
?’ she repeated crossly, staring at him with
such a fixed look of concentration it was a wonder she could move at all. But
this time she mirrored his steps, and when they repeated the pattern again she
could do it without hesitation.

‘There you are,’ he said. ‘I knew you could do it. Now, bend
forward when you turn, there, and slip beneath my arm. Duck, else you’ll strike
your head.’

She followed him with surprising grace—surprising to her as well
as to him.

‘Hah, not so clumsy after all, am I?’ she declared, and followed
the music to repeat the turn. Her eyes were bright now, challenging him. ‘It
is
easy, just as you say.’

He laughed at her sudden confidence. ‘It’s easy because you have
such an excellent partner,’ he teased. ‘You wouldn’t feel the same if I had to
hand you to the next gentleman in our set. One of those rascally Neapolitan
gentlemen, say.’

‘Gracious, no,’ she said quickly. ‘But I’m doing well enough for
a ball like one of your mother’s at Christmas, aren’t I?’

‘Oh, aye, more than well enough,’ he said, but her unwitting
comment struck hard at his merriment. Neither of them would be attending his
mother’s Christmas ball. Not this year, or likely any other, either. If he
followed his conscience, he should be telling her what the admiral had said
about the French. He should be telling her to book passage on any ship that she
could, bound for England. He should be sending her home as soon as was
possible, away from the danger and the war.

And, of course, from him.

‘The guests at the Christmas balls are generally so far into
their cups that they’d never venture anything so nimble as this,’ he said
instead, forcing his tone to remain light. ‘Jigs and hornpipes and other
country dances: those are the order of the day.’

‘You’ll have to teach me those next,’ she said, still
concentrating on her steps. ‘Lady Hamilton has promised another ball at
Christmas, and I wish to be ready. Though I imagine it shall be a great deal
more lavish. Everything in Naples is.’

Tell her she must leave before then. She’s given you the
perfect chance to explain. Tell her, for her own good. You’ll be a selfish
bastard if you don’t.

‘Everything that Lady Hamilton oversees in Naples is always more
lavish than any place else on earth.’ He
was
a selfish bastard—and,
worse, a coward. But he couldn’t give her up, nor the peace she brought to him.
Not yet. ‘She’s second only to the Queen here.’

Unaware of his thoughts, Abigail laughed, her face bathed in
moonlight. Suddenly the music stopped, the dance done, and she stopped, too.

‘I curtsey now, yes?’ she asked breathlessly, dipping before him
with her skirts spread, and unwittingly granting him a glimpse of the sweet
curves of her breasts above the gown’s low-cut neckline. ‘Thank you for that
dance, my lord.’

‘And I thank you, Miss Layton,’ he said, making an elegant leg.
‘I’m honoured to have been your tutor.’

‘Are you?’ Her smile faded and her expression turned serious, her
lips parting in an unconscious invitation that he was finding increasingly hard
to resist.

‘I am,’ he said, lowering his voice. ‘And if we truly were at a
Christmas ball by now I’d be contriving a way to coax you beneath the mistletoe.’

‘But it’s not Christmas.’ Her eyes widened, more with interest
than wariness, and she didn’t draw back. ‘And there is no mistletoe in Naples.’

‘Then I must jury-rig matters to suit, like any good sailor worth
his salt.’ He shrugged out of his dress coat and settled it around her
shoulders. ‘There now, Abigail. Don’t want you catching a chill. The snow here
in Devon is fierce this year.’

At once she understood his game. She grinned, and feigned a
shiver, drawing his coat more closely about her shoulders like an oversized
cape. ‘The snow’s so deep by now, James, that the roads will surely be closed.
We’ll be forced to spend Christmas here by the fire.’

‘I’d say we’ve no choice.’ He’d already decided he was going to
kiss her, but he couldn’t tell if she’d realised it, too. He reached up and
snapped a tiny sprig of pine from the tree growing in the courtyard, and held
it over her head. ‘At least we have plenty of mistletoe.’

She looked up at the sprig, then at him. ‘Should I wish you joy
of the season, my lord?’ she asked in a husky whisper. ‘A merry Christmas?’

‘The merriest,’ he said. ‘That’s what mistletoe’s for, you know.’

‘I’ve heard that, yes,’ she said softly, and as she smiled she
licked her lips.

Just as he read the sky for the weather, he’d take that to mean
she was willing—or at least that she wouldn’t object. Before he thought about
it overmuch, he pulled her close and kissed her.

She was soft and warm and willing, curling her arm around the
back of his neck to steady herself. The substitute sprig of mistletoe dropped
from his fingers as he drew her closer, and neither of them noticed or cared.
When he slanted his mouth to deepen the kiss, she parted her lips for him with
a fluttering little sigh and an eagerness that matched his own. He’d never
kissed another woman like this, but then he’d never met a woman as desirable as
Abigail Layton, either.

‘Oh, my, James,’ she whispered, breathless when at last he broke
the kiss. ‘When you said you wished to keep me warm against the snows, I’d no
notion
that
was what you meant.’

He laughed. ‘Not at all, Abbie.’

‘Abbie?’ she repeated, her blissfully dazed expression doubtless
a reflection of his own face. ‘No gentleman’s ever called me Abbie.’