Some Enchanted Evening (15 page)

Primly Millicent folded her hands in her lap. "Other women do so and find satisfaction."

Clarice snorted, a rude noise of disbelief she made no effort to soften. "No, they don't! You don't believe that any more than I do. You've seen those women, the maiden aunts, the unmarried daughters, who act as unpaid companions and governesses, fading into nothingness because they're not even human beings in the view of society. Pshaw, in the view of their family!"

At Clarice's plain speaking, Millicent's eyes rounded. "Well . . . but ... the Bible says resignation to fate —"

"The Bible is full of stories about people who take their lives in their own hands and make it what they wish." Clarice clenched her fists in illustration. "Look at Ruth, and Esther! They were strong women who took charge and created a new world. Why shouldn't you?"

Millicent looked alarmed. "I don't want to create a new world. My dreams aren't so grand as that."

Aha! Now we're getting somewhere
. "What are your dreams?"

"Oh . . . they're not important. Just what you might imagine . . . for an old maid."

Clarice smiled encouragingly and nodded.

Millicent confessed in a rush, "Nothing more than my own home with a man who loves me."

"And why shouldn't you have that?" Clarice asked warmly. "That's easily done."

"He's never even looked at me. I mean —"

"He?"

"He . . . you don't know him."

I will
"Will he be at the ball?"

"He's a friend of Robert's, so I suppose he might be."

Clarice bent a stern gaze at Millicent.

"He will," Millicent admitted, and surrendered with a sigh. "He's the earl of Tardew. Corey MacGown, the finest man ever to grace the shores of Scotland."

The lyricism of her reply told Clarice everything she needed to know. "He's handsome."

"With hair the color of sunshine and eyes as blue as turquoise stone. He rides and he hunts and he gambles and he dances" — Millicent's eyes grew wistful — "like a dream."

"You've danced with him, then?"

"Once. When I was seventeen. I stepped on his feet." Millicent ducked her head and mumbled, "I deserve no better for aspiring to such heights."

Clarice's temper rose. "Who told you that?"

"My father."

Clarice swallowed the hot words that rushed to her lips. She couldn't malign Millicent's father. At least, not to Millicent's face. So gently Clarice said, "Sometimes the people who love us most are blind to our attributes."

"Papa wasn't blind. He was righteous and upright."

"Perhaps so, but he didn't know anything about beauty." Clarice didn't give Millicent a chance to argue. "I'm going to help you with your hair and your gown, and you'll walk like a queen and smile like a siren, and Lord Tardew will be stricken with love."

Millicent laughed.

Clarice didn't. "I'm serious." Standing, she patted Millicent's shoulder. "Start thinking about it." Turning, she walked away.

She heard Millicent's feet strike the boards of the gazebo as she stood. "Princess Clarice, no!" The tone of her voice was easily as imperious as Clarice's own. When Clarice faced her, Millicent said, "I'm in earnest. Concentrate on Prudence. Help me with the ball. Above all, please be my friend. But don't try to fix my life. I'm content as I am."

Chapter Thirteen

A princess will catch more flies with honey than with vinegar.

— The Dowager Queen of Beaumontagne

The stables drowsed peacefully in the sunlight. The hostlers and stable boys moved about their business. Clarice hurried down the line of stalls, eager to see Blaize and pet his velvet nose once more. He demanded nothing from her except a firm hand on the reins and a loving rubdown after a good ride. He never pushed her away out of fear or brought her close to hurt her. Nothing made sense at this place, but Blaize would. Unlike the other male in this household, Blaize was a sensible beast.

But when she arrived at Blaize's stall, it was empty.

Panic leaped into her throat. Frantically she looked around for him, but the other horses didn't have his brilliant chestnut color or his noble lines.

Where was he?

Blaize hated men. If one of the hostlers tried to exercise Blaize, the horse would savage him. But underneath her reasonable worry was a stronger, less-logical fear — had
they
come to take him away from her?

She strode toward the paddocks, glancing from side to side, seeking explanation, seeking Blaize. Stepping outside, she blinked in the brightness of the sunshine — and saw the stallion, saddled and ready for her.

Hepburn, damn Hepburn, was holding the fractious horse and petting his nose.

Relief found its expression in fury. Obviously Hepburn wasn't hurt. Obviously Blaize was still safe. And obviously the two of them were getting along wonderfully well. She wished she had never wasted her time worrying about either of those stubborn males. Snatching the reins from Hepburn's hands, she said, "What do you think you're doing?"

"Waiting for you." He wore the same impassive face he always did, as if last night with its stolen kisses had never happened.

All right. She could be as offhand as he was. After all, what happened last night wasn't important. Illicit passion was just that — illicit, and not to be repeated. Most definitely not to be repeated.

"You're late," he said.

As if they'd made an assignation to ride together! Narrowing her eyes at him, she asked, "How did you know I would be at the stables?"

"Intuition."

Intuition
? No, this man had not a scrap of intuition in his soul.
He'd had her watched
. "I don't like your kind of intuition," she said. "Don't use your intuition on me again."

He bowed his head in seeming obedience. "As you wish."

But his cool capitulation heightened her unease. A man like Hepburn did not
obey
— unless he had a reason. And she feared to know that reason.

Glancing around at the riding yard, she saw that Hepburn's horse, Helios, stood waiting at a mounting block.

"I am not late." She batted Hepburn away when he tried to help her into her saddle. "I am precisely on time for my
private
ride on my own horse."

Shrugging as if bewildered by her ill humor, he turned away and swung easily into the saddle. "You don't like the morning. I would have never suspected."

She mounted her horse with just as much ease and skill. "What are you talking about?"

"Simply that you seemed the kind of woman to rise early and cheerfully. I see that's not true."

"I am perfectly cheerful!" She was perfectly ridiculous, and she knew it. But he irritated her like a burr under the saddle.

He considered her with false concern. "Did you omit breakfast? It's not healthy to ride on an empty stomach."

His concern had to be false. She deemed matters worse if it was real.

Forcing each word between her teeth, she said, "I did not skip breakfast."

"Then you have no excuse. Come along. Let's ride." He went off at a canter away from the stables and toward the wildness of his estate, where crags and valleys rose and fell in patches of rock and grass.

As it had the previous day, the road beckoned. She could ride into Freya Crags, gather up Amy, and ride away. She had collected a great deal of gold for her creams. They could go to Edinburgh and survive another winter.

Another winter without going home to Beaumontagne. And now ... a winter spent looking over her shoulder, fearing

Magistrate Fairfoot from England. Fearing Lord Hepburn, who would want his revenge on her for fleeing before his demands.

Was she a coward?

She didn't used to think so. Amy had called her foolhardy. But Hepburn frightened her, and in more ways than one. He frightened her, for he really didn't seem to see the folly of his plan. And he frightened her because he embraced her as if he poured his heart and soul into the pleasure of their kiss. And because it seemed when he kissed her, she would give him her heart and soul in exchange.

She told herself it was curiosity that drew her after him. Certainly not fear. Certainly not anticipation. Most definitely not desire for a man who was perhaps crazed and certainly far too arrogant to bear.

Catching up with him, she asked, "What happened to that man?"

"What man?"

"The one you went chasing last night."

He slowed. "He got away."

"How that must irk you, to have someone escape your net."

Slowly Hepburn turned his head. Deeply he looked into her eyes. "Yes. It does."

Her hands must have tightened on the reins, for Blaize skittered sideways. Quickly she righted him.

Had Hepburn just threatened her? She swallowed. Yes, of course he had. Last night he'd tried seduction. Today he would try intimidation.

Regrettably for him, she was not easily intimidated. He was only an earl. She was a princess, and she would be wise to remember that and act accordingly.

Grandmamma had warned that familiarity bred contempt. Here was the proof. But in every aspect of her life. Grandmamma had demonstrated how to halt such presumption.

With a toss of her jaunty hat, Clarice moved ahead of Hepburn, trusting to her posture, her riding, and her air to put him in his place, and all the while suspecting that the boundless arrogance of the man could not be undermined.

As they rode, they left the stables far behind, lost sight of the house, saw no one and nothing except the wild birds. Out there, the blue sky stretched from hill to peak, the grass waved in ripples on the breeze, and the wild roses bloomed in clusters of pink and white. This land was so different from her home in the Pyrenees —tamer, less mountainous — yet the rocks and wind sang with a ferocity that spoke to her soul.

A ferocity she saw echoed in Hepburn.

Beastly Hepburn, who couldn't leave her to enjoy the morning. As the path had widened and faded into nothingness, he caught up with her. "What a haughty expression. Your Highness. Have I somehow offended you?"

He offended her by breathing. "Last night you made demands I cannot fulfill. Demands that are inappropriate and impossible." Then, to make sure he understood she spoke of his ridiculous scheme and not of his polished kisses, she added, "I hope you understand that I can't pretend to be someone I've never met, especially not for reasons I don't comprehend."

Smoothly he asked, "So you
have
thought about my proposition?"

She pulled Blaize up. She turned to face Hepburn. In a slow, regal voice, she said, "I'm a princess." She raised her hand to stop any comment. "I know you don't believe me, but it is the truth, and I know my duty. I have an obligation to my station, and that obligation does not include disguising myself for the purpose of deceit and trickery."

His voice changed, became the lash of a whip. "It does if you have no choice."

He was driving her into a corner she couldn't escape, and she didn't want that. She had to talk her way out. Somehow, there must be a way. "If I did this thing, I'd be in disguise and couldn't come to the ball as myself. What lie would you tell your guests when I, the princess you've introduced to one and all, the princess you've virtually blackmailed into attending your ball, doesn't?"

"You'll attend." Helios moved forward a step. "As the princess."

In exasperation she said, "I thought you wanted me to wear a wig and a disguise."

"Both are easily discarded." Hepburn's gaze never wavered from her. "Nothing will be allowed to cast doubt on Senora Menendez's presence."

"Why does it matter so much that she be here? Is it so important that you impress people with her presence?"

"Of course." He spoke slowly, with impassive earnestness. "This is the first social function I've hosted since my return from the wars. The status of my family depends heavily on the success of this party."

She didn't believe him. "Liar."

He surveyed her and judged her. "You're intelligent."

She basked in his admiration — and that was unwise. She couldn't soften toward him and perform in his farce.
She couldn't
. If anyone recognized her, she would be lost.

Amy would be lost.

But Clarice knew how to play her refusal: with good humor, not defying him, not allowing him to see the depths of her desperation. And of course, if she could distract him with a little light flirtation, that was a good idea too. Not too much, of course — last night he'd kissed her with no provocation. She didn't want a repeat of that . . . wonderful passion. She recognized a precipice when she stood on one, and this was a precipice most high.

Moving close to him, she smiled, using her dimples to good advantage. In a soft, engaging tone, she said, "My lord, what you ask is impossible. If I were caught, I'd be ruined."

She saw no sign of softening. If anything, his jaw grew harder, his eyes colder. "You won't be caught. I won't allow it."