Some Enchanted Evening (30 page)

"From . . . me? Well . . . yes, of course, I'd be delighted." And guilty, for she knew very well the debutantes would be furious with her. But this was rather agreeable.

He bowed again and backed away, his gaze fixed not on her face but on her breasts. Good heavens, they hadn't grown overnight, had they? And more to the point, the dress wasn't cut that low, was it? She was tempted to look but managed to refrain.

In a fluster she decided she should go check with Cook to make sure the dinner was proceeding and would be ready at midnight. And on the way she could go and tuck a fichu into her neckline. But when she turned, she almost buried her nose in a high starched white collar and a perfectly tied cravat.

The earl of Tardew, Corey MacGown, stood before her. Tall, golden, blue-eyed, he had a perfect figure perfectly set off by his perfectly cut green breeches and a perfectly designed green-and-blue-striped jacket. As she slowly lifted her eyes to his, she realized he was staring at her as if he had never seen her before.

Her smile faltered. Her lips trembled. Then she heard a titter off to the side and knew they were being watched — not kindly either. Her chin came up. Her smile blossomed. In a composed voice she said, "Corey, how good to see you again. Oh, dear, I beg your pardon, I should call you Lord Tardew, but we've been friends for so long, I forgot."

"Friends?" he said stupidly. "Do I know you?"

His ignorance shocked her. Had he truly never observed her better than that? "Lady Millicent MacKenzie, at your service." She dipped into a curtsy. "
Now
do you remember?"

"Lady Millicent!" He placed his hand flat on his chest. "No, you were . . . that is, I scarcely recognized . . . that is, you look lovely tonight."

"I thank you." Robert had asked her to keep Corey busy, so although she wanted nothing so much as to lift her skirts and run into the safety of the kitchens, she put her hand on his arm and went to work on his sense of competition. "Will you do me a favor?"

"Anything!"

"Will you dance with Prue?" She smiled coyly and realized this thing called flirting was getting easier. "I have all these silly boys asking me to dance, and she's going to be angry if no one asks her."

Corey's large blue eyes narrowed as an idea struck him. An idea she had put into his head. "I have a better plan. Why don't I dance every dance with you, thus making it impossible for the lads to ask you? Then they'll have to ask Prue."

"How very clever you are, Corey." Millicent smiled up at him and distantly noted how easily she had manipulated him. "But you know that's impossible. If I dance every dance with you, that would be tantamount to declaring our betrothal."

"Perhaps that's not such a bad idea," Corey said.

He was suggesting a betrothal? He wanted to marry her? This was her dream! Why wasn't she fainting into his arms?

And the sensible part of Millicent — which was the largest part of Millicent — answered.
Because he didn't even recognize you ten minutes ago
. How she hated sensibility. It had such a way of tromping on one's illusions! Her breathing was remarkably calm as she fluttered her eyelashes. "I think it is."

"Lady Millicent." Lord Aldwinkle interrupted them with a bow. "I would love to escort you into dinner."

Corey shouldered him aside. "You're too late. I already asked her."

"You didn't!" Millicent wasn't going to have him think he could have her for the asking.

"I was going to," Corey declared.

Mr. Mallett joined them. "We all know where good intentions lead you, eh. Lord Tardew."

The gathering crowd chuckled while Corey knit his brow. "Where?"

Everyone treated him as if he were a wit, and he laughed along with them, but Millicent had the dreadful feeling that he didn't understand the jest. And if that were true, if Corey wasn't intelligent . . . what with her illusions shattering and the strain of being the center of attention, it was going to be a very long night.

"Look at that." Clarice watched Millicent while Robert watched Clarice. "She's the newest belle. I do adore my transformations, especially when they succeed so exceptionally."

Robert steered Clarice through the crowd, making sure everyone saw her and took note of the shimmering silver gown, the peacock feather, the golden hair. "You're very beautiful yourself."

She slanted a sideways glance at him, one that made him remember last night in a manner so explicit, he wondered in a moment of alarm if he would have to excuse himself until the physical result had subsided. Tersely he instructed, "Smile."

"I know how to do this," she answered in an undertone. "Trust me."

Trust her? He did. Inexplicably he trusted her. And he wanted her. God, how he wanted her. Wanted to pick her up, take her away from this ballroom where the gentlemen leered after her in reckless longing. Take her away from the danger she faced — the danger he had created for her.

Lord Plumbley stopped her and begged her for a dance, and Robert watched as she shook her head regretfully. "I fear I sprained my ankle riding today, and I can't dance at all. But I can sit and allow you to bring me punch." She smiled winsomely.

Lord Plumbley trembled with eagerness.

Robert wanted to thump him in his silly, quivering chin. Instead, with a curt nod he moved Clarice along. In an undertone he said, "He hasn't a ha'pence that isn't spoken for by the moneylenders."

"Unfortunate man." Clarice sounded compassionate, which was not what Robert had intended at all. "I shall have to see if I can find him an heiress. I mean ... if I remain in Scotland for a while."

Before Robert could reply, she tugged at his arm. "You're moving too quickly. We need to stroll along as if we haven't a care in the world."

She was right, of course, but he was torn between his worry for her and his need to free Waldemar. Everything was going according to plan, and she was so calm and smiling, she might not have understood that the whole weight of his charade rested on her. Yet she did understand, and her confidence made him proud and made him swear she had possessed his soul. Without her he feared he would slip back into the darkness that had been his prison for so long. When this was over he would do what was necessary to convince her that she must remain at MacKenzie Manor. She
had
to stay with him.

Mrs. Birkbeck stopped them and asked to be introduced to the princess, and when he had obliged, he stood back and watched Clarice charm her and Mrs. Symlen, then Lady White. In an undertone she spoke to Lady Lorraine — last minute advice, he supposed.

When Clarice rejoined him and they had moved away from the little group and into a space bare of guests, she asked quietly, "There is something I have wondered — why didn't you just tell me the reasons why you wanted me to perform this masquerade? They're noble reasons, and I'm proud to do my part in freeing Waldemar. Why the secrecy?"

He joined his gloved hands behind his back to keep from touching her as they walked. He looked bored, as if he were making everyday conversation, and he kept his voice low when he answered. "You were like everyone else. You had heard of Ogley's heroism. You wanted to believe it. And why not? Those feats he wrote about really happened. Would you have believed it was Waldemar, a criminal sentenced to hang, rather than Ogley, who performed them? And would you have believed me when I said Waldemar deserved to be given his freedom and a commendation that would allow him to go wherever he wished and be whatever he wanted?"

"Probably not," she admitted.

He looked around at the warm, crowded ballroom. At the clump of gentlemen around a decked-out Millicent, at the couples dancing the country dances, at the servants circling with glasses of champagne. "We've done our duty. Everyone here has seen you."

"Everyone except Colonel and Mrs. Ogley." Clarice turned her smooth, calm face to him. "There's no avoiding them, Robert. I must speak to him directly. If this charade is to work, he must have no doubt that I'm here in the ballroom."

Ogley would believe the princess wished to admire him. Ogley watched Clarice as if he had only to reach out and take her, and Robert had seen him act on his baser impulses before. Tragedy followed.

But not this time.

"Very well." Touching the middle of Clarice's back, Robert guided her toward the crowd around the colonel and Mrs. Ogley. Clarice moved closer to him as if for protection. Looking at her smiling profile, Robert knew he would do anything to protect her.

Waldemar had volunteered to make sure that Colonel Ogley did nothing to harm Clarice in her disguise as Carmen. After meeting her, Waldemar had begged to be allowed to escape without the necessary papers. But both Robert and Waldemar knew that if he did so, he could never return to England without taking the chance of being caught and prosecuted as a deserter — and hanged.

For all of his criminal background, Robert had come to know Waldemar as one of the greatest men he'd ever met, and he wanted Waldemar to have the honors due to him, to have a chance at a peaceful life or an adventurous life or even an honest life, if he wished it. Now, with every step, with every moment, they all moved closer to the denouement. Robert and Waldemar, Ogley and Clarice. They would be actors in the play Robert had written, and God help them all if they failed to convince Ogley that Senora Carmen Menendez had truly followed him from Spain armed with a thirst for vengeance and the tools to extract it.

"Mrs. Ogley, how lovely you look tonight." Robert bowed to the thin, flat-chested, plain woman clinging to Ogley's arm.

"Thank you, my lord. What a magnificent ball you've given in honor of Oscar." Mrs. Ogley's wide eyes glowed.

"It's a privilege to pay tribute to such a hero." Robert stopped one of the circling footmen. "Your glass is almost empty, Colonel Ogley. Have another."

"Thank you." Ogley grinned into Robert's face as if relishing Robert's disdain.

"I understand there'll be fireworks later," Mrs. Ogley said.

"So there will," Robert replied.

"Lord Hepburn says that nothing is too great to celebrate Colonel Ogley's heroism." Clarice lavished admiration from her amber eyes on Ogley.

With heavy gallantry Colonel Ogley said, "Then perhaps you'll do this hero the honor of performing the next quadrille with me."

"I shouldn't." Clarice dithered when Robert knew damned good and well she should refuse. "I twisted my ankle today, but . . . this is the only opportunity I shall ever have of dancing with a hero. Yes, Colonel Ogley, I will be delighted to dance with you."

Robert made an aborted move to stop them. She was right. If Ogley danced with her, that would reinforce his belief, when he confronted Carmen, that Clarice was in the ballroom. But he didn't want Ogley to touch her, not even her hand.

Ogley knew it, too, and cast a triumphant glance at Robert as he led her onto the floor to join the set that was forming.

The fawning crowd that surrounded the hero moved away to watch.

Mrs. Ogley said, "What a lovely couple they make."

With a start Robert realized he should ask her to dance — and he hadn't danced since his return from the Peninsula.

But before he could, Mrs. Ogley said,

"Oscar loves to dance, and I'm dreadful at it. I can't remember the moves, and I have no sense of rhythm. He shows great patience with me, but I'm hopeless."

"I must confess, I'm hopeless also." Furthermore, Robert wanted to stay right there and keep an eye on Ogley. Ogley, who made Clarice uncomfortable with his lascivious interest.

But after a moment Robert realized a good host would be making conversation. If only he remembered how. Looking sideways at Mrs. Ogley, he saw her examining him with open curiosity.

"You don't look like a spoiled young lord," she pronounced.

"Don't I?" She was frank, franker than he had expected.

"Not at all, and that was what Oscar called you. Was he jealous?" When Robert didn't answer right away, she continued. "Because I know he gets his little megrims about people, and I think you're one of them. His manservant, Waldemar, is another."

"Oh?" Robert wondered if Ogley had suggested she find out what she could from him . . . but no. Ogley would never trust a woman with such a mission. So what was her objective?

"When we get done with this victory tour and retire to our country estates, I'm going to urge Oscar to get a new manservant."

Jolted, Robert asked, "Really? Why?" They were retiring to their country estates? He wondered if Ogley knew about that.

Choosing her words with care, she said, "Not everyone realizes it, but Oscar can be petty, and I would rather he didn't have the chance to be so."

She was smarter than Robert had realized, wiser about her husband, and he didn't suppose it was mere coincidence that she confessed these things to him. She knew more than she let on — to him, and most definitely to Ogley. "What will happen to Waldemar?"

"I don't care. I think if ill treated, he could be dangerous, so I suppose Ogley will have him sent to another regiment. Oh, dear!" She stared wide-eyed at the dance floor. "Princess Clarice is hurt."

"Oh!" Robert clearly heard Clarice's exclamation. "Oh, I'm so sorry, Colonel Ogley, but I can't continue."

The lines of the country dance faltered as she limped away on Ogley's arm, then reformed with new vigor amid a wave of sympathetic murmurs.

"Dear, dear." Mrs. Ogley hurried forward, Robert at her side, and met Ogley and Clarice as they exited the dance floor. "Your Highness, can I help you?"

"I feel so foolish, making a scene." Clarice leaned heavily on Ogley's arm and limped as if she were in pain. "Could I prevail upon you to take me to a quiet alcove where I could recover in solitude?"

Robert recognized a cue when he heard one. "This way, Your Highness. In the window seat you'll be able to put your ankle up, pull the curtains, yet peek out and watch the dancing if you wish."

"That's grand." Clarice smiled at him, her lush lower lip quivering bravely. "Thank you so much, my lord."

"I'll get you some punch." He turned away before he gave in to the inappropriate desire to laugh.

How did she do that? Take a moment fraught with tension and transform it into a reason for merriment. And how did she make him want her when his whole being should be concentrated on making this operation run smoothly? He didn't understand himself anymore, and he was almost grateful to the people who stopped him to question him about Princess Clarice's well-being. They distracted and annoyed him enough so that by the time he returned with the punch and some biscuits, he could effectively place the plate in Clarice's hands with crisp disinterest.

She accepted it and waved him and the hovering Mrs. Ogley away. "Go on and enjoy yourselves. I'll be fine here by myself for a while. Later I'll slip away to beg a cold compress for my ankle."

Colonel Ogley stood outside the alcove, looking eager to get away from any hint of injury and back to the adulation he enjoyed so much, and when Mrs. Ogley tucked her hand in his arm, he led her away without a backward glance.

Robert fussed with the curtain for a moment, closing it almost all the way. "Well done," he said. "Are you ready for the next act?"

Clarice took an audible breath, and when she answered, her voice was low, husky, and tinged with a strong Spanish accent. "I am ready, my lord. I will not fail you."

Chapter Twenty-five

Pretty is as pretty does, but ugly goes right t' the bone.

— The Old Men of Freya Crags

If Ogley hadn't been watching Hepburn, he wouldn't have seen Waldemar sneak into the ballroom, sidle up to his old commander, and speak with an animation Ogley thought he had beaten out of his lowborn aide. This looked ominous, especially when Hepburn nodded abruptly and left the party with Waldemar at his side.

Ogley hadn't forgotten the sighting of Carmen, and he didn't really believe he was having delusions. She was there. For some reason the bitch was there and Hepburn knew about it. Ogley should have suspected this. Hepburn was jealous, wanting the honors Ogley had taken as his own, so he and Waldemar were planning something.

Well. They couldn't put one over on Oscar Ogley. He would stop them before they had a chance to bring their scheme to fruition.

And if it wasn't her, if the occasional twinge of guilt led him to see Carmen where she wasn't . . . then undoubtedly they were up to a different kind of conspiracy. An intelligent man like himself could always profit from other men's mischief.