Some Enchanted Evening (8 page)

"I'm sure she does too."

Now he stared at her as if he heard the irony, and puzzled over it. No doubt he would dismiss her comment as normal female blather while his sister withered away into the nothingness of cowed spinster-hood.

Clarice would have to do something about that. Millicent needed help, and Clarice needed to stay away from Lord Hepburn.

Because when all was said and done, he made her uncomfortable in a way no man had ever done before, and she suspected he had his ways of enforcing his will that would make her even more uncomfortable.

Yet when she braced herself and faced him, he said only, "Come." Turning, he rode up the shady, hilly tree-lined drive toward the house.

Clarice stared at his disappearing back, then looked around at the empty road. She could ride away right now. Hepburn was a sophisticated man. He wouldn't give chase . . and even if she had overestimated his decorum, she and Blaize could outride him and that long-legged gelding he called Helios.

Probably.

But . . . she had Amy in Freya Crags, a vast need for cash, and the prospect of a robust salary if she would visit MacKenzie Manor. Hepburn was not a villain; nothing Amy had said gave her any such indication. Even if he gave Clarice a few rough moments, if he followed through on the promise in his blue eyes . . . well, she could handle him. She specialized in taking care of herself.

She turned Blaize's nose toward the drive and stopped.

Yet, obeying him now, following him now, made her feel much like a butterfly willfully fluttering into a very sticky web.

If she proceeded with this project, she would be even more careful than usual. She would be helpful to Millicent and sell her wares to the guests, immediately receiving their payment. If Hepburn stepped one toe out of line, she would tell a fib about assisting Mistress Dubb with her face cream, ride into Freya Crags, pick up Amy, and take flight. That was her plan, and it was a good one.

Tight-lipped and mindful, she started after him.

And as she crossed through the gates, she suffered an almost preternatural jolt, as if she'd traversed a threshold and she could never return to the place where she'd been before.

She almost turned back. She almost did. But the thought of trying to survive the coming winter here in Scotland without enough food or coal, and the magistrate in England who would hang her if he could, drove her on. And always at the back of her mind Beaumontagne shimmered like a silver vision, drawing her forward.

Shaking off her trepidation, she rode into a half-tamed wilderness where giant oaks shivered in the spring breeze, and azaleas bloomed in clumps of blazing pink and virgin white. The scent of pine drifted through the air, and the spicy perfume lifted Clarice's spirits and put heart into her.

She'd done more difficult things. If all went well, if Hepburn kept his promise of payment, she and Amy would be free to take passage back to Beaumontagne, slip into the country and find their grandmother, and help her overthrow the last rebels. Perhaps Grandmamma was growing old and feeble, and that was why she hadn't sent word for them to return. Perhaps she was trying to protect them from harm. She didn't realize the fragile girl-children she had sent away had grown into adults capable of so much more than needlework and dancing. This ordeal with Hepburn was one of the final challenges Clarice would have to overcome, she was sure of it.

When she caught up with him at the top of the rise, she had, once more, become a courageous, rational woman.

His black leather gauntlet pointed the way. "There it is. MacKenzie Manor."

Seen from the main road, the four-story monolith had made her draw back. Seen across a sweep of lawn, through lacy-leafed trees, the gray stone rose abruptly from the soft green grass. Harsh and imposing, it seemed less of a home and more of an edifice designed to awe and humble those who visited the mighty Hepburns. No ivy softened its harsh facade, no flowers grew along its foundation no portico welcomed visitors. MacKenzie Manor eloquently spoke of wealth and prestige but said nothing of home and the gentle arts.

Once again the sense of being trapped overwhelmed her, and she glanced at the man beside her.

His appearance was as stark as his home.

The sunshine dappled his visage, yet the gently moving flickers of light and shadow didn't soften the harsh, jutting contours of bone against skin. His hair had been tossed back from his face by the ride, dipped into a stark widow's peak, and framed his face without alleviating the austerity of his features. The ripple and redness of a burn scarred one side of his forehead, a burn that must have caused much agony.

Yet he seemed not to require compassion for himself, and nothing about him hinted at warmth or pride in MacKenzie Manor. Instead, he watched it with the cool proprietary air of one who possessed without affection.

Then he turned that same assessing gaze on her.

She should have run. She should have escaped down the road and never looked back.

Instead, now she couldn't tear her gaze away from his.

All her life she had watched as other people suffered from unfortunate and precipitous passions and wondered at them, for she was a princess. She practiced control with every motion, every smile, every emotion. Passion was for lesser beings, and she had always believed her breeding and her training provided immunity.

Yet now, as she faced this man, she recognized the stirrings of disorderly infatuation.

His voice was low, reasonable, and civilized. "Please, ma'am, be assured I hold you in the deepest respect. Yet I know that men are drawn to you, and I imagine a good number of them see no reason to restrain their baser desires. Since you're not protected by marriage or family, they believe you are fair game.”

She nodded once stiffly. "A refined way of putting it."

"I have a great need for your services to entertain and ... ah ... make the ladies handsome, and I suspect you'll find this ball a fertile and profitable endeavor,"

Ah, he
did
know what to say to entice her! "Yes, thank you, my lord. I have decided to remain and do as you require — as long as I may sell my creams to your guests." For while he might promise to pay her to stay, she knew better than to trust an aristocrat's generosity.

"Good. Good." He smiled that amused, patronizing smile that revealed he had never doubted she would yield to his will. "You may call me Robert."

Her hackles rose, and she answered without thinking what sort of restitution he would demand. "
You
may call me Your Highness."

"A privilege granted to few, I'm sure." With mocking deliberation he added, "Your Highness."

His tone made her all too aware she had stooped to a condescension as great as his. She, who was usually so glib, had been inept and autocratic.

His fault.

Then she heard her grandmother's voice in her head telling her that a true princess always took responsibility for her actions, and Clarice laid the blame where it belonged. On herself.
I shall have to try harder
. A lump of pride formed in her throat. "Actually, since I'm not in my own country, I encourage people to call me, as you have,
ma'am
, or Princess Clarice, or even
my lady
." Never had words been harder to force out.

Dreadful! That sounded even worse than before.

But he pretended to be grateful when all the while his eyes glinted in that cynical manner that made her want to give in to yet another ungracious response — and slap him. "Thank you, but if you're to attend my ball as a princess of the realm, Whatever realm that is —"

She gritted her teeth.

"— and lend me countenance, I feel I must give you the full weight of respect for your office." Once again he smiled, a smile as sharp as a rapier. "Your Highness."

She had known him only a few hours, but already she had come to hate that smile. "I
cannot
attend your ball."

He ignored her as if she'd never even spoken. "In return for your services, I promise that you'll be protected from those ignominious men, your reputation will be polished to a shine, and when all is said and done, you'll have enough money to immediately return to your 'kingdom,' should you desire, or stay here and live well for the rest of your life."

He must be a devil to correctly read her desires. But she had to object. "To attend the ball given for so great a hero as Colonel Ogley would bring on me an attention that could be dangerous."

"I'll keep you safe."

That voice. Those words. This proved he was a devil, for all these last lonely, difficult years, she'd dreamed of a man saying that to her.

Worse, she must be a fool, for she believed him. "You're promising a great deal."

"I am. I always keep my promises." Leaning far out of the saddle, he took her hand and squeezed it. "But in return you'll do as I require."

"Before I agree to that, you'll tell me everything you wish me to do."

"When the time comes." Lifting her hand to his mouth, he kissed her glove.

That circumspect salute through a covering of leather should have felt less seductive than the kiss he had earlier pressed on her bare hand.

If anything, it was
more
seductive. It brought to mind a whole scope of dissipations involving the slow strip of her leather glove from her fingers. The removal of all her clothes from her body. His lips moving everywhere on pale skin and sensitive nerves.

She yanked her hand back.

She didn't comprehend why he wanted her at his ball, but she did know he desired her body, and demonstrated his need boldly. He watched her with those glorious blue eyes and managed to convey both aggression and passion. And she . . . she wanted both to skitter away and move closer.

The man was a sensual weapon.

"Please tell me what it is you want of me." That was too blunt and sounded vaguely . . . well, it sounded like a question a courtesan would ask.

He knew it too, for he smiled at her. Smiled in a way that had her once again think about the open road and how easy it would be to ride away and never look back.

"It would be easier if you spelled out the duties you want me to assume as your resident beauty maker."

He still smiled and, of course, answered evasively. "For now you have only to be kind to Millicent, be patient with Prudence, and handle my relatives, who are descending on us even as we speak. Keep the girl-cousins entertained. There are scores of them, and when the lasses giggle in that high-pitched tone, they can shatter glass."

"You aren't being completely honest with me."

"When the time comes, I'll let you know what I require of you." He looked deep into her eyes, so deep she wanted to protect the dim, almost forgotten corners of her soul. Softly he repeated, "When the time comes."

Chapter Eight

Never smile. It causes smile lines,

— The Dowager Queen of Beaumontagne

Hepburn hadn't been exaggerating. He did have a lot of girl-cousins. And girlfriends of those cousins, and girlfriends of his sisters, and kin so distantly related, the kinship couldn't be explained with a single breath. All of those girls had mothers, and all of them had arrived that afternoon to prepare for the ball honoring the renowned hero Colonel Ogley — and to prepare for their debuts.

Wisely their fathers and brothers had gone fishing.

Clarice sat a little apart, sipped her tea, and gazed across the huge dressing room filled with ruffles and bows, beads and feathers. She listened to the clink of cups and the sound of female conversation, watched as the girls pounced on the teatime sandwiches and cakes, and found herself relaxing about Hepburn's intentions. Because he really did need her to entertain, assist, and organize.

Hepburn's sister Prudence was useless. A pretty, curvaceous blonde of seventeen, she fit right into the giggling, shrieking crowd of young women.

Nor was Millicent of any aid. Since the girls and their mothers saw no reason to respect a plain, unassuming, and unmarried lady, they ran rampant over Millicent's suggestions and pleas.

Now Clarice watched as Millicent stepped over mounds of shoes, separated two of the girls who were loudly disputing the ownership of a bonnet, and pressed a handkerchief into Miss Symlen's hand so she could wipe her incipient tears. While she paused, Lady Blackston roundly informed her that the menus needed to be planned this minute. This minute!

When at last Millicent arrived at the place where Clarice sat a little apart from the others, Clarice said in a mock-haughty tone, "You have been remarkably lax about planning this ball. It's a good thing your relatives have descended on you en masse or you would never have it done in time."

Millicent sagged against the wall and laughed hollowly. "But Lady Blackston's right. I should have the dinner planned by now."

"Silly you, not to realize they would arrive four days early." Clarice pressed a cup of tea into Millicent's hands and a plate filled with lemon cakes. "Now sit down and drink your tea."

Millicent dropped into the chair beside her and laughed a little more naturally. "Yes. Silly me."