The reluctant cavalier (2 page)

"Good heavens, Parsifal! You do look just like the portrait of Great-great-grandfather in the Long Gallery." She shuddered. "I do not think that Mama should see you, for she would have the vapors immediately. You know how she never liked that portrait, and she never got along with Grandfather, who was just like him."

Parsifal grinned, half inclined to find his mother if only to see if she truly would succumb to the vapors. But Caroline glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece, and he decided against it.

"I think you are right. Shall we go?" he said.

Caroline nodded, then gave him a mischievous grin. "I think there is one thing missing, however." She pulled her hand from behind her back and presented him with a rose. Parsifal gazed at it in horror.

"Good God. That's my prize Bonita rose! Do you know how long it took me to breed that one?"

His sister lifted her chin defiantly. "I thought you needed a distinctive accent for your costume. It is quite dull, otherwise."

It was too late. He could not put it back on the bush, of course. He gazed angrily at Caroline as she pinned the white flower to his coat, and was pleased that she looked uneasy.

"If.. . you ...
ever
take one of my roses again, I will
have your head,"
he whispered, his voice low and menacing.

Caroline started, and stepped backward. She laughed nervously.

"I vow, Parsifal, you take on the role well! You sound exactly like Grandfather used to. I am surprised you do not go to masquerades more often."

Instantly, he felt sorry that he had frightened her, even a little. He smiled at her reassuringly and held out his arm. Caroline laughed again, a relieved sound, and put her hand upon it as they moved forward. A small tap, tap upon Parsifal's leg made him stop, however.

"What is it?" Caroline asked.

Parsifal frowned, then felt along the lower edge of his jacket. "There is something ... ah!" He pulled up the jacket edge so that he could see the shape his fingers found more clearly. It was round and felt hollow in the middle. "Odd. It seems to be a ring of some sort, sewn into the hem."

"Really?" His sister peered at it, then her eyes widened in excitement. "I wonder why it was? And what it looks like? Oh, do call a maid so she can take it out for you!"

A distant clock tolled the hour, however, and her brother shook his head. "No, later. It will make us late for the masquerade if we wait for her to unsew and sew the hem again."

Caroline pouted briefly. "Oh, very well! But you must tell me as soon as you take it out."

An odd reluctance made Parsifal hesitate, and his sister raised her brows. "We'll see," he said.

She stared at him a moment, then shrugged. "Oh, as you wish. But I shall remind you again and again until you tell me."

"Remind? It sounds more like nagging to me," retorted Parsifal.

Caroline's brows raised again, this time in clear surprise. "Hmph!" she said, and flounced away from him.

Miss Annabella Smith was not certain that she should have come to Lady Laughton's masquerade. Her parents knew the Duke of Stratton had shown interest in her, and he was quite strict in his notions. He would never countenance a young lady going to a masquerade. Her life had become very restricted since he had come to her parents' notice, and she
did
wish for some freedom. So when her dear school friend Corisande suggested that she go to the masquerade, she managed to slip out with her maid—only for a few hours, of course.

But now that she was here, she recognized no one, and did not see her friend at all. She looked down at her costume, that of an elf, all in green and silver, and fingered the silken cloth nervously.

"Bella!" came a loud whisper near her ear, and she jumped.

"Oh! Corisande! How you startled me!" Annabella breathed out a long sigh of relief. "I thought you had not come."

"Of course I did," Corisande replied. "I would not abandon you, not when we are about to have fun. Come!" She pulled at Annabella's hand into the midst of the crowd.

The guests' strange and bizarre masks flitted past Annabella as her friend brought her to the edge of the dance floor. Immediately, she was swept off by a Harlequin, and then a sorcerer took her for the next dance. A swift exhilaration coursed through her while she danced. There was a thrilling excitement in being incognito, not knowing with whom you danced or conversed. No one revealed their names, and the noise of the room obscured any vocal characteristics that could reveal identities. Hands touched longer than proper, lips came closer to her ear than usual in an attempt at being heard, and all of it was deliciously naughty. Corisande had been right: it was tremendous fun, especially after she drank the punch that had been provided—something her parents had never let her do, despite her being more than twenty.

The last dance brought her to the large windowed doors that opened to the terrace outside. She was thankful for it, for the gigue had been vigorous, and she fanned herself to cool her cheeks.

The pirate who had been her partner smiled at her.

"Shall I procure you some lemonade, dear lady?" he asked. He was tall, and his mask covered most of his face, so that there was no way she could tell what he was like. But his eyes had gazed into hers as he had taken her hand for the dance, and he had smiled a wide, white smile at her, at once dangerous and enticing. His demeanor was all a part of this masquerade, she was sure, and she felt a trembling excitement at his smile.

"No. . . no, I am not really thirsty, only a trifle warm," she said.

"Perhaps a short stroll out on the terrace?"

Annabella looked out of the windows, and a cool breeze brushed her hot face. She hesitated, then dismissed her uneasiness. Was this not a masquerade? Everyone knew a little license was allowed on such occasions. She nodded, and the pirate put her hand upon his arm.

The night was dark and clear, and stars sparkled over Lady Laughton's garden. As Annabella gazed out upon the terrace, her uneasiness grew. Her former dance partner was taking her to a far corner of the terrace, and she did not know if she should protest or go along. Surely, there could be no harm in it? Lady Laughton was a respectable woman, after all, and would not invite disreputable people.

She was startled, then, when the pirate took her hand to his lips and kissed it passionately.

"Sir! You forget yourself!" she cried.

"No, sweet lady, for you are wholly enchanting, and I must see who you are, so that I may claim you during the day as well as the night." His hand went to the strings of her mask. Annabella slapped it away.

"Stop it! I will not let you unmask me!"

He seized her arm instead and pulled her to him.

"Then at least a kiss—" He put his hand behind her neck and pressed his lips to hers. The smell of punch was strong upon him, and she knew he must be inebriated.

Frantically she struggled, pushing against him as hard as she could, but his lips moved upon hers with brutal insistence.

"No, no, let me go!" she cried as he pressed his lips upon her cheek and neck. She struggled again, trying to stamp upon his foot. She sobbed and tried to wriggle away from him, and felt her fichu pull away from her gown.

Suddenly the pressure of his body was gone. Near fainting, she sank to her knees upon the terrace's marble floor, sobbing. Cool air fanned her cheeks, reviving her, and she looked up.

A powerful, caped figure stood before her, his sword at the throat of the pirate.

"Touch this lady again, and you will regret it," the man said. His voice was deep and soft, yet its menace was clear.

The pirate's mask was askew, and Annabella could see he was Sir Quentin Barnaby, ostensibly a gentleman, but of whom she had heard a few scandalous rumors. She shuddered, and slowly stood on shaking legs.

"No, please, I—I thought—" Sir Quentin stammered.

"I am not interested in your thoughts," snapped the other man. "You will apologize to the lady and leave." He withdrew the point of his sword just enough for Sir Quentin to rise.

A hurried apology burst from Sir Quentin's lips, and Annabella turned her face away, accepting his apology with a nod.

"Now go. And if I see you near this lady again, you will suffer for it."

Annabella heard Sir Quentin's feet slip upon the floor in his haste to depart. A finger came up under her chin, making her look up at her rescuer.

He was masked, of course, and in the guise of a Cavalier of more than a hundred years ago. The light from the ballroom caught the color of his eyes—golden, like the eyes of a lion. The shadows of the night outlined his strong, firm chin and stern, sculptured lips. One strand of hair brushed his shoulder—it was dark, like the night. He stared at her and let out a short, quick breath.

He knows me.
Her cheeks grew hot with shame and fear, and she looked away from him.

"Don't—" His fingers brushed her chin gently. "Don't be afraid."

"I have been so foolish. I—I did not know. I have never been to a masquerade before," she whispered, staring into his eyes. He looked kindly at her, though how she could think so when his face was half covered by a mask, she did not know.

"No, no, of course not," the Cavalier said, his voice gentle and soothing. I do not know him, she thought, but somehow it did not matter, for she relaxed and sighed.

"Thank you, sir. I... I wish there was some way I could repay you for coming to my rescue."

He was silent, only looking at her, and he raised his hand as if he was going to touch her again. But he sighed and his hand dropped.

"I did little, I assure you," he said abruptly. He turned, seeming about to leave. Quickly, Annabella put out her hand.

"Don't leave."

He had come so swiftly out of the night, she was half afraid he was a dream and did not want him to disappear quite yet. He stopped but did not turn back.

"Please . . . will you return with me to the ballroom?" Annabella asked. She felt bold asking it, but she knew that in all politeness he'd be obliged to ask her to dance. But he turned to her at last and smiled widely.

"Why, yes, of course. And may I presume to ask for a dance once we return?"

"Yes, please," she replied, blushing.

He put her hand on his arm, and they stepped back into the ballroom. A cotillion was starting, and the Cavalier led her to the line of dancers.

He made a dashing figure, Annabella thought as they danced. He was not the tallest man she'd seen, but that did not matter to her, for she was not tall herself. But his shoulders were broad, and there was a graceful strength in his movements. He was no dandy, certainly, for when he took her hand again as he came up to her in the dance, his hands held hers with a controlled strength. Perhaps he was a Corinthian, used to vigorous sport and exercise.

She realized, suddenly, that she was staring at him and pulled her gaze away. Yet, as the dance separated them, she could not help looking at him again, the way he moved with such surety and utter control. He must be a man of action, Annabella decided, with a forceful will. He had reduced Sir Quentin to a stuttering mass of jelly, after all! The ridiculous image of the supposedly rakish Sir Quentin molded out of jelly, trembling before a hungry Cavalier made her giggle. Her eyes met the Cavalier's, and his smile was questioning.

"Oh, it was nothing . . . only I was thinking of how ridiculous Sir Quentin looked when you told him to leave me alone. He was positively quaking—like a blancmange! And you looked so fiercely at him, I thought you might almost have eaten him up."

The Cavalier grinned widely, his teeth showing white against his brown skin. He must be a sportsman, or a foreigner, for his skin to be so brown, thought Annabella. No, not a foreigner, for he had no accent.

"No, never! I detest blancmange. It has a cold, slimy consistency, you see, and sits on one's plate like an anemic slug." He pursed his lips, looking thoughtful. "Very much like Sir Quentin, in fact."

A burst of laughter escaped Annabella, and she almost choked, trying to stifle it. She shook her head at him.

"You think not?" he asked, smiling.

"Oh, no, not an
anemic
slug. His nose was too red from drink for that."

The Cavalier laughed aloud, then tucked her hand in the crook of his arm, for the dance had ended. She fanned herself, for the dance had been a vigorous one, but found the fan taken gently from her hand. The Cavalier waved it enough to stir the curls gently about her face. She glanced at him; he was watching her, a smile on his lips, and his eyes behind the mask seemed to hold a secret, intimate and warm.

She could feel herself blush, then heard him sigh. She dared look up at him again, and he smiled ruefully as he returned her fan.

"I am afraid I am not very accomplished at fanning," he said.

"Why do you say that?" Annabella asked.

"If the color of your cheeks is an indication, my fanning has made you warm rather than cool."

"If you wish me to become cool, forward remarks like that will definitely accomplish it," she said, but could not help smiling a little.

The Cavalier took her fan again. "Then I will have to fan you again, for I definitely do not want that."

Annabella felt her cheeks heat again, much to her annoyance, but he bent a look upon her that seemed so mischievous, and his fine lips curled up in
such
a way, that she could not be angry at him.

His smile turned into a wide grin, and she realized that he was flirting with her. How deliciously wonderful it was! Her parents did not encourage flirting these days; the Duke of Stratton did not approve of it. Annabella smiled at the Cavalier in return, and a fine, exhilarating shiver settled over her when he raised her hand to his lips. Oh, if only it were this man who was courting her, and not the Duke of Stratton!

"Will you stay for the unmasking?" she blurted. Her face grew warm again, feeling she had been too bold in asking, but she did so want to know who this Cavalier was!

He drew in a breath, almost seeming about to answer, then his lips pressed together before they relaxed in a smile. A cool breeze brushed her face, and she realized he had taken her out to the terrace again.