Through Gypsy Eyes (17 page)

With a soft giggle she accompanied him outside to the raised platform he built just for her. The pianoforte he’d traded his wealth of silver and gold for would be the stage for her musical numbers and dances popular with all the men who happened into their camp, in search of an evening of entertainment and trade. A sense of peace filled her as she pulled down the veil to conceal her face and settled her fingers on the keys. Never could she remember feeling so free, happy, and alive. Perhaps she was the gypsy future.

“Trust me, Tyrone. There are far more lively entertainments to be had tonight at the festival than you have ever seen in any London club.”

“I am not interested in such pursuits, Perry, and I promised to call upon Miss Deval this evening.”

Perry shook his head, tutt-tutting his friend’s lack of interest. “You are getting far too serious over that filly, Ty. If you are not careful, you will find yourself trussed up and delivered to the altar like a Yule log at Candlemas, my friend.”

Tyrone shrugged. “Perhaps it is time I settled down. Mayhap it will keep the king from sending me out on any more fool’s errands.”

“Are you still pining away over the blind recluse you married off?” Perry shook his head. “She is happily wed and out of your hair. Forget about her with a comely lass under the stars tonight. I assure you it will be an experience you will never forget.” Perry leaned closer. “Those wenches can do the most wondrous things you can imagine with their bodies.”

“I am sure they can, but I am to call on Miss Deval, as I said.” Tyrone waved him away. “It is time I press her for a nuptial date. She has been leading me on for the last year. I will insist she accept my suit, if she will have me. Though damned if I can understand her parents insisting she make up her own mind.”

“What is not to like, my dear boy?” Perry slapped him on the back. “The little chit’s parents will be overjoyed at the prospect of their daughter marrying into the Merryweather name, even without a fortune. I dare say you are going to be a very popular man in the political field before long and what woman would not want that kind of prestige? I say ignore the chit’s wants and go directly to her parents like any normal beau would do.”

“Yes, yes, so I have been told.” Tyrone grimaced and then downed the last mouthful of sherry in his glass. “I suppose I better be going; no time like the present.”

“You do not sound very thrilled about the prospect, for a man going down on bended knee and proposing to the woman of his dreams.”

“Is there such a thing?”

Perry raised an eyebrow. “A woman of dreams? I am told there is. Why are you entertaining the idea of marrying the woman if you do not want her?”

Tyrone sighed and pushed his glass across the table. “Do not get me wrong, Miss Deval is pretty and schooled in the arts as any well-bred lady should be, but … ”

“But?” Perry signaled for the waiter to refill both their glasses.

“She just does not … I suppose I am fond of her. I am just not in love with her, you see.” Tyrone sipped a second glass of sherry a passing serving wench set before him, trying to stall the inevitable.

Perry snorted. “Love is for mistresses my friend. Show me a man in love with his wife and I will show you a heap of misery underneath it all. If Miss Deval is a true lady, she will kindly turn a blind eye to any affairs you have. It is the best of both worlds: a lady to grace your parlor and a willing whore to warm your bed.”

“I suppose you are right.” Tyrone finished his drink and got to his feet. “Perhaps I will join you after I press my suit tonight. Maybe a night of revelry will be just the celebration I need to bolster my courage before I talk to Lord Deval on the morrow.”

“‘Atta boy.” Perry stood and slapped his friend’s back again. “I am on my way then. Go past the park to the green down the main road and you will find the caravan.” Tipping his hat at a jaunty angle, he grinned and strolled out of the gentleman’s club, whistling a bawdy tune.

Tyrone shook his head, dropped a couple coins on the table for the drinks, and then headed for Lord Petagrin’s ball, where he was sure to meet up with the young Miss Deval.

• • •

Milling couples crowded the ballroom. Laughter tinkled with the clink of crystal and the light strains of an orchestra. Tyrone lifted a glass of golden champagne off a passing serving man’s tray and pushed his way through the heated bodies. A glimpse of shimmering black hair caught his eye through the swirling crush of bodies and he turned in that direction. Miss Simone Deval was surrounded by an impressive array of London’s young swains. In the flickering candlelight her hazel eyes looked almost violet as she simpered and smiled at those vying for her attention. As Tyrone paused to watch, he was struck by the sudden realization his continued fascination with the young miss might have more to do with her startling resemblance to Miss Delilah Daysland than with her own charms. He studied her. Perhaps it was the opposite and his former charge looked so much like Miss Deval he was attracted to her. No, Miss Deval’s abundant breasts, aristocratic nose, and limpid glances were unlike Delilah’s subtle curves and witty persona. How could he have been so blind? What was he doing here? Oh hell and damnation! Why not marry the chit? So she was a substitute for Delilah; what did it matter when the one he loved was married to another?

Screwing his courage to the sticking point, he made his way to Miss Deval’s side. “Good evening, my dear.”

Her gaze slid away from the gallant young buck spewing prose to her loveliness. When it settled on him he was struck by the cattiness in her gaze, so unlike Delilah’s honest stare. “Why, good eve, Lord Frost, how delightful to see you here.” She turned to the tall man beside her. “Have you met Lord White?”

Tyrone nodded to the young man beside her. “Nice to see you again.”

“Lord Frost,” the young man returned. “I trust there are no hard feelings between us.”

“No, should there be?” Tyrone lifted a brow, puzzled.

Miss Deval laid a possessive hand on the young man’s arm. “Oh dear. You have not heard the news?”

Lord White cleared his throat. “Terribly inconvenient, Frost. Perhaps a private conversation on the veranda is in order, old chap.”

Old chap?
Tyrone fought to keep his expression neutral.
The fellow is a few years younger than I, but really …
“Anything you care to say to me can be said where I stand, White.”

“Well, I would prefer any ah … confrontation and challenges to a duel be kept — ” he glanced around the room with a slight smile, “confidential, as it were.”

“For God’s sake, White, what is it you think will so incense me to such violence?” Tyrone glowered at the man, his ire already pricked.

Miss Deval placed her hand on his sleeve and favored him with a coy smile. “What Lord White is trying so tactfully to tell you, my lord, is I have agreed to a match between he and I.”

Tyrone blinked. Instead of anger or disappointment at such news, he was unaffected. In fact it was if an unseen weight was lifted from his shoulders. “Well, I suppose congratulations are in order then.” He bowed. “May you be happy as the Duchess of Berkley, Miss Deval.” With a shake of his head he turned on his heel and marched through the crowd.

Tyrone followed the path to the gypsy camp. He should be angry at Miss Deval’s betrayal. At the very least he should have wanted to fight for her. Now her fortune was out of his grasp, and he found he couldn’t care less although it seemed he would have to start the long process of finding another wealthy heiress to woo. He grimaced. He didn’t want another wealthy, well bred, boring woman. He wanted Delilah. It was too late now, he’d thrown away his chance … or did she? No matter. It was not as if he could go back and change what was done. Music floated on the light breeze as he dismounted and tied his horse to the rope picket strung between the trees as a courtesy to the evening’s guests. Tucking the sack of coins into the inside pocket of his fox coat where it would be harder for sticky fingers to lift, he followed the sounds of revelry. Rounding the bushes he paused, surveying the scene of wild abandon before him. Men of all classes lounged with gypsy women, many engrossed in various stages of lovemaking right there on the grass. Others danced in the moonlight or found other delights among the brightly painted caravans holding potions and elixirs of all kinds. His attention swung to a raised platform where a veiled figure played a pianoforte, shrouded in mist and smoke. The haunting passage carried a familiar tune, with an unquestionable gypsy flare that made him want to tap his toes.

A buxom beauty sidled up to him and ran her fingers in a coy gesture down his shirt front. “Come looking for some entertainment this eve, my lord?”

Perhaps a diversion was needed to rid his mind of Delilah and Miss Deval. He nodded. “How much will it cost me?”

She smiled. “It depends on what you desire. A dance would cost you little, but an evening would be most enjoyable for the both of us, I assure you.”

“Perhaps we should start with a dance then, to help me decide.”

“I am Nadia.” She lowered her gaze and held out her hand. When he pulled a coin from his pocket and placed it in her open palm she stepped back. After testing it with her teeth she grinned and tucked it into the pouch hanging around her neck on a silver chain. “Sit down on the pillow, my lord, and make yourself comfortable.”

Tyrone lowered himself to a small pile of cushions and reclined, propping on one elbow to enjoy the show. His gaze fixed on the gypsy as she began to sway in time to the music. Her lithe limbs waved and stroked the air in a rhythm all her own as she undulated in a most provocative way. To any other man her dance would have been enticing enough to warrant a paid evening under the full moon, but not for Tyrone. Though he found the practiced movements entertaining, his manhood stood down. By the time her dance was done Nadia was clothed in a beaded half chemise of sorts, showing off her sensual naval and silk drawers jingling with tiny silver bells sewn to the fringes.

With catlike movements she crossed to where he sat and lowered herself beside him. “Are you well pleased, my lord, with the dance?”

“I am well pleased.”

She grinned and then lowered her hand to cup his manhood through his breeches. Her brows bunched and a tiny pout formed on her lips. “You do not seem well pleased. Perhaps your man-root needs a more physical kind of stimulation?”

He shrugged, permitting her fingers to stroke and squeeze him. “Maybe.”

She narrowed her eyes with a sly smile. “For another coin I can make your manhood sit up and take notice of my charms, I’m sure.”

He regarded her through half-closed lids. “Hmm, in a more private place with some comforts I suppose.”

A musical giggle slipped from her lips. “As you wish, my lord. Come.” Rising to her feet she tugged his hand until he rose and followed her to her wagon.

Ducking through the low door he glanced back at the platform. The gypsy musicians still played minus the mysterious figure on the pianoforte. Giving it no further thought, he closed the door and prepared to enjoy his purchased entertainment.

• • •

Tyrone lay back against the pillows, flipping the brightly colored blanket over his groin as Nadia rolled from the platform serving as a bed. He raked his gaze down her naked buttocks, as she stepped to the table to light the reed of opium between her lips. His limp member remained unaffected as she turned and strolled back to the bed. Why didn’t Nadia have the powers to make his appendage dance to her gypsy tune? He should be attracted to her, she was beautiful and willing, yet he had no interest in bedding her, something that had never happened to him before. His conscience told him Delilah was the root of his disinterest but he brushed it aside. He came here to rid himself of her memory not wallow in regret. He glanced at Nadia as she drew on the opium and frowned. After they smoked the dream stick he doubted she would be much pleased with his even more flaccid tool. He took the stick from her moist lips and put it to his own. The sweetness of her lip balm still lingered as he took a deep drag and blew the smoke in a lazy ring about his head.

After a few puffs she took back the reed, kissed him, and drew on it with a smile. “You should have your fortune told while you are here, my lord. Perhaps it will put you in a better frame of mind.”

He gave her a lazy smile and took back the reed. “I do not believe in such frivolities. Besides, I am sure it would cost me, and I detest wasting more coin this night. ”

Her brows bunched in displeasure. “Let it be my gift to you for a most enjoyable night to come.”

The drug eased the tension in his body, leaving him little will to oppose her whims. “As you wish, seductress.”

After turning down the lantern to make him more comfortable, she wrapped herself in a long shawl and stepped from the caravan.

Tyrone lay back and stared up at the water-stained roof, watching the rings of smoke rise and then dissipate. He wondered how Delilah was these days. Did she think of him? Was she happy with the baron? Perhaps she was with child by now. His lip curled on one side at the thought of a tiny, dark-haired cherub with violet eyes. He closed his eyes with a sigh as the drug made his lids heavy and his limbs limp. A light breeze caused his skin to prickle as the door opened and closed.
Ah, the fortune teller is here.
Not bothering to speak or open his eyes, he held out his hand. After a moment cool, wrinkled fingers took his in a gentle grip. A light expelling of air was the sole sound as the woman placed his hand on a smooth orb. After a few minutes of silence, the fingers holding his tensed.

A loud gasp made him chuckle. “Have you found some incredibly heinous accident about t’ befall me in your crystal ball, oh great seer?”

“No, my lord.”

“Get on with it then, I’m waiting for my fortune t’ be told.” He grimaced at the slur in his voice, the opium pipe not unlike the effects of liquor.

“As you wish, my lord.”

Yes. As I wish.

She sighed, making him smile. “You are searching for someone. A woman.”