by Lynn Kerstan
Maggie felt a hand clutch her forearm.
“I do believe Colonel Trent has arrived,” Beatrice said. “Over there, by the French windows.”
Tearing her gaze from the brazen earl, Maggie inspected the masked Highwayman and shook her head. “It can’t be him. Nicholas told Allegra he would not be here tonight.”
“It appears he changed his mind. Only a soldier carries himself just so, ramrod straight but poised to move in any direction.” Beatrice chuckled. “Not to mention that he hasn’t taken his eyes from Aphrodite.”
Maggie made a rude noise. “The same can be said of every man in the room.”
As the dance concluded, she felt a thrill of nervous anxiety as the Highwayman moved forward, hand wrapped around the hilt of his sword, to where Allegra and Keverne stood side by side. When he took possessive hold of Allegra’s arm, Maggie knew that Beatrice was right. Nicholas had come after all.
To her astonishment, there was no scene. Keverne merely bowed, with commendable grace, and headed toward the main doorway as though intending to leave the masquerade. Apparently Nicholas and Allegra had the same intent, because they vanished into the garden.
Maggie breathed a sigh of relief. With Keverne gone and Nicholas in charge of his wife, she had only to concern herself with Yvette. After locating her youngest sister, who was dancing with the harmless Filbert Pevensey, she settled in for a long, dull evening.
Nearly an hour went by without incident. Yvette confined her attentions to gentlemen who passed muster with the Merpole sisters, and Maggie soon lost interest in the flamboyant costumes and noisy ballroom. Wishing she could be out of doors where the air was cool, she let her eyelids drift shut and lost herself in a fantasy of endless seas and star-spun skies.
Esther’s high-pitched voice shattered the dream. “Lord Keverne!” she exclaimed, and Maggie’s eyes shot open.
He stood directly in front of her, a nightmare come to life, lips curved in an irreverent smile. “Artemis, I believe,” he said with a bow. “Virgin Huntress, Guardian of her Sister Nymphs, Goddess of the Moon.”
Unwilling to meet his eyes, Maggie gaped at a broad chest dusted with tawny hair. Distantly, she heard him greet the Merpoles. They exchanged pleasantries, and he complimented them on their excellent costumes while she wondered why his skin was so brown.
“Who are you?” she asked unwittingly.
“Do you not know me?” He whipped off his mask and hung it on his bow. “I am the god of oblivion, abandonment, and excess. I bring wine and madness, should you care to drink.”
“Dionysos,” she said peevishly. “Very much in the flesh.”
“None other, fellow divinity. I am come from Olympus to lead you into the dance. Only listen. The sacred melodious pipe calls Artemis to waltz with me.”
“It does no such thing!” Her gaze lifted to his joltingly blue eyes and swiftly lowered again.
“Fear you the Bacchanal?” he teased. “Where is your spirit?”
“You are a silly man and no god at all. Besides, virgin goddesses never cavort with licentious satyrs.”
“Ah, but Dionysus compels no woman to be chaste, or to relinquish her chastity. She who is naturally virtuous may partake of the rites without forfeit.” He held out his hand. “Come, Artemis. It is only a ballroom, after all, and merely a waltz.”
A firm hand pushed at her back—Beatrice’s, she suspected—and suddenly she was on her feet. “I won’t dance with you, Keverne!” Her voice was shrill with anger. “You are presumptuous, offensive, and unwanted. If that is not clear enough, hear this. Go away and leave me alone.”
He regarded her with uncharacteristic seriousness. “But you are too much alone, Moonbeam.”
“That is my choice.” She tried to sit down again, but his fingers gripped her shoulders.
“Only consider the consequences. Dionysos must dance, and if you will not join him, he must entice another maiden into the revels. Athena, perhaps?”
“That is purely blackmail.” She jabbed a finger at his chest. “Yvette is young and innocent, not some bit of muslin to be trifled with. Stay away from her, you… you goat!”
He contrived to look offended. “How you wound me, Artemis. And while you fight the inevitable, this waltz is half played out. I shall require what is left of it, and the next dance as well, before I agree to leave untouched the lovely Athena. What will it be, sweet nymph? Have you the courage to quit this dim corner for the sake of your unfledged sister? Such a trifling sacrifice, after all.”
“Infamous!” She was practically sputtering. “You are an overdecorated, underdressed coxcomb. I’ll have no part of you.”
He touched the tip of her nose with his finger, “Recollect what became of Pentheus, who refused to acknowledge Dionysios as a god. We deities have our pride, you know.” His smile was unutterably provoking. “Even you, glacial Artemis, for did you not transform Actaion into a stag for the crime of seeing you unclothed?”
“This is preposterous. I’ll not bandy Greek myths with you, Keverne.”
Her insults had no effect on the scoundrel. He continued to stand too close, his bare hand extended, a look of expectation on his face. Short of plucking an arrow from her quiver and driving it into his chest, she could think of no way to get rid of him. How it galled her to be manipulated like this.
“Very well,” she said between her teeth. “What remains of this dance, and the next, so long as you keep yourself thirty yards from both my sisters tonight.” Heat rose to her cheeks. “Mind you, I don’t dance very well.”
“You will,” he assured her complacently, “in my arms.”
Before she could respond, he swept her into the circling throng, one hand firmly at her waist.
She had never before held a male hand without the barrier of gloves. His fingers threaded hers, so large her own felt gloved in his flesh. For a long time her other hand hovered above his bare shoulder. How could she touch him there, skin to skin, as if they were lovers?
When she stumbled, he drew her closer. The gauzy fabric of her costume seemed insubstantial, and her breasts might as well have been naked as they brushed against his chest. She looked down at them, and up to his face.
He smiled at her. “You are trying to lead, Lady Magdalen.”
“Mostly I’ve danced with Yvette,” she admitted breathlessly, “to teach her the steps.”
“Relax.” His strong embrace gave her little choice. “Put your hand on my shoulder. It won’t bite.”
She obeyed, reluctantly, her finger’s stiff as a dead woman’s. He felt unnaturally warm. “You are impertinent and despicable.”
“But a very good dancer. Now imagine torchlight and the theatre at Delphi, the throbbing drums and the double flute at a shepherd’s lips. This is sacred sport, Artemis. Yield to the Mysteries.”
“I think,” she said, licking dry lips, “that you terrify me.”
He pulled her closer. “Not precisely what I hoped for, but a beginning. I long to arouse every passion in you, Moonbeam. Only indifference would signify failure, and I suspect you are not indifferent to me.”
She had no response to that. Of course she despised him and everything he represented, but it was impossible to say so with his hand at her waist and his hot skin tingling her fingers. Later she would tell him, in private. Unless she was lucky enough never to see him again.
As if reading her mind, he bent his head to her ear. “I am leaving here tomorrow morning, bound for the West Indies on business and to points beyond for my own pleasure. Have no fear for your sisters. When the masquerade is over, our revels at Falconthorpe will be ended.”
“None too soon,” she managed to say. “And remember your promise. You won’t go near Yvette.”
He tilted his head. “I never make promises I don’t intend to keep. Now hold to your end of the bargain and dance with me, Maggie. Forget everything else and dance with me.”
To her horror, the first waltz melted into another. She tried to be strong, but against
her will and before she knew it, the fantasy took hold of her. All too soon she forgot everything but the music and the heat radiating from the man who held her and the excitement of being in his arms. Light-headed as he spun her around, she saw only the white of his tunic and the golden wreath in his hair and his bronze skin. Most of all, the blue eyes, hot and cool at the same time, like the blue at the heart of a candle-flame.
She moved in a trance. The music thrummed in her veins. This is the rapture of the Maenads, she thought at the corners of her mind. The ecstasy of Dionysos, setting free all the forbidden longings she’d only experience in dreams.
Dazed, she was scarcely aware when the bacchanal ended. Suddenly she was again with the Merpole sisters while Keverne, still holding her hand, whispered something in Beatrice’s ear and planted a friendly kiss on Esther’s cheek.
When he turned again to meet her eyes, his gaze was intense. Placing her hand on his chest, against his heart, he smiled. “The next time I dance, Artemis, it will be with you.”
Before she could ask him what he meant by that, he was gone.
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The Golden Leopard
Lady Jessica Carville’s exhibition of art and antiquities at Christie’s auction house has been a grand success, save only a large fly in the ointment. Her lover for a brief few weeks of mutual passion before disappearing without a word has suddenly reappeared years later, as seductive and carelessly compelling as he had always been.
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From the novel:
She returned to the mirror, bonnet in hand, and gazed at her reflection. The only person she had ever lied to with any success was herself. Given time and persistence, she could make herself believe almost anything. She had lied herself into confidence, talked herself into independence, and stampeded herself into a profession wholly unsuitable for the daughter of an earl. And always she wondered when the fraud would catch up with her, as it was bound to do. Sooner or later everything would collapse around her, and she would be altogether alone.
She brushed back the tendrils of hair that had pulled loose at her temples and placed the bonnet on her head. Really, the evening had gone exceptionally well. She ought to be elated. She would muster the right amount of enthusiasm on her way back to Sothingdon House, where her secretary was waiting up to hear a report.
There was a click as the door latch lifted and a creak from unoiled hinges. She watched in the mirror as Duran entered the room with his usual indolent grace, closed the door behind him, and leaned his shoulders against it. She knew that pose all too well—one leg crossed over the other below the knees and arms folded at his chest.
Well, she had expected this, or something much like it. And better the scene play out here, in private. She was no longer so careless of her reputation as she once had been.
Deliberately, she took her time tying the ribbons of her bonnet.
“Hullo, Jessie.” His voice was smooth and dark. “You are even more beautiful than I remembered.”
“Lord Duran.” She turned, making no hurry of it, and favored him with the polite, disinterested smile she reserved for clients who were unlikely to buy anything. “So it was you I glimpsed in the exhibition room. I had imagined so, but what with the crush, I could not be sure of it. You were certainly the last person I was expecting to see.”
“Glimpsed?” He chuckled. “Confess it, princess. You stared as if I’d begun to sprout two horns and a tail.”
“Did I? How rude of me.” She moved a few steps closer so that he would not imagine she feared to approach him. “My mind must have been elsewhere at the time, but I do apologize for not making you welcome. It is always delightful to come upon a former acquaintance, especially in the summer. London is so thin of company this time of year. Remind me, will you? How long has it been since last we met?”
“Precisely six years, two months, eighteen days, twenty-three hours and—” he drew out his pocket watch and flicked it open—“seven minutes.”
“Rubbish!” She had a misbegotten urge to laugh. “You are making that up.”
“Probably. It felt much longer than that. But I do remember most explicitly the time we spent together. I remember, in splendid detail, what we did together.”
“Then your memory is far more vivid than mine, sir.” She was pleased to have said that with commendable nonchalance, given the mental images he had conjured with a few simple words.
What we did.
Cat got your tongue, princess? Or have you decided to pretend we were never lovers?”
Ice gathered at her spine. A blessing. It held her erect and kept her cold. “Lovers? Well, I suppose so, although I have always thought that to be a ridiculous euphemism. But I have never been one to refine upon the past, and I certainly do not mean to revisit it. Were you hoping otherwise?”
He lifted his hands in a gesture of mock protest. “Not I. Hope is for those who will not seize what they want. Should I still desire you, Jessie, I would do whatever it required to have you.”
“Short of force, I trust?”
For the first time, one of her arrows struck home. His eyes narrowed, and his arms dropped to his sides. “That would be out of the question. As you very well know.”
“Yes.” What she most hated about Duran was the ease with which he could wring honesty from her. “I’m sorry. It was a mean-spirited thing to say.”
“Indeed. But you have every right to wish me to the devil. I expect you are doing so at this very moment.” He cast her a benevolent smile. “It may console you to learn your wish will be granted within a year. As a matter of fact, I could peg out at any time.”
Had he picked up some deadly sickness in India? The very thought of it sent her heart plummeting. He might be a vast nuisance at close range, but a world without Duran somewhere in it would be oddly colorless.
He looked healthy enough. If anything, he was more tautly muscled than the man who used to sweep her up in his arms. But she sensed a different sort of strength in him now, as if he’d been tempered on an anvil.
“If you are ill,” she said with studied calm, “I am sorry to hear it. Is that why you have returned to England?”
“You are concerned for my health? How very kind. But I’m perfectly well, save that my life is no longer my own.” He made a sharp gesture as if dismissing the subject and slouched back against the door. “For the time being, my intentions are entirely honorable. The only proposition I have for you at the moment concerns a matter of business.”
Business? Unaccountably insulted, she twisted the strings of her reticule between her fingers. “I already have more clients than I can possibly manage. But I’m sure that if you explain your requirements to Mr. Christie, he will refer you to someone who can be of assistance.”
“I have, and he did. That’s why I followed you upstairs. Christie has informed me that you are acquainted with every important collector of antiquities in England. By his account, you are the only one who can provide me the information I require.”
“Mr. Christie said that?” A thrill of pride tingled at her fingers and toes. For the briefest moment, she let herself enjoy it.
“He added that I should expect no more from you than a list of names. In his opinion, you know everyone in society and nothing whatever about the profession you aspire to enter. More to the point, you are a female and therefore not to be taken seriously. He only indulges your hobby because of your connections.”
Trust Hugo Duran to slam her back to earth without mercy.
At the least, he was consistent. The goodwill of others, he had always said, should never be taken into account when making important decisions. But at the time, she had thought he was referring to himself, warning her not to rely on him.
She had since learned to rely only on herself, and credited him with teaching her to survive even the most crushing disappointments. In another thirty or forty years, she might be grateful for the lesson. Meantime, the ice at her spine had begun to melt. Her confidence
was seeping away. He was still so beautiful, damn him, and she was still so weak.
“I can certainly provide you a list,” she said, pleased to hear an assured voice emerge from her clogged throat. “Put in writing a description of what you are looking for and post it to my secretary. Mr. Herbert will provide you her name and direction.”
“I shall call on you tomorrow,” he said, as if she hadn’t spoken. “Perhaps in time for breakfast. Do you remember how it used to be, Jessie? We could never have breakfast together.”
“But that, I believe, is commonplace when engaging in a clandestine affair. And you needn’t bother dropping by, for I shall not be at home.”
He closed the space between them, moving so near she felt his breath against her forehead when he spoke. “Don’t run away, Jessie. I promise you’ll not succeed.”
When she tried to dodge around him, his hand grasped her forearm with just enough pressure to keep her in place. She looked down at the long, white-gloved fingers curled below her elbow, shocked that he was touching her and astonished at what she saw.
His black coat sleeve had pulled back from his cuff, exposing a heavy gold bracelet coiled around his wrist. Not quite meeting at the center, the bracelet thickened on each side to form two knobs, each crowned with a large cabochon gem. An emerald and a ruby. Her gaze lifted to meet his eyes.
He looked amused. “Do you like it?”
“A charming bauble,” she replied, withdrawing her arm. He did not try to hold her. “But a most peculiar affectation, Duran, even for you. Unless you wish to be laughed at?”
“Oh, I think no one will laugh at me, princess. Certainly not to my face. And I cannot remove it, you know. Not even when I bathe.”
A flash of memory. Steam rising from the water. His lean body lounging in the copper tub while she rubbed lemony soap over his chest . . . .
