This woman had her eyes lined with kohl and diamonds in her hair. Her lips were red, her eyes a glittering hazel, and blue sapphires dripped from her ears and throat. Touching the borrowed necklace, Sarah swallowed audibly. “I do not look like me,” she whispered.
“That,” Lily said as she finished clipping a ruby bracelet to her own wrist, “is exactly the point. If you do not turn heads tonight, I fear there is no hope for any of us. Now pick out a cloak and let us be off.”
The carriage ride to Almack’s was blissfully short which was fortunate for the air was bitterly cold and snowflakes had already begun to fall from the night sky. Hugging their cloaks tight around their exposed shoulders, Sarah and Lily hurried inside with Aunt Ingrid trailing behind whom, for once, had put down her book in favor of a brightly colored silk fan.
“These events get inexplicably warm you know,” she had said in the carriage, “and I cannot take a nap if I am too hot.”
They gave their names to the announcer at the top of the stairs and descended slowly into the mayhem of swirling bodies, raised voices, and half-filled champagne glasses. Spying a friend through the crush of bodies Aunt Ingrid bid them farewell and wandered off.
“Here,” Lily said as she plucked a flute of champagne from a silver tray held out by a passing servant, “drink this. Quickly, before anyone sees.”
Sarah, who had never so much as had a sip of port before, eyed the golden bubbles dubiously. “Champagne?” Her nose wrinkled. “Why would I ever do that?”
“Because it will give you confidence. Which you need in spades if everything you told me about your sleigh ride with Lord Heathcliff is true.”
“It is,” Sarah said miserably. Already feeling rather reckless given her appearance, she plucked the glass from Lily’s hand and downed the contents in one hard swallow. “Oh,” she said as it slid pleasantly down her throat and pooled in her belly, “that was quite nice.”
Lifting one eyebrow Lily gave her an I told you so look and held out another glass. “One more and we will do the rounds.”
This time Sarah drank the champagne without question. Her limbs felt surprisingly light as they began to make their way through the crowd, and she giggled particularly hard at the sight of Lord Dentham, a man of walrus like proportions, dancing with Lady Griswold, a woman so thin she would have been all but invisible had she stepped behind one of the slender white columns that ran the length of the great ballroom.
When someone jostled her elbow she turned automatically, and her eyes widened in surprise when she saw it was a rather handsome blond haired, blue eyed gentleman. Lily stopped as well, and listened attentively as the man introduced himself.
“Good evening,” he said, sinking into a gallant bow that for some reason made Sarah giggle again. “I am Lord Gibson and who might you lovely flowers be?”
“I am Lady Kincaid,” Lily said, handling the introductions as she always did, “and this is my close acquaintance, Lady Dawson.”
“Lady Dawson,” Gibson, savoring the name as if it were a decadent piece of chocolate. His gaze traveled leisurely from the top of Sarah’s coiffure to the tips of her dancing slippers, pausing only half a second longer than necessary on her bosom before sweeping back up to her face. “I am absolutely delighted. Is this your debut?”
Rather flustered by the intimate – and by no means subtle – perusal of her body, Sarah missed the question entirely. “My… my what?” she asked.
“Lady Dawson has been traveling until recently,” Lily interceded smoothly. “She has just returned to London.”
It was not exactly a lie. Sarah had been traveling, if one counted the trip back and forth to her family’s estate in the country two months ago. And it was certainly a better answer than the truth: that this was her seventh season and she had yet to attract the attention of a single suitor.
“Might I place my name on your dance card?” Lord Gibson queried with a smile.
Belatedly Sarah realized he had a mustache that curled over the edge of his top lip and was waxed at the corners. It was not a bad mustache – she had certainly seen worse – but she did not find it appealing, and she knew the reason why.
Quite simply, Devlin did not have a mustache.
And his was the only name Sarah wanted on her dance card.
“Sarah, dear,” Lily said in a strained voice that was at odds with her beaming smile, “Lord Gibson is awaiting your reply.” She lowered her tone and simultaneously raised one hand, feigning a delicate cough while she hissed, “Surely you have heard of Lord Gibson, the Marquess of Faraday! If you do not dance with him I shall. Now bat your eyelashes, stick out your chest, and say yes!”
“Yes,” Sarah said obediently. She blinked a few times, but it made her feel dizzy, and when she attempted to inexpertly push her chest out something popped in her back. Thankfully Gibson did not seem to notice and, taking her dance booklet, he signed his name with gusto beside the fourth line.
“Until we meet again,” he said with great dramatic flair, bowing so low Sarah was quite impressed he did not tip over before he disappeared into the crowd.
“What was that?” Lily cried the moment Gibson was out of sight. Grabbing Sarah’s wrist, she stalked past the refreshment tables filled with various pastries, cuts of bread, and colorful fruit to the corner of the ballroom where a handful of fellow wallflowers obligingly turned their heads and feigned deaf ears.
“Have you gone mad?” Sarah asked, yanking her arm free once they were partially obscured behind a towering ivory pillar. The swift walk away from the dance floor had cleared her head immensely, but it had not given her an answer as to why Lily’s expressive violet eyes were glittering with annoyance. The brunette’s anger did not come as a complete surprise – she was forever getting herself worked up over this and that – although this time Sarah did not have the vaguest clue as to what had caused her temper to flare.
“You hesitated,” Lily accused in a hushed tone. Crossing her arms tight across her chest, she tossed back her head and scowled. “When Lord Gibson asked you to dance, you hesitated. Why, Sarah? Any other woman would jump at the opportunity and you had to be talked into it! If this is about Lord Heath—”
“This is not about him,” Sarah hissed. “And do keep your voice down!” Quickly looking around to ascertain if they had been overhead, she relaxed marginally when she saw the small crowd of wallflowers were more interested in gushing over the arrival of a handsome earl than what she and Lily were arguing about.
“You promised,” Lily said emphatically. “You gave me your word you would not think of him anymore after the sleigh ride debacle.”
With an unhappy sigh Sarah clasped her hands together and looked down, unable to meet Lily’s judgmental stare. “I know I did,” she whispered. “But I cannot seem to help myself.”
“You said he was rude to you,” Lily reminded her. “You said he did not even wish you a good day! Is that the kind of man you want to be in love with? No,” she said, answering her own question before Sarah could get a word in edgewise. “He is quite nice to look at, I will grant you that. And wealthy, although I know that does not matter to you. But his demeanor matters, Sarah. The way he treats you matters. And, to be quite honest, he barely knows you are alive.”
Sarah flinched from the harsh truth of Lily’s words. She knew the point could have been made with more finesse, but then such was not Lily’s way. Her friend said what she meant and meant what she said. It was a rare quality and one that Sarah constantly tried to emulate. Around Lily, of course, she was able to speak her mind without stuttering over every other word. But with anyone else – even her own family – she could not help but stammer and blush and forget everything she truly wanted to say. Her exchange with Devlin had certainly proved that.
“You are right,” she said softly, even though the admission cost her. “I need to forget him.”
“Perhaps you should hold that thought,” Lily said, her eyes widening as she gazed over Sarah’s right should
er.
“What?” Certain she had misunderstood her friend, Sarah’s brow furrowed in bewilderment as she wondered what could have possibly happened in the span of a few seconds to change Lily’s mind so suddenly. “Why?”
“Because Lord Heathcliff has just entered the ballroom… And he is looking right at you!”
Chapter Five
Sarah’s heart pounded. Lily had not lied. Devlin was, in fact, cutting a swath through the dancers and it appeared as if… but no, he could not be… except he was. He was walking straight towards her. Hope, delicate as a bird’s wing, fluttered faintly inside of her chest, only to plummet a few seconds later when she realized why the viscount would be approaching them.
“He must want to dance with you again,” she said, doing her best to summon a note of excitement in her tone when she wanted nothing more than to bury her head in her hands and cry. She had managed to sit idly by and watch her dearest friend in the arms of the man she loved once, but she knew she would not be able to do it again. Gathering her skirts she began to turn away, but Lily’s hand on her arm stopped her.
“You ninny,” the brunette said under her breath. “He does not want to dance with me. He is looking at you. Now wipe that dumbfounded look off your face and smile! There you go. Very good. I will be right over there if you—”
“Wait,” Sarah interrupted with a gasp. Panic stricken, she clung fast to Lily’s wrist. “You cannot leave me.”
“Would you have him dance with both of us?” Lily gave an amused shake of her head. “You will be fine. Obviously you must have made an impression on him if he is purposefully seeking you out. Just do not stutter. Or be too quiet. Or talk too much.”
Sarah’s throat tightened. “Lily, I—”
“And whatever you do,” her friend continued cheerfully, as if she did not notice that all of the blood had drained from Sarah’s face and she was beginning to tremble, “do not step on his feet. Best of luck to you, dear!” she called over her shoulder before she hurried off in a swirl of emerald green skirts, leaving Sarah with nothing more than her worried thoughts as she waited for Devlin to reach her.
She studied him under her lashes as he approached with all the stealthy grace of a panther. There truly was something dangerous about him. Something dark. Something that struck a chord deep inside of Sarah, a chord that reverberated through her entire body, thrumming like a finely tuned bow.
When he finally halted directly in front of her they stared at each other for several long, drawn out moments. She noted his chin and jawline boasted a shadow of hair, as if he had not had time to shave before attending the ball. He looked dashing in black and the sapphire pin stuck through his snowy white cravat brought out the color in his eyes.
“Hello,” he said simply.
“Hello,” she echoed.
“I had hoped you would be here,” he admitted, throwing Sarah completely off guard. She gaped speechlessly at him, unable to think of a single coherent thing to say. He had come to Almack’s with the express purpose of finding her? No, surely not. “Since you never told me your name,” he continued, his blue eyes glinting with amusement, “I had no way to find you.”
“Sarah!” Her tongue darted out to swipe unconsciously at her lower lip and Devlin’s gaze lowered, drawn to her lips as a moth to the flame. Hungry desire swept across his face, and her knees wobbled. “My name is Sarah,” she finished weakly.
His mouth curved. “Is that what I should call you?” he asked in a husky voice that had her swallowing back a moan. “Sarah? That does not seem very… appropriate. Are you, Sarah?”
“Am I… Am I what?”
“Appropriate,” he whispered. He stepped closer to her, close enough to touch, and touch he did. One arm wound around her waist, his fingertips settling lightly on her hip while the other hand braced on the pillar behind her head, effectively closing her in.
To any curious onlooker his body was angled so it seemed there were yards of space between them, but Sarah felt every one of his breaths as if it were her own, and a thousand horses could not have dragged her eyes from the mole she had just discovered high on his right cheek. It should have been a mar against perfection, but if anything it only served to increase his rugged handsomeness to a level her body was having quite a difficult time adjusting to.
The man, she decided then and there, was the devil himself.
“You may call me L-lady Dawson.”
“Is that a question?”
“No,” she said, even though it had sounded very much like one. “That is my name. Lady Sarah Emily Dawson.”
Devlin repeated it in full, lingering on the Sarah until she felt her cheeks suffuse with color and she shifted anxiously from side to side. No more than a few minutes in his company and she was already forgetting herself. A lady did not allow a gentleman to call her by her first name. Why, even her mother was always referred to as Lady Dawson, even by her own husband. She had always thought the trait a peculiar one, but now she knew why it existed.
First names were much too intimate. They should be spoken in a private place, like a bedroom… In the bed… Beneath the sheets… Oh dear. Now was not the time for her colorful imagination to rear its head. In fact, it was probably the worst time imaginable for her to think of what it would be like to have Devlin stretched out across her naked body, his hands and mouth doing all kinds of naughty things to her damp skin while he moaned her name…
“You may call me Devlin if you wish,” the viscount said with a wicked smile, as if he could read her thoughts and was vastly entertained by them. “In fact, I insist on it.”
Fairly certain her face was the approximate shade of a tomato in mid-August, Sarah pressed both hands to her warm cheeks in an effort to cool them and shook her head vigorously from side to side. “Oh no,” she breathed. “I simply… That would be… No,” she said firmly as she struggled to rein in her emotions. She could not afford to lose her head, especially considering she had already lost her heart. “That would simply not do, Lord Heathcliff. Why, we hardly know each other at all and you would do well to remember your manner—”
“Would you care to dance?” he interrupted, holding out his hand. “Once you dance with someone I find you know them much more… intimately than you did before. Surely then it would be reasonable for us to be on a first name basis.”
Sarah still stared longingly at his offered hand and almost took it, but her own good manners, instilled to the bone after years of tutoring, stopped her. “My next dance is spoken for,” she said regretfully.
Devlin slowly lowered his arm, a smile flirting with the corners of his mouth as though he did not believe her. “Oh really? By whom?”
“Lord…” What was his name? Oh, yes. Now she remembered. “Lord Gibson.”
Devlin’s eyes flashed unexpectedly, stormy blue and full of temper. “Lord Gibson, the Marquess of Faraday?”
Confused by the sudden change in Devlin’s tone and the rigid set of his jaw, Sarah nodded hesitantly. “Do you… Do you know him?” He looked so angry she thought he must, and feared their connection was not a pleasant one.
“Only that his father is ill and by years end he should be a duke.”
Sarah had never lost a parent, but she imagined the pain to be quite keen, and she felt instant sympathy for Gibson even though she knew him not at all. “That is quite sad.”
“Is it?” Devlin shrugged. “Not for him or his future wife, who will be a duchess.” He studied her intently, as if he could see straight through to her very soul, and Sarah, now flustered beyond all bearing, tittered nervously.
“I… I suppose that is true,” she said.
Devlin stepped closer, crowding her back against the ivory pillar. She looked down towards his feet, but he cupped her chin and forced her head to lift. “Is that what you want?” he growled. “To be a wealthy duchess, lording over a household full of servants? To have your peers look upon you with envy as you pass? To love a man for what he can give you instead of loving
him for who he is?”
“I d-do not know,” Sarah gasped. She did not understand what had caused Devlin’s unprecedented fury, nor had she a clue how to subdue it. Tension spread like wildfire from a knot in the middle of her back and trickled up to her shoulders and neck. She fought the urge to jerk away, but like a fox that had its leg caught in a trap she instinctively knew Devlin’s grip would only tighten if she tried to pull back. “I could save the fifth dance for you,” she offered hesitantly, even though she wasn’t quite sure if she wanted to dance with him at all anymore given his current mood.
He studied her a moment longer, those piercing eyes filled with an anger she was helpless to comprehend, before he abruptly released her and spun around. “Go,” he said in a short, clipped tone, as if he were dismissing a maid, “and do not bother saving anything for me. I am leaving. There is nothing worthy of my interest here.”
Sarah’s skin went clammy. Her breath caught in her chest. As she digested the implication behind his cruel remark her mouth opened and closed, but no words came out. There was nothing to say. Except…
“You… You… You…”
“Yes?” Devlin asked calmly, pivoting on one heel and glancing at her sideways with bored resignation, as if he had already forgotten she existed and was annoyed she was wasting more of his time.
“You are horrible!” she burst out in a shrill voice that turned half a dozen heads. “Absolutely horrible!” Immediately she clapped her hand to her lips and gasped, her eyes widening in shock as she realized what she had just said. Amazingly, however, Devlin did not berate her further. If anything, he looked amused.
“Horrible, am I?” One dark eyebrow arched. “Would I be as horrible if I were an earl? What about a marquess or a duke?”
Trembling from head to toe, Sarah shook her head. “I do not know what you talking about,” she cried, flinging her arms wide. “You speak in riddles that I do not understand.”
My Winter Rogue: A Regency Holiday Collection Page 11
