Inevitably his gaze drew back to hers, and he lost himself in the glittering green depths of her eyes. Depths that spoke of promises and passion and, at the moment … amusement.
“My lord.” Her voice was low and husky, sensual and inviting. An unexpected shiver ran through him at the sound. “Have I done something to cause you to stare so intensely?”
He reached for her hand and brought it to his lips. His gaze never left hers, and his earlier sense of discomfort vanished. Confronted by a beautiful woman, he had no lack of confidence. In many circles, he was considered an expert. “Why no, my lady, I am simply struck with awe in the presence of such beauty.”
She laughed, a delightful, honeyed sound that wrapped around him and settled in his soul.
“Father,” Erick said, “may I present Belinda’s mother, Lady Stanford, the dowager Marchioness of Stanford.”
Nicholas started. This magnificent creature was the lady he’d had investigated. His reports mentioned that she was considered a great beauty at her first season nearly twenty years ago, but nothing he read on paper could have prepared him for meeting her in the flesh. Cool, creamy, porcelain flesh. She wrinkled her nose at the word dowager, and he thought the gesture charming. Perhaps this marriage was not a mistake after all.
So this was Erick’s father, Sabrina thought. He was far more handsome than she’d been told. Extremely tall, with hair and eyes nearly as black as the evening coat that stretched across broad, muscular shoulders. A flirtatious smile lingered over full, sensual lips. An aura of strength and power surrounded him. Intriguing, beckoning, irresistible.
She gazed into his eyes. It was obvious he was taken with her. The realization gave her a certain amount of satisfaction. Even at the advanced age of six and thirty, she could still turn a man’s head. She couldn’t resist angling her face slightly and deepening her smile, a gesture certain to reveal the dimple in her cheek.
“So, my lord, I gather we are to be family soon?”
“Family?” He appeared startled, then quickly recovered. “Oh yes, of course, family.”
He glanced at his son and future daughter-in-law. “And what a charming family it shall be with two such lovely ladies as its newest members.”
“Oh, Erick, look. Isn’t that Anne Hartly?” Belinda nodded at a young woman across the room. “Mother, do you mind?”
“Of course not, darling. You two go along.” She glanced demurely at Lord Wyldewood. “I suspect I’m in excellent hands.”
The two young people headed toward their friends, and Sabrina’s gaze followed. “They seem so very young.”
“You are not so terribly old yourself,” Wyldewood said, a note of appreciation sounding in his voice.
Sabrina snapped her gaze back to his. “Age is such a relative thing, is it not? When I was their age, I thought someone as old as I am now was ancient. Now they are grown, yet I see them as children. And I still feel as I did then. My emotions are no different now than they were in my first season.”
Wyldewood stared down at her. “I regret having missed that first season.”
The intensity of his words gave Sabrina pause. Abruptly she realized that, without thinking, she’d dropped her well-practiced guard. It was indeed past time to return to the meaningless, flirtatious banter she was so skilled at.
She lowered her gaze. “I fear, my lord, we are becoming far too serious for an event such as this.” Sabrina flashed him her most polished smile. “And I, for one, refuse to be serious when I hear music. I would much prefer to dance.”
Wyldewood’s smile mirrored her own. “I can think of nothing I would rather do.”
He took her in his arms and drew her onto the dance floor. A waltz played, and Sabrina noted how well, how easily, how naturally her body fit to his. His hand against her back, strong and sure; the muscles in his arm, solid beneath her touch. The heat of his body enveloped her in a heady haze of beckoning desire.
Whirling around the room, gazing into his eyes, she wondered at the immediate attraction between them. Something about this man, some indefinable quality threatened to break down her defenses and leave her vulnerable and unguarded. It was almost as if they were not strangers. Almost as if destiny had taken a hand here. Almost as if it were magic.
Magic.
She’d found magic once before in the arms of her husband. Or what passed for magic then. When Jack Winfield, the young Lord Stanford, had swept her into his arms during that first season so long ago, she had lost herself in the passion and fire of a rake who had eyes only for her.
Magic.
She’d nearly found magic again, three times in the thirteen years since his death. Three men selected for the hint, the suggestion, the promise of magic in their look and their touch and their smiles. While each in his turn had vowed undying love and all had asked her to wed, true magic remained elusive, lingering just out of reach. She had gently broken off each romance and had somehow managed not to break their hearts as well. Sabrina matter-of-factly suspected all still harbored a secret hope for more.
Magic.
Now in the arms of this man the promise of something wonderful was powerful, almost tangible. Never had she known a pull this strong. Could he be the one to return the magic to her life? The one to finally cure her restless desires? The one to make her complete? She would settle for nothing less.
But what would he want in return? The unexpected query flashed through her mind, and she nearly stumbled in mid-turn. His brows drew together in a concerned frown. “Is there a problem?”
“A simple misstep.” She tossed him a reassuring smile. A man like this would expect, nay, demand a woman to be the epitome of social correctness. To be placid and pliable. To yield and obey. A man like this would expect her to be exactly what she appeared to be, to live up to the lie she lived every day.
No. No matter the attraction, the spark, the unspoken desire, it would not do to become involved with this man. She could not run the risk of allowing him to discover the woman carefully buried beneath layers of acceptable behavior. A woman hidden for nearly a decade. She could not risk his disapproval.
He held her daughter’s fate in his hands. With one word he could put an end to the marriage plans. That she could not, would not, allow. No, regardless of this compelling and unexpected attraction, Nicholas Harrington must remain no more than the father of her daughter’s fiancé. No more, no less.
The music drifted to a close. Reluctantly but firmly, Sabrina stepped out of Wyldewood’s arms. She needed distance between them, physically and emotionally, and quickly. Already she’d allowed him to glimpse much more than he should.
She glanced up at him, the passion he aroused carefully concealed beneath a calm exterior, the serene mask again firmly in place. “We must speak in depth about the marriage arrangements at some point. Right now I am certain you will want to see to your other guests, so I shall not detain you any longer.”
She nodded politely and turned away, allowing him no time to respond. But she could not miss the puzzled look on his face and the way his dark eyes smoldered.
Sabrina refused to look back.
She accepted a glass of champagne from a passing waiter and noted an annoying tremble in her hand. Why had this stranger affected her so deeply? There was no logical reason for it. Sabrina shook herself mentally and headed for the room reserved for card playing. A relaxing game was an excellent idea. After all, tonight as usual, she’d had more than enough practice in the fine art of bluffing.
Nicholas eyed her hasty retreat, and annoyance surged through him. Why on earth had the woman cut him like that? Had he done something to offend her? It had seemed as though she was enjoying their flirtation as much as he, at least initially.
Of course. He should have realized it sooner. His suggestive manner had obviously scared her. According to his investigators, she was a quiet and reserved woman who ventured into society no more than necessary. Her name had been linked with several gentlemen through the years, but no hi
nt of scandal, no improper gossip accompanied the talk. As best he could tell, she had lived a spotless life since returning to London after her husband’s death.
A slow smile spread across his face. She was not merely beautiful but well-bred, reserved, even a touch shy. He pushed aside a vague sense of disappointment. Somehow he’d instinctively expected more from her.
When his gaze had first met hers, he swore he’d glimpsed a spark, a spirit that stole his breath. But apparently his first impression was misleading, his original reaction in error. He observed her elegant glide across the room, the graceful way she selected a glass. Nicholas narrowed his eyes thoughtfully. In spite of her relationships with men during her widowhood—and who could fault her for that?—she was both discriminating and discreet; she might be exactly what he needed. A presentable partner to further his career. An attractive ornament to display on his arm. A perfect wife.
His smile widened to a grin. Such a countess would not inconvenience him at all. She would have little effect on his well-ordered life, his private pursuit of pleasure. And he had not forgotten his immediate attraction to her. Although, a distant voice in the back of his mind pointed out, this was not the kind of woman he usually desired. She was pleasant and pretty, but in spite of his initial reaction, she had no real zest, no promise of excitement, no sense of impending adventure. How could his initial instinct be so wrong?
He ignored the tiny doubt. Ignored the questions and concerns that drifted through his mind. He turned to speak to newly arriving guests and firmly pushed away the nagging, niggling voice.
The perfect wife … how frightfully dull.
A scant twenty minutes later, Sabrina was immersed in a pleasurable and undemanding game of whist with three elderly gentlemen. A good player, steady and unemotional, she never wagered a lot and never more than she could afford to lose. In spite of that, or perhaps because of it, she typically left the table with more than she’d started.
The winnings were often fairly paltry. The real prizes were the bits and pieces of financial chatter, nuggets of investment strategy and tidbits of political gossip dropped by men who assumed she was uninterested or bored. Who assumed her lovely, composed facade hid an equally vacant mind. Who assumed she neither cared about nor listened to their talk.
During these games, Sabrina likened herself to a fine hunting hound, whose rapt attention was only captured when a red fox was in sight. There were very few red foxes here tonight. The conservation meandered aimlessly, the words drifting past her unheeded. Sabrina kept enough of her mind on the cards to play respectably, but allowed her thoughts to wander to a tall, powerful figure with piercing black eyes.
“Isn’t that right, my dear?”
“Pardon me?” Sabrina’s attention jerked back to the table and Lord Eldridge at her right.
He cocked his bushy eyebrows in mild reproof. “I was commenting on the news of a proposed expedition to the Americas to search for Spanish treasure. Surely you’ve heard of it?”
“Of course.” Sabrina vaguely remembered having read something about a hunt for sunken treasure in the West Indies, possibly a Spanish galleon wrecked centuries ago. It was not the kind of investment that would have caught her eye. Too speculative, too risky, and far too expensive without a guaranteed return.
“Well,” Eldridge said. “I was just saying that one needn’t go halfway around the globe to find treasure. No one ever did recover Napoleon’s gold from that shipwreck off the coast of Egypt. Twenty years ago now, I think.” His gaze searched her face curiously. “But of course you’d know more of that than any of us, would you not?”
Sabrina frowned in puzzlement. “I’m afraid I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Nor do I, Eldridge,” Lord Connelly added impatiently. “What are you trying to say?”
Eldridge sighed in obvious exasperation. “Very well. I can’t believe you have all forgotten this story.” He glared at the three sets of eyes staring at him expectantly.
“Get on with it, man,” Lord Rowe said tersely. “We’re waiting.”
Eldridge huffed and grumbled something under his breath before leaning back in the attitude of a veteran storyteller with a good tale. “It was, as I said before, twenty years ago, 1798. Napoleon’s troops were in Egypt. A ship set sail from France carrying gold for payroll and various other expenses. It never made it, sunk by one of our own fine ships. According to the stories, officers on board managed to get the gold to land before the ship went down, and hid it. Buried it, most likely. Probably planning to return later and claim it for themselves.”
He surveyed the trio with the air of a man who has an audience in the palm of his hand. “And you, my dear…” He paused, lengthening the dramatic moment. “You know where it is.”
“I?” Sabrina laughed. “How on earth would I know where French gold hidden in Egypt is?”
“Yes indeed, Eldridge.” Connelly frowned. “How would Lady Stanford have that knowledge?”
“Because…” The gleam in Eldridge’s eye matched the triumphant flourish in his voice. “Your husband won the information in a card game.”
“Jack?” Sabrina stared. “When?”
“It was shortly before his death.” Eldridge flushed, apparently abashed at the mention of her husband’s demise. “If memory serves, the game took place at his club, my club as well, you know. Someone at his table wagered a letter he claimed contained detailed directions to the gold. I believe it was passed to him from a French sailor.” Eldridge paused and furrowed his brow thoughtfully. “Or maybe it was a French expatriate. At any rate, everyone thought it was a colossal joke.” He glanced at the men around the table as if sharing a male secret. “You know how things like this are. Stanford won the pot. Everyone assumed the letter was fake. Stanford even joked about it.”
He turned toward Sabrina and frowned. “You did not know any of this, my dear?”
Sabrina shook her head. “I’m not sure. It sounds vaguely familiar but…” She shrugged her shoulders in a gesture of helpless femininity. “I really don’t know whatever became of this mysterious letter. And although the idea of hidden gold is an intriguing one, it is too far-fetched to dwell on.” She favored the trio with an engaging smile. “Now, my lords, shall we continue our game?”
The men settled back into play, and Sabrina joined them with a show of modest enthusiasm. But her mind was far from the cards in her hand.
Directions to a fortune. The very thought triggered a rush through her veins such as she’d never thought she’d feel again. The longing for adventure buried years ago raised its seductive head. The lure of excitement pulled her as strongly as any tide.
If indeed such a letter existed, it would be the answer to her financial problems. The quest alone would fill a need she hadn’t realized lingered within her until this moment.
In a split second Sabrina had reached a decision. When she returned home, she would find that letter if she had to take the house apart brick by brick. And when she found it, in spite of the difficulties, the problems, the obstacles, she would head for Egypt.
And she would permit absolutely nothing to stand in her way.
Chapter 2
Belinda fairly danced down the hall, her feet barely skimming the floor. It was an exceptional morning, following on the heels of a truly marvelous evening, spent with an absolutely wonderful man. Erick was all she had ever dreamed of, and she thanked the stars every day for a mother who allowed her to make her own choice of a husband instead of arranging one for her.
Last night Erick’s father had said he would put the announcement of their engagement in the Times at the beginning of the week. Excitement thrilled through her at the thought. Soon it would be official for all the world to see.
Belinda approached her mother’s door and knocked lightly. No response. She rapped again, louder and sharper this time. Still no reply. Gently she pushed the door open.
The room stood in perfect order. Nothing was out of place. No discarded bal
l gown from last night lay strewn across a chair. No jewelry and baubles were scattered carelessly over the dresser. No stockings or slips littered the floor. In an ordinary household, that would have been to the credit of a lady’s maid. But Belinda’s mother tended to dismiss her maid as soon as she’d been helped out of whatever exquisite gown she’d selected for the evening. She claimed the immediate solitude well worth the inconvenience of waiting until morning for her room to be put in order.
Belinda took it all in with one swift glance. What disturbed her most was her mother’s bed. It was turned down as if ready for its occupant to retire for the evening. Exactly how it had looked when she had bid her mother good night. It hadn’t been touched. Obviously no one had slept between its sheets.
Where was her mother? And if she hadn’t slept here last night, where had she slept? She’d seemed preoccupied at the party but Belinda had disregarded it; her mother was typically reserved and quiet in public. Belinda frowned and hurried down the hall, past the adjoining room, the chamber that had once been her father’s. She glanced absently at the open door and gasped, stopping dead in her tracks.
The room looked like the aftermath of a devastating windstorm. Every drawer was open, some completely pulled out of dressers and tossed carelessly on the floor. Clothes were heaped in haphazard mounds. The doors of the wardrobe hung open, its contents scattered throughout the room. Even the feather bed and mattress lay sprawled betwixt the bed and the floor.
What on earth had happened? Had they been robbed? Fear swept through Belinda. She swallowed a rising sense of dread and sped through the hall, hitting the stairway nearly at a run, flying down the steps to pull up short at the closed door of her mother’s library. She hesitated for a moment—this was after all her mother’s private sanctuary—then took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and gripping the handle, firmly opened the door.
The sight here was little different from upstairs. The room looked as if a giant hand had picked it up, shaken it roughly, and casually tossed it down. Half the library shelves stood empty. Books covered the carpet, escaping from careless piles to devour unsuspecting floor space. Papers littered the room, white punctuation marks liberally scattered over anything in their path.
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