Maggard paced the length of the balcony, alternately staring into the distance and shooting harsh looks at her. “This is a very important night for us, Romy. It's set up partly to ensure your future. A future you cannot afford to ruin by acting like a heathen. Your mother, God rest her soul, never acted like a savage in a room full of important dignitaries and benefactors of the Smithsonian. What goes on in your head—I hope I never find out. Do you suppose you can manage to act civilized now?”
“Yes, Papa.” A tear slipped down her cheek and she hated herself for crying. “But suppose I don't want to marry Samuel Woefield?”
His head jerked up and an expression hard enough to chip diamonds crossed his face. “There are women inside that room who would face ravenous wolves to marry him. Count yourself among them.” He paused and his face softened. “Come inside when you're more composed.”
She pressed her hand to her eyes realizing, too late, the kohl on her eyelids would smear on the white gloves and down her face. She wanted to yell at his retreating back that the women inside the ballroom were ravenous wolves.
****
Scaling the thick vines growing over the brick wall surrounding Christensen's property sounded easier than it looked, though it probably wasn't the toughest challenge Abel would face any time soon. At least Maggard's information appeared correct. The manor was a quarter mile away—a leisurely walk.
A hand shot out of the shadows and clutched his shoulder. Abel jumped and spun, reaching inside his coat for the Bennett. Obadiah Huber, a half-German, half-African man melted out of the darkness.
“You're going to draw unwanted attention if you fire that weapon, Courte.” His eyes and tone remained calm though he frowned at the handgun.
“You ought to know sneaking up on people gets you shot,” Abel snapped.
White teeth flashed in Huber's face. He worked in the house as a porter, with access to any room in the mansion. “You need me. How else are you going to get inside?”
“True.” He begrudged every favor he had to cash in to get another step further in his journey.
“This is your invitation to the ball.” Huber offered a piece of heavy paper. “Come find me once you're inside. I'll lead you up to Christensen's library.”
Abel studied the front of the invitation, with its flowery words in embossed letters. He didn't recognize the name on the invite, but it hardly mattered. The back of the invitation had Christensen's family seal stamped dead center. Pompous bastard. “Thanks. I appreciate your cooperation.”
A scowl passed over Huber's lined face. “If you get caught snooping around in there, I've never heard of you.”
“Fair enough,” Abel conceded. “See you on the other side.”
He tucked the invitation in the pocket of his vest and set off across the manicured grounds. The evening hadn't progressed far; plenty of rich folks in their fancy garb were still arriving. He only needed to slip in line to be on his way to Christensen's library.
Worry licked at the back of his mind. If he got caught, he'd go to jail for certain. The local law enforcement wouldn't take kindly to a stranger breaking into the home of a prominent citizen. Even if they understood what was at stake, which they wouldn't, because he still had trouble getting his head around it. The term wild goose chase came to mind. Good-bye freedom, hello insane asylum for deluded criminals. Not that he'd be there long at the rate things seemed to be escalating. The tremor in his hands was unrelated to nerves. Shoving the worry aside, he proceeded across the back lawn.
An elegant waltz drifted from a few open windows along the rear of the manor. The kind of music he'd learned to dance to at the university, but had no use for in Texas. All this spit and polish just to get together and brag about how much money each person had accumulated turned his stomach. People with too much money in their hands had odd ideas about things, no matter where they came from.
Like that woman in the alley. Damn near turned into a greasy spot in the street; all she cared about was getting to a seamstress. Abel couldn't think of a single reason to be in such a hurry to mend a dress—unless it was a wedding gown. Women got particular over weddings, but even with that as an excuse, he couldn't see what all the fuss was about.
He passed beneath a low balcony and heard sniffling over the strains of music. Abel peered up at the biggest skirt he'd seen since photographs of the antebellum South. It took a moment for his eyes to relay to his brain what he was seeing. Who else but the woman parading through his thoughts could be wearing it? Her face was buried in her gloved hands, but there was no mistaking that hair.
“This would be the part where you say, ‘Romeo, oh, Romeo, wherefore art thou, Romeo?’” Abel couldn’t help himself.
She lifted her head and stared down at him through reddened eyes. “You!”
He grinned. “Remember me, do you? I was hopin' for an alley, but a balcony will do just fine.”
“Oh, no. Don't you dare come up here.” She looked like she was about to say something else, but whatever thought crossed her mind faded when she glanced over her shoulder. “My entire evening has gone wrong since I saw you on the street.”
“I'm wounded.” Abel feigned a hurt look. “How can you say such horrible things to me, darlin', after that kiss?”
She held her hand up to stop him. “Just go away. I'm in enough trouble without anyone finding out about that.”
“You’re not gettin’ off so easy.” He pulled out the invitation and waved it.
Her eyes narrowed. “Where on earth did you get one of those? There's no chance Mr. Christensen invited you to this ball.”
“Stay right there,” Abel ordered. Her eyes widened at the command and she looked ready to offer a heated retort, but he had a feeling she wouldn't disappear.
The thugs at the door didn't blink twice at his invitation. One took it and nodded him inside before urging the next guest forward. Too easy.
Huber met him inside the door. “Come, I'll take you upstairs.”
Abel shook his head. “Minor change in plans. Let me mingle with these folks a while. Don't want to be seen leaving too soon. Meet me at the staircase at nine?”
The dark-skinned man narrowed his eyes. “What game are you playing?”
“No games,” he promised. “I ran into someone I know outside. Thought it might be nice to catch up.”
“Nine o'clock. Do not be late,” Huber warned.
Chapter Three
For the life of her, Romy couldn't figure out why she didn’t return to the ballroom. If Papa found out she was meeting a cowboy, heaven help her. But her legs refused to move her back inside lest she suffer more humiliation, so she stayed rooted to the bench, pretending great interest in the garden. It both flattered and frightened her that the cowboy had somehow discovered her whereabouts. Every nerve in her body came alive when he opened the door.
“How is it that the feistiest redhead in Boston isn't surrounded by a hundred slack-jawed gentlemen?” He leaned against the French window frame, somehow casual in his formal wear.
A little thrill of excitement tingled through her. A black tailcoat displayed the width of his shoulders and tapered to his waist. Underneath his coat, a dark gray waistcoat hugged his midsection. Rather than the usual bow tie or thin silk tie some men wore, he had placed a string-tie around his neck. Black pants molded against his muscular legs, looser than his denims, but still magnificent. His blond hair was trimmed several inches shorter than it had been earlier. If not for his drawl and cock-sure smile, she might not have recognized him as the man from the alley. He tugged at his coat sleeves and smiled as though he knew she was admiring him.
She glared, trying to pretend she wasn't attracted to him. “You have some explaining to do. Starting with why you're following me.”
A wide grin overtook his face, transforming it from handsome to god-like. Grecian statues had nothing on this cowboy-turned-gentleman. Her heart gave a funny little flop at his smile and her blood ran hot when his eyes crinkled at the corners. Beautiful whis
key-colored eyes set in a tanned face and framed by dark lashes. She struggled to draw a calming breath.
He pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and offered it. She stared it, full of suspicion.
“Got a little something running down your face.” He gestured in a circle.
Romy snatched his kerchief, wiped it across her face and wished she was anywhere except Christensen's house. She got the nerve to look up and he nodded in approval. She tried to hand the soiled cloth back, but he shook his head. Streaks of kohl and rouge marred the once white cotton. No wonder he didn't want it.
“To answer your first question, I wasn't invited to this little shindig. That invitation is a fake.”
Her eyebrows shot up as she flew to her feet. “You really are following me. You can't do that. I have rights, you know. If you touch me again, I'll scream and have you thrown out.”
He laughed. “You wouldn't.”
His confidence made her angrier. “Try it and find out what happens.”
He leaned in close; his warm breath caressed her cheek. “I can see it in your eyes. You're hungry for another kiss.”
“You—you,” she sputtered. “You're a vulgar man who preys on innocent young women.”
He held up his hands in defense. “I just call 'em the way I see 'em.”
“You have no more idea of what I want than a blade of grass has.” She could deny it all day long, but with his lips so close, she longed to press hers against them. The conflicting emotions confused her.
“If I can't coax out another kiss, then I'll settle for an introduction.” He offered a big, long-fingered hand. “Abel Courte from San Antonio.”
Texas—a true cowboy. Somehow she'd know he was genuine. She forced her excitement down and turned her nose up in a perfect impression of Imogen. “I've never heard of any Courtes.”
His grin didn't fade an inch. “You wouldn't have. I doubt our people travel in the same circles. My people would be too dirty, too . . . how'd you put it? I remember now, vulgar, for your gentle breeding.”
“I'll have you know—” Romy bit her tongue. She'd been forbidden to mention she was anything but a lady tonight. Not an explorer, an amateur archaeologist, botanist or anything else for that matter.
“What? You got someone in your family tree tarnishing your bloodline?” he teased.
She frowned and fed him another lie. “No.”
“I didn't think so. You got a name or should I call you Red?”
She thought better of telling him her name, but one look in his eyes changed her mind. He didn't give off the impression of someone intent on doing her harm. “Romancia.”
Cocking his head, he smiled again. “That's a bigger mouthful than Red.”
“Romy,” she clarified.
“Romy.”
It came out soft and sweet, like he'd picked it ripe from the vine and savored the syllables. It melted the last of her suspicions about him.
He nodded. “It suits you. Rolls right off the tongue.”
She snorted and rolled her eyes. Then she clasped a hand over her mouth, horrified at the noise. Abel stared before he burst out laughing.
“Oh, dear. Forgive me,” she whispered.
He stopped laughing, but the smile didn't leave his face. “Anything for a lady.”
“I am a lady.” By repeating it, she hoped the message would sink into her overstimulated brain.
“Temper like that, you couldn't be anything else. Since we're on a first name basis now, you want to dance? The music is a little different than the square dances back home, but I think I can manage without embarrassing you too much.”
She fought the urge to roll her eyes again. “Have you seen this dress? I'm the laughingstock already.”
His warm gaze roamed over her from head to toe, but skipped neatly over her bust line and came back to her face.
“I like it. It's unique like you. Foul-mouthed little vixen one minute, an innocent young woman the next. You pull some of the lace and those godawful bows off of there and you might have something.”
She frowned, looking down at the hideous creation. “You really think so?”
A sparkle appeared in Abel's eyes. “Or we could strip you out of it entirely and see what kind of frilly little under—”
“Let's dance,” she interrupted. “I'm not familiar with your dance squares or what have you, but I’ve already caused a commotion amongst these people. It wouldn't matter if I painted my face and prayed to the Indian gods for a flood. Nothing would surprise them.”
He stiffened as if she'd said something offensive.
“Mr. Courte?”
The smile that seemed never to fail him vanished. His eyes, so alive with merriment a moment ago went flat.
“Have I upset you?”
He shook his head and pressed a hand to the center of his chest. His fingers traced a shape she hadn't noticed under his shirt. An amulet or talisman of some sort, she reckoned. Romy raised her eyes again. The smile was back, a forced imitation of the earlier one.
He seemed to struggle with taking his hand from his chest. “You didn't upset me. I remembered something I'd forgotten.”
“You're quite sure you're all right?” she asked uncertainly. Why she cared about this arrogant stranger was a mystery. Maybe it was the thrill of doing something she shouldn’t, but mostly likely it came from the flattering things he said.
“Sorry, darlin'. I've got time for a quick dance before I've got to get out of here.”
She ignored the endearment. “Are you a fugitive, Mr. Courte?”
He laughed, sounding normal again.
“Call me Abel. A fugitive from society maybe, but there's no price on my head. It's been too long since I got to stumble around the floor with a pretty gal. Let's go.”
His hand slid down her back, settling a few inches above her bottom. A possessive touch, if there ever was one. Even through the layers, she felt the heat of his palm. She remembered sitting on his lap, pressed close to his body, the pleasant shock of his mouth on hers. He was right; she wanted him to do it again.
Her inner Imogen, a devilish voice she fought to suppress, protested. You're a lady. A lady, not a harlot. What would Papa say?
But it didn't matter. She was only going to share one dance with him and then they'd likely never cross paths again. They found an empty spot on the ballroom floor. He moved with grace, stepping in time to the music. Whatever he said about not knowing the dance was bunk. His movements were catlike and sure. Eyes burned into them from all around the ballroom. She wondered what they thought, all those people watching her dance with a mysterious stranger. It pleased her even as she worried Papa might be looking on as well.
“You dance well—for a cowboy.”
He winked. “Maybe not as well as your ordinary gentleman, but I do a fair waltz. How long have you been in America?”
“How do you know I wasn't born here?” she asked.
He gave her knowing look. “I might be from Texas, but I ain't as dumb as some think. These New Englanders talk funny, but they ain’t got anything on you.”
She smiled. “All right, a year. Long enough for me to realize I don't quite fit in.”
Abel looked around, as though trying to figure out why she considered herself different from these people. “You prefer England?”
She searched his face to see if he was really interested and not being polite. “Honestly?”
He nodded. “Tell me the truth.”
Romy pursed her lips and glanced around to be sure no one was listening. “It's not that I dislike England. It is home, after a fashion.”
“But?”
She stared over his shoulder, wishing she could confess everything to someone. To him. “I don't like the rules. I wouldn't mind Massachusetts so much, but Papa won't let me explore anything outside the city. There are certain places ladies cannot go.”
His eyebrows shot up, giving away his surprise. “How would you go exploring in a ball gown? You might do a re
peat of your performance in the street this morning.”
“I wouldn't expect someone like you to understand.” Even in his dress clothes, he emitted a carefree air. “You have no idea how dreary it is to sit and sew or to paint landscapes. To go to tea parties where you aren't wanted. Some days I think I might go mad if I see one more hairpin.”
A smile crossed his lips. “I'll bet you run your parents ragged with all the trouble you get into.”
She bit her lower lip. It was true. Poor Papa had lost everything because of her mishap in South America. Now she was failing him as a lady. “I love my father, but I don't think I please him as a daughter.”
Concern filled Abel's eyes. “I'm sure that's not true, Romy. You look pretty in that dress. And you dance like your feet don't touch the floor. What more could he want?”
She swallowed the lump in her throat. “To marry me off so he can get back to his life.”
“What life?”
Lowering her eyes, she stared at the odd shape beneath his shirt. “You must have heard of Dr. Maggard Farrington.”
He stiffened again, but didn't lose his step. “You're his daughter?”
His grip slackened. For a moment she thought he'd turn her loose altogether. Annoyance tugged her lips into a frown. “You needn't look so shocked.”
“I'm not,” he denied a little too casually. His eyes scanned the crowd around them and he recovered himself. “I'm a fan of his work. He's made some interesting finds.”
“Thank you, I'm aware of his accomplishments.” And had accompanied him on every expedition. They should have been anywhere but in a crowded ballroom in Boston. Except then, she'd never have met Abel, which would have been a pity.
Sympathy shone from his eyes. “Of course you are. Big shoes to fill. It must be hard, as a woman.”
She tried to pull away, insulted at his insinuation, but he held tight. “Because I'm a woman? I can go anywhere a man can go. I'm not some simple child who needs her hand held and reminded not to pet the wild animals.”
“Romy?” he said in a hushed voice.
“What?”
“You're getting kinda loud, darlin'.”
The Treasure Hunter's Lady Page 3
