by Candace Camp
Megan was too accustomed to asking unwelcome reporters’ questions to be turned aside by the other woman’s manner. She merely smiled and said, “It’s not that I am not grateful for your kindness and generosity, Mrs. McIntyre. Or that I’m not looking forward to being Cinderella at the ball. It is just, well, I cannot help but wonder why you are going to so much trouble to take me to this party.”
Kyria’s snobbish expression dissolved into a grin. “All right. I do have an ulterior motive. Surely you know what that is—I would like to put Lady Scarle’s nose out of joint.”
“She has had her tentacles out for Theo for months now,” Olivia put in, surprising Megan a little. She would have thought Lady St. Leger was as unobservant as her father of all things social.
“He doesn’t have any partiality for her, though,” Anna said. “Does he?”
“Oh, no. He has never been more than polite to her,” Kyria replied. “It’s just…well, I worry sometimes that she will keep after him so long that she will wear him down. Or that she will manage to trick him into some compromising position. You know Theo. He would marry her if he thought honor demanded it.”
“She is just the sort who would do something like that,” Olivia agreed.
Megan could understand Theo’s loving sisters’ motives. She would herself relish irritating the obnoxious Lady Scarle.
“But why—I mean, what does that have to do with me?” Megan blurted out, then blushed to her hairline.
Kyria let out a throaty chuckle. “My dear Miss Henderson, surely you have noticed that our brother spends an inordinate amount of time with the twins these days.”
“And he is not usually inclined to scholarly pursuits,” Olivia stuck in with a smile.
“Lady Helena saw it as soon as the two of you walked into the drawing room the other day. Her back went up immediately. Even she isn’t usually quite that rude. She was livid when I said you were coming with us to the ball.” Kyria smiled at the memory of the other woman’s discomfiture. “I intend for her to be even more upset when she sees you this Friday evening.”
Megan could not understand Kyria’s satisfaction at the thought of her brother’s interest in a mere employee. The Morelands were abnormally egalitarian for aristocrats, of course. Kyria herself had married an American and was quite happy to be addressed as Mrs. McIntyre instead of Lady Kyria. But Rafe McIntyre was at least enormously wealthy, whereas Megan was nothing but a tutor.
It was not, she supposed, as bad as her real occupation—she could think of little an aristocratic family would like less than one of them marrying a muckraking careerwoman. But even so, she was not only a commoner and a foreigner, she was someone who worked for them. And while a daughter might marry outside their group of peers, as Kyria and Thisbe had obviously done, it was an altogether different thing for their firstborn son, the heir to the ancient title, to do so. A tutoress as the next duchess? It would be, Megan guessed, unthinkable.
Then she realized that that very fact was the answer to her question. Kyria and Olivia knew that Megan was so unacceptable as a wife that Theo would never consider marriage to her. It would not be the same as falling into the clutches of a woman of good birth, whom he might have to marry. An employee, and an American at that, would never be anything to Theo but a passing fancy—a mistress, at best.
Megan was aware of a pang of hurt and disappointment at the thought. She liked Kyria and Olivia, and it wounded her to think that they did not consider the consequences for her in their scheme to keep their brother out of Lady Scarle’s clutches.
Somewhat subdued, she stood, letting Joan crawl around her skirt, pinning it up here and there, while the other women chattered about ribbons and jewelry and the dreadful Lady Scarle. When the maid finally finished, Megan quickly got out of the elegant gown and back into her own plain clothes, and left the ladies with a polite smile and thank-you.
She went through the rest of the week careening back and forth between conflicting emotions. Part of her did not want to go to the benefit, didn’t want to face Theo—or Lady Scarle. Yet she knew that she had to; it was a perfect opportunity to see Mr. Coffey again and question him privately about the trip he had made with Theo and her brother.
However, she knew that it was not simply this opportunity that made her a little breathless with anticipation every time she thought about the ball. She wanted to see herself dressed in the beautiful gown; she could not help but imagine how Theo would look when he saw her—the smile that would curve his mouth and the heat that would light his eyes. She wanted to put that hot glow of passion in his eyes; indeed, she melted a little inside just thinking about it.
But the thought scared her as much as it excited her. She did not want to have to face the man’s passion again. Did she? Surely she did not really look forward to having to fend off his advances—or the guilty shame that would assail her if she gave in to his drugging kisses.
By the time the evening of the museum benefit arrived, Megan’s stomach was a ball of nerves. Joan had brought the dress to her that afternoon, altered and pressed, and had hung it carefully in her wardrobe, pushing all other clothes back so that nothing would crease the ball gown. Hanging there in solitary splendor, it was even more magnificent than Megan had imagined. Joan’s touch of scalloping the skirt, with lace inserts peeking through between, added richness and sophistication, as did the drapery over the heightened bustle.
She had also brought the simple cameo, tacked with Joan’s infinitesimal stitches onto a grosgrain ribbon that matched the copper color of the lace, and it now lay spread out on Megan’s vanity. Beside it lay the simple onyx ear bobs that matched the background of the cameo.
Megan had just sat down to begin her toilette when there was a knock on the door and Joan entered. When Megan looked at her, surprised, Joan said, “Her ladyship sent me over to do your hair, miss.”
The maid looked, Megan thought, a trifle miffed. No doubt she preferred to be at her mistress’s side, putting the final touches on Kyria’s beauty. However, she went to work on Megan’s hair with deft efficiency, sweeping it up into a knot, then separating it and winding each strand around her finger, so that the ensuing curls fell in a cascade. Artfully, she arranged delicate feathery curls around Megan’s face. To complete the hairdo, she wound a coppery satin ribbon around the knot and through the curls.
Joan helped Megan into the petticoats and bustle, cinching her up in her corset so tightly that Megan wondered if she would be able to breathe at all that evening. Carefully, Joan lifted the dress over Megan’s head and brought it down, hooking it up the back and arranging the folds of her skirt so that they fell exactly right. She finished her work of art by fastening the cameo on Megan’s neck and putting in the simple earrings.
She stepped back, allowing Megan to look at the finished product. Megan drew in an involuntary gasp. Kyria’s sense of style had been unerring. The stylish dress complemented the color of her hair and eyes, and her pale skin glowed against its satin richness. The cameo around her neck was at once simple and devastating, showing off the elegant line of her neck and drawing the eye without distracting from the expanse of her bosom swelling up from the neckline of the dress.
Megan had always known that she was pretty in a casual way, but never had she imagined that she could look striking. Somehow, she marveled, Joan and Kyria had managed to make her look both desirable and unattainable.
She smiled blindingly at Kyria’s maid. “You are an artist, Joan. Thank you.”
Joan nodded, accepting Megan’s praise as her due. “Her ladyship said that was just how you would look. She’s a canny one.” She stepped forward and pinched Megan sharply on both cheeks, startling her. “There, now there’s a little color in your cheeks. Just perfect. Press your lips together and put a little color in them, too.”
She stepped back, grinning. “Everybody’ll be wondering who the new American beauty is at the ball tonight.”
Megan could only laugh, excitement bubbling up in her. S
he swept from her room and walked down the stairs, where several of the Morelands already waited, including Theo. He looked up at the sound of her footsteps, and the stunned expression on his face was everything she could have hoped for.
“Miss Henderson, how lovely you look,” the duchess said, moving forward to take Megan’s hand and smile down at her. “Doesn’t she, Henry?”
“Yes, yes, lovely, my dear.” The duke smiled benignly and rather vaguely at Megan, then back at his wife, adding, “Not as lovely as you, of course. You are stunning, as always.”
It was the truth, for the duchess, with her regal height and still slender figure, the dramatic streaks of white in her vibrant red hair, made a striking figure, despite the unostentatious lack of jewelry at her throat and ears, and the almost severe cut of her peacock-blue dress.
Theo stepped forward as his parents turned away, and took Megan’s hand in his, raising it to his lips in formal greeting. She glanced away, struggling to suppress the flicker of nerves inside her at the touch of his lips upon her skin.
“You are beautiful,” he murmured, and the flicker of heat in his eyes as he looked down into hers underlined his words. “I can see that I will have to beat your admirers back if I hope to have a dance with you.”
Megan smiled. “I am sure that is not the case.”
“Will you promise me your first waltz?” he asked.
“I would not think that is appropriate, surely,” she said, casting an unabashedly flirtatious glance up at him through her lashes. “The future Duke of Broughton, taking the governess out onto the floor for the first waltz.”
He grinned. “It will doubtless scandalize the old biddies. Now I am determined to do it.”
She chuckled, though she shook her head.
His fingers tightened on hers. “You cannot abandon me to all those ambitious mothers and their daughters. Please, say you will save me.”
“Don’t be absurd.”
“You would not say that if you had seen them.”
Megan could not keep from smiling. “All right. I will give you my first waltz.” She paused, then added, “But only to save you from the overbearing mamas.”
“Of course.” He turned and picked up a white box from the nearby table. Turning back, he held it out to Megan, saying, “I did not know the color of your dress….”
She took the box, surprised, and opened it with suddenly fumbling fingers. Inside, nestled on a bed of green tissue, lay a delicate white gardenia, framed by its waxy dark green leaves.
“Theo—I mean, Lord Raine…” Megan had not expected this. She reached into the box and pulled out the fragile white flower, breathing in its heady scent. “I—I don’t know what to say. It is beautiful.”
“It pales in comparison to you,” he murmured, taking the small corsage from her hand and fastening it around her wrist. Then he raised her arm so he could smell the flower. Turning her hand, he brushed his lips against the tender flesh inside her wrist.
Megan jumped a little, startled, and cast a swift glance toward his parents. The duke and duchess, fortunately, were engrossed in each other and paying no attention to anyone else.
“Please…you should not,” Megan told him a little breathlessly and took a step back from him. She lifted her head and looked into his eyes, saying softly, “Thank you.”
There was the sound of footsteps at the top of the stairs, and they turned to look up, moving a step farther apart as Anna and Reed came down the stairs to join them. The duke and duchess turned and came over, and for a while they all chatted casually. Megan moved subtly away from Theo, directing most of her comments to the others.
Kyria and Rafe arrived a few minutes later. Kyria was stunning in a gown of pale green silk, pulled back in the front and falling from a bustle in three puffed tiers. Silver lace decorated the hem of the dress and made an inverted V below the tiers of material in the back. Around her neck was a magnificent emerald necklace that would doubtless have outshone anyone less stunning than Kyria.
Kyria gave Megan a swift, assessing glance, and a small smile touched her lips when she saw the corsage on Megan’s wrist. Stepping forward, she greeted Megan with a peck on the cheek, murmuring, “You look beautiful, just as I thought you would.”
Linking her arm through Megan’s, Kyria said, “Theo, why don’t you and Miss Henderson come with us? Papa’s carriage will be too crowded with all of you.”
As they walked out to the carriage, Kyria leaned closer, confiding to Megan in a whisper, “I want to make sure I am there when you arrive. I am anticipating with great glee the look on Lady Scarle’s face.”
“I cannot imagine that anyone will look at me much, Mrs. McIntyre, when I am standing beside you.”
Kyria let out a light laugh. “Don’t underestimate yourself, Miss Henderson. Besides, everyone is quite accustomed to seeing me, whereas you are someone new and different. Everyone will be wondering who you are.”
“Theo and I will be considered the luckiest men there tonight, to be with two women as beautiful as you,” Rafe put in diplomatically in his lazy drawl.
“I feel a little like Cinderella at the ball,” Megan confessed.
Theo smiled at her, kicking up a clutch of nerves in her stomach. “Just so long as you don’t disappear at midnight.”
“I think I can guarantee that I will not.” Megan could not keep from smiling back. How could this man be a murderer?
But he was, and she had to remember that. Theo Moreland was her enemy. She turned her head away, breaking their locked gazes, and kept it that way for the rest of the ride.
CHAPTER 13
The McIntyres’ carriage pulled into a long line of carriages that rolled down the driveway to the front door of the Cavendish Museum. People were streaming up the steps and into the house, the men in formal black and the women decked out in the finest satins and laces, gems glittering at their throats and ears.
Megan looked out the window at the sight of the richly dressed crowd, unable to suppress her excitement. She was not one who yearned for the glitter of wealth and sophistication, but she had to admit that it wouldn’t be bad to participate in this sort of life every once in a while.
Inside the house, many of the exhibits had been removed or pushed back against the walls, opening up the large rooms to the crowd. The largest of the rooms had been emptied completely, and a small group of musicians were set up at one end to provide music.
They had scarcely entered the house when Megan felt the same uneasy feeling of being watched that she had experienced the other day as she walked home. A quick survey of the place provided the reason. Lady Helena Scarle was standing on the stairs—the better, Megan suspected, to be seen by all—staring down at Megan with hot, angry eyes. Her lovely face was transformed for an instant into a grotesque mask of fury before she managed to pull it back into a cool, politely smiling facade. She turned to the man beside her and gazed raptly into his eyes, letting out a sparkling laugh at some witticism.
If the lady was playing this little scene for Theo’s benefit, Megan thought, she had miscalculated badly. Theo, his head turned to listen to a remark Rafe had made, was not even looking at Lady Helena.
Megan turned toward Kyria, who cast her a devilish grin. Obviously she, too, had witnessed Lady Scarle’s reaction.
“Come, let me introduce you around,” she told Megan, taking her hand and leading her toward a group of women.
Megan could see the interest and speculation in the other women’s eyes as Kyria introduced her, saying only that she was a friend of hers from America.
“Another American?” one of the women said, lifting an eyebrow. “How unusual. You are the second American I have met tonight.”
“Really?” Megan replied, not sure what she could say to that.
“Yes. What was that girl’s name—you remember, the one with that banker fellow, Barchester.”
“Oh, yes. Quiet little thing—can’t say I remember,” the woman on her left replied.
“Barchester?” Megan repeated, her stomach knotting. An American girl with Mr. Barchester?
She glanced around the room, hoping that she looked only mildly curious.
“Yes. Can’t say as I see them right now.”
“Some sort of Irish name, wasn’t it?” her companion added.
Megan had little doubt now that the women were talking about Deirdre. Mr. Barchester must have brought her to the ball with him. The thought made her a little panicky. What if Theo heard Deirdre’s last name and remembered it as Dennis’s last name? At least, she thought, she and her sister were very different in coloring, so with luck Theo would not guess that they were related, even if he met Deirdre.
As she and Kyria strolled around the room, Megan glanced about unobtrusively, looking for her sister. Perhaps she should go to the stairs, as Lady Scarle had done, she thought, so that she could look over the crowd better.
They had covered most of the downstairs when Theo and Rafe rejoined them. Rafe swept his wife off for a dance, and Megan was left alone with Theo.
“I have been besieged by chaps wanting an introduction to you,” he told her, his eyes warm on her face.
“They probably think I am an American heiress since I am with your family. Just tell them I am the tutoress, and they will melt away.”
He grinned. “Perhaps I should try that—although I fear it would scare off only a portion of them. I told most of them that your dance card was full.”
“So now I shall be a wallflower?” Megan asked with mock indignation. In fact, she had little desire to get out on the dance floor, unsure if her adolescent practicing with Deirdre in their room at home would hold up to British Society’s standards.
“Credit British men with a little more perseverance,” he retorted. “They will wangle an introduction from my parents or sisters. I have no doubt that you will be bombarded with invitations to dance.” He paused, then added, “Which is precisely why I intend to take that first waltz you promised me before any of the others show up here.”
