A hush fell over the grand hall. The sudden silence tugged Neville from his dour introspection, and he noticed the wide-eyed stares, the parted lips, and the frozen gestures of the ball guests.
Katarina was their focus. She stood alone at the edge of the ballroom, a shining beacon of violet elegance in a frilly sea of white and pink. Neville then noticed that his uncle had simply walked off, leaving Katarina alone in a room of social vipers!
Was Oliver mad? When had he become such an ill-mannered boor?
Neville was furious. He excused himself from Mrs. Beckham and went to Katarina’s side.
“Thank you,” she said, attempting a smile as she slipped her arm into his. “Clearly, I have made a terrible mistake in my choice of gown. I fear I am a spectacle.”
When Neville looked at her, he felt an unexpected lightness spread though his chest. For a moment he did not know what to say. “You are an original, Katarina, never doubt it. You are a monarch among the moths. I am honored to stand by your side.”
When her gaze met his, Neville saw the sparkle of moisture in her brown eyes. She lowered her thick black eyelashes and whispered, “The honor is mine, Neville.”
Paulette Beckham wasted no time in setting the stage for her daughter’s debut. She sidled up to Neville and asked for his assistance. “Your Grace, would you be so kind as to introduce me to the most wealthy and powerful woman in the room?”
Neville found himself smiling. “I believe I am speaking to her now.”
Paulette laughed none too daintily and gave him a friendly pat on the shoulder. “Indeed, Your Grace. I shall settle for the second-most wealthy and powerful, then. Please lead the way.”
He introduced the Beckhams to their hostess, Edna Fletcher, who welcomed them with a restrained enthusiasm and a blatant appraisal of their attire. “Wherever did you get those gowns?”
Paulette stroked her blue satin skirts. “Oh, a humble little London dress shop. We happened to stumble upon it, didn’t we, Katarina? Perhaps you have heard of it?”
Mrs. Fletcher raised a doubtful eyebrow, then exchanged glances with several of her associates in the business of Society. “Surely not.”
“Oh! Well, the dressmaker’s name was ‘Lemon’ something. What was it again, dear?”
“Lementeur, Mummy.”
“Quite.” Paulette pretended not to notice the stunned expressions of the women before her. “He claims to be terribly busy, but perhaps I can offer you an introduction.”
Neville asked Katarina if she would like some punch, and they left the ladies to their negotiations. They had not gone far when Neville heard Paulette managing to include “sugar plantation,” “widowed,” and “heiress” in the same sentence.
Katarina sighed. “I shall be terribly relieved when this night is over.”
“You do not care for balls?”
She shrugged “I would not know. This is my first true ball. There were cotillions in Barbados, certainly, but nothing as grand as this.”
A wave of whispers rushed through the room. Neville glanced about, knowing he had never witnessed anything quite like it. It was as if he were seeing and hearing a great wind sweep across the wheat fields . . . “That girl is a sugar plantation heiress.”
They never made it to the refreshment table.
For the next half hour, Neville held the line against an advancing horde of potential suitors. Poor Katarina was wide-eyed and flustered at first, overwhelmed with all the attention and invitations to dance. She proved to be a quick study, however, and in short order was an expert in the mating rites of a minor but bothersome local subspecies: the poor-but-titled English aristocracy.
Neville fended off the most egregiously unsuitable ones, whispering in Katarina’s ear as each fellow made his approach. “That one lost the family estate in a poker game,” he told her. And “that one fathered three illegitimate children before the age of twenty” or “that one drank away his fortune.”
Mrs. Beckham returned to her daughter’s side, her satisfied smile indicating she was pleased with the evening’s progress.
Neville was surprised to realize he was enjoying himself as well. Although new to the game, Katarina was no fool. Soon, she could guess a prospective suitor’s suitability before Neville even spoke a word. “This one looks like a handful,” she murmured to Neville on the approach of one aging dandy. “I cannot drum up interest in anyone who wears his breeches so tight.”
It was clear that the lovely Katarina would have her choice of suitors, and Neville knew he should be happy for her. Therefore he was dismayed to admit that he felt somewhat territorial. He told himself it was a brotherly kind of protectiveness. After all, she was a guest in his home.
Even as he laughed quietly at one of Katarina’s acerbic assessments, his gaze was suddenly drawn to the opposite end of the ballroom. He would later wonder what had snared his attention so absolutely. Was it the way she moved? The shiny brightness of her hair? The overflowing charms of her figure, perfectly framed in a flawless pale blue gown?
Or was it her demeanor? For as Neville stared at Bliss he saw she seemed distressed. Her shoulders drooped ever so slightly. There was a shadow in her expression, a sadness, perhaps.
It was so unlike his tranquil, imperturbable Bliss.
Neville knew he must go to her. None of this was her doing. He believed that now. They would find a way to move beyond all this confusion. He took a step in her direction.
• • •
BLISS FOUND HERSELF in a most unexpected circumstance. She stood alone at the edges of the ballroom, observing the ebb and flow of the elegantly attired crowd. Every now and again she would overhear snippets of conversations or recognize a laugh. Bliss smiled and nodded when an acquaintance strolled past. Those so-called friends met her greeting with frozen expressions and twitchy unease.
If it were all not so terribly awkward, she might have been amused. She imagined she presented them with quite the poser. After all, as Bliss Worthington, she had been legitimately invited to the event. Here she stood, in one of the finest gowns in the room. She was not vain to recognize that she was also one of the most conventionally attractive females present.
Her Worthington family might be considered odd, but they had long been accepted because of various high connections.
Yet—her recent marriage was still a white-hot scandal. The groom was a lowly sea captain, a bastard.
But he was a duke’s bastard.
Really, she must be such an unsettling dish for Society to stomach!
She reminded herself that being alone at one of London’s most fashionable balls was not a hardship. Increasing her social status had never been one of her goals.
And, in the strictest sense, she was not alone. Bliss had sent a message to Worthington House the moment she realized Morgan would not be accompanying her.
Her male cousins had been suitably protective when they arrived at Morgan’s small house in their rickety carriage. Apparently, Bliss had been so successful in her assurances that she much preferred to go alone that once they had escorted her inside the ballroom, they wandered off to visit with friends, raise a glass or two, and dance.
As they should. Bliss was now a married woman. She no longer required constant chaperonage. In fact, she found the independence rather novel.
Her gaze was drawn to the opposite end of the grand hall. Neville had attended after all. There he stood, tall and boyishly handsome in his evening attire. But who was that stunning creature on his arm? It took a moment for her to realize it was a nearly unrecognizable Katarina Beckham!
Miss Beckham must be a girl of great resourcefulness, for Bliss had no doubt that the regal violet gown was Lementeur’s handiwork. Who else but Button and Cabot could create a style so perfectly flattering to Katarina’s slim figure?
The real mystery was how Katarina managed to get an appointme
nt just days after arriving from the West Indies.
Bliss gazed at Neville with new eyes. As always, he was sweetly handsome when he smiled, something he seemed to do often in Miss Beckham’s presence. Bliss noticed how he inclined his head to speak with her, how his face lit up at her words.
This is your chance. Go now and speak to him. Tell him about Lord Oliver’s interference! Tell him how badly you wish to be free of Captain Pryce!
The very thought of being free of Morgan sent a jolt through her, and it was not relief she felt. It was loss.
There was Neville, mere steps away. Neville, who was the man she’d always wanted.
I don’t know what I want any longer. Bliss tore her gaze away from Neville. She had no right to stare. She was married to another.
Yes, to a man who does not believe a word you say!
Bliss pulled her shawl tighter over her shoulders and forced her expression into one of stately geniality. She could not allow her face to hint at the unhappiness now threatening to overwhelm her.
Morgan had not said a word to her since he’d lost his temper on the Selkie Maid. Bliss missed him more than she could ever have anticipated.
He was clearly avoiding her now. He spent nearly every hour since their disagreement on his ship, and when he returned home he was careful not to enter any room where Bliss might be. He did not dine with her. He left without saying when he planned to return.
This pushing and pulling had left Bliss utterly exhausted. How could a man want to kiss her one day and then refuse to listen to her the next? Bliss had merely wished to tell him of her encounter with Lord Oliver. But he refused to hear the truth. He did not believe in her.
Yet only a day earlier he had asked Bliss for permission to kiss her, and she had been dangerously close to granting it. What if they had chosen another alley and had never met those ruffians? Would she have submitted to Morgan? Would she have thrown away all her resolute plans for another taste of his lips on hers?
Bliss knew that if she had, she would be standing here this evening a married woman in truth, a woman in full, for she would not have left Morgan in that big copper tub. She would have joined him and become his wife once and for all.
Bliss suddenly felt her skin tingle. She turned this way, then that, in search of the source.
There, striding toward her.
Morgan.
• • •
DAMN IT, HE had not wanted to come, but Morgan supposed it was the curse of being an honorable bastard. He had promised to accompany Bliss to this silly event, and he kept his promises. Always.
Even to a woman he could not fully trust, a woman who tried to malign his uncle, a woman who drove him mad with her beauty, her bravery, her bloody unwavering capability!
Blast! The Worthingtons! Morgan slipped behind a large potted palm, pausing until he could be certain Daedalus and Castor Worthington hadn’t spotted him. The last thing he wanted was to be forced to defend himself to that crowd again, not until he himself stopped questioning the wisdom of his own actions. At this juncture, Morgan was no longer entirely certain his masquerade had been a righteous one.
Assured the Worthingtons had not spied him, Morgan straightened to his full height and continued through the ballroom.
Damn it! Neville!
Morgan made a dash to the next strategically located palm. He hoped there were enough potted plants in the place to get him through the night.
He peeked through the fronds, and was pleased to see Neville looking so well—and so sober. The duke strolled arm in arm with a striking young woman draped in a column of purple silk. Neville seemed to like her very much.
As much as the pairing intrigued him, Morgan knew he had to get as far away from this side of the room as possible. He stood once more, turned, and stopped in midstride.
Bliss.
God, that woman is beautiful.
Morgan could not deny it—the first thing he noticed was the cut of her ball gown. He could not help himself, for the gown was a bloody declaration.
The neckline did more than accent Bliss’s bounty—it proclaimed it with the fanfare of angels and trumpets. She was glorious. Alluring. Tempting. She was a ripe, bounteous miracle of femininity and grace.
He was clearly not alone in his admiration of her. Every man in the vicinity still drawing breath had difficulty keeping his attention focused elsewhere—anywhere—but on Bliss.
Heat simmered in his gut. Morgan’s shoulders stiffened. He itched to shout out to all of them that this woman waited for him.
Mine.
Oh hell. I think I’m jealous.
The concept shocked him.
Morgan denied it, squelching the very thought. Yet he kept walking, his eyes never leaving Bliss. She tipped her head to glance at the ceiling. Jeweled bobs flashed in her ears.
Then Morgan realized what he should have seen sooner: Bliss Worthington was from a different world than he. She was from this world, the realm of wealth and manners and grand ballroom and fine jewels. Bliss belonged here.
Morgan did not.
Bliss had no need to marry Neville to gain station in Society. She was Society.
Morgan felt heat spread up his neck. Could it be possible that Bliss and Neville had shared a true affection, despite what Uncle Oliver claimed?
She glanced down at the marble floor. Morgan was not fooled by her halfhearted, feigned interest in the comings and goings. He saw melancholy in Bliss’s eyes.
Was he responsible for it?
Morgan strode toward her. Faster. Bliss turned his way.
He could barely breathe.
Their eyes met, and he watched Bliss come to life. Her face lit up with delight, her eyes flashed, and her smile widened. Morgan had always found her appealing, of course, but at that moment, when she approached him in that delicious confection of pale blue silk, he saw more than just an appealing woman. He saw his goddess of the sea, his mermaid, his Bliss.
Could she truly be as good as she looked?
“You came.”
Morgan wanted to wrap her in his arms. He wanted to kiss her, rejoice in the knowledge that she was his wife. Morgan wanted to trust her—oh God, how he wished he could trust her.
“I always keep my word, Mrs. Pryce.” He reached for her hand and took a step back. “You are absolutely stunning this evening.”
“Thank you, Captain Pryce.” Her cheeks flushed prettily, but there was a question in her eyes. “I had little hope you would join me this evening. You were so terribly—”
“I apologize.” Morgan bowed to her gallantly, hoping to end the topic of conversation. Not now. He merely wished to make good on his promise and leave as soon as possible. He had not come to continue their disagreement.
He straightened and smiled politely at Bliss. “Would you like to take a turn around the floor, Mrs. Pryce?” He already began to spin her, and the flickering chandeliers shone in her hair and the blue silk glimmered about her ankles. Bliss’s light scent carried on the air and into his brain. It was enough to make him dizzy with longing.
To trust or not to trust?
Morgan had not intended to dance, but he had to do something other than stand there and gape at her while doing battle with himself. One turn around the ballroom and he would have met his obligation.
It was a waltz. Morgan boldly pulled her close to the front of his body, which caused Bliss to gasp. They were married. Such proximity was perfectly acceptable. And it was no violation of his promise—he was quite certain that dancing did not count.
Dancing never counted.
• • •
NEVILLE HAD NOT realized that Morgan was as at ease in a ballroom as he was on the deck of a ship. Or perhaps it was merely the obvious suitability of the pair on the dance floor.
Gone was Bliss’s air of sadness. She glowed in Morgan’s arms. More
over, that smile—
Never did I make her smile so.
The truth thudded to the pit of Neville’s belly. Morgan and Bliss were together by choice. They were a married couple, a loving couple. However it had begun, with trickery or conspiracy, it was now something much more. When Morgan dipped his head to kiss her cheek, Neville had to look away.
No! Bliss should have been his lovely wife! She should have been the Duchess of Camberton!
To hell with it. Sobriety was overvalued. Neville stalked off toward the gentlemen’s card room, forgetting all about defending Katarina from her mob of suitors, determined to find relief in the first bottle of whiskey he could get his hands on.
He would not look at the blissful dancers. He would never look upon them again.
• • •
AFTER A FEW turns about the floor with Bliss in his arms, Morgan found himself fatally entranced. The heat of her body, the satin of her skin, and the glorious music had lulled him into a reverie. His thoughts wandered to the memory of her stirring a pot in the kitchen, to the look of sweet welcome in her eyes a moment ago, to the fantasy of waking in her arms every morning. It was jarring when Bliss tugged him to a sudden stop.
“Oh heavens!” Bliss stared over Morgan’s shoulder, her eyes wide with wonder. Then she mumbled, more to herself than Morgan. “The Prince Regent is here?”
“Prince—?” Morgan turned in time to be swept aside by a host of royal guards. Bliss had not been mistaken. The Prince Regent approached, clearly as taken with Bliss as every other man in the room.
Prince George reached for Bliss’s hand and bowed over it.
“Hello, my pretty creature!” The prince kissed her hand and kept it in his, pulling her a bit closer.
Morgan straightened in protest, but he could not reach her. The Prince Regent hired the largest and the most devoted men in England. Though the guards did not put their hands on him, they kept him at bay.
Morgan was stunned and furious—the Prince Regent was flirting with Bliss! Trust the old goat to seek out the prettiest woman in the room. Even at his age, he was always on the lookout for a new mistress, it was rumored!
Wedded Bliss Page 22
