by Jo Beverley
“Absurd, isn’t it?”
Bella started and turned to face the speaker—a young man in peasant clothing. He wore a knee-length tunic of undyed homespun over brown leggings. He had dark stubble on his chin, unkempt grayish hair, and his mask was merely a rag wrapped around his eyes that left only a narrow gap.
For a moment she thought him an impudent servant, but the voice had not been a servant’s voice. Clearly he was a gentleman, and one who took bold liberties with the limits of the costumes here to come as a Roman slave.
He was waiting for her response, perhaps wondering at her silence.
She chose rapidly between jaded and appreciative and preferred honesty. “I think it’s lovely. I wonder if it truly resembles Italy.”
“As a theater set resembles anything. But you think Ithorne’s done a tolerable job?”
“I doubt the noble duke actually did anything.”
Her companion chuckled. “How true. ‘Here, minion, do this. Hence serf and do that.’ ”
His tone told her he was a kindred spirit in dislike of the idle rich.
He seemed to notice the same thing about her. “Clearly we’re companion souls,” he said. “Come dance with me.”
It might be taken as a request, but instead of offering his hand for her to take, he grasped hers and drew her back toward the stairs.
After an instinctive resistance, Bella went. She needed to be unobtrusive here until later, when the wickedness should begin, and a lady with a partner would be less notable than one alone. She couldn’t deny that she’d also love to dance again, just once. It had been so long.
As she’d thought, when she had an escort other men didn’t bother her. A lady should be able to go around unescorted and free from insult, but her heart wasn’t in outrage at the moment. In truth, her heart was in disarray.
No, not her heart. She wasn’t falling in love, but she was teetering on some brink, and all because a strong, masculine hand captured hers. How long had it been since a man had held her hand, both of them ungloved, skin-to-skin?
Four years, she supposed, at some country dance. Or perhaps when Coxy and Naiscourt had forced her into a coach.
“What angers you, sweet nymph?” her companion asked.
Bella realized they’d reached the top of the stairs and she was frowning. He mustn’t think her unusual in any way, so she quickly smiled. “Only the crush, sir, and hence the delay at reaching the ballroom. I do enjoy dancing.”
He glanced at the crowd blocking their way. “Shall I command a parting of the ways?”
“Are you Moses, then? You do wear a slavish costume.”
“Merely a poor goatherd allowed off my solitary peak to play. But if we were to pretend all these inconvenient people were goats, I might know how to manage them.”
“Goats? At the Olympian Revels?”
“Aristocratic goats are still goats. Only hear them bleat.”
Bella had to chuckle. “Lud, sir! I fear you’ll come to a dire end.”
“Sent back to my mountain? Or forced to flee the country, like poor old Wilkes? Never fear: I’m not foolish enough to put my disrespectful thoughts into print. Are you?”
Bella gulped. Had she been caught so easily? “What disrespectful thoughts would I have?” she managed.
“About idle Ithorne, for one. He probably has a dungeon deep below for insolence like that.”
“More than likely. I hear he’s a rake of the lowest degree.”
He smiled. “A duke is never low, sweet nymph.”
“Perhaps not in this life.”
“Ah, you anticipate when we shall all be divided into sheep and goats. Unfair to goats, don’t you think, to make them devil bait?”
“Very,” she agreed, enjoying the harmless banter more than was wise. Lady Fowler’s house was sadly lacking in wit. “You promised me dancing, sir. Are you not a man of your word?”
Oh, that was the old Bella Barstowe, all impatience and demands.
“Come, let me herd you, then.” He put an arm around her and steered forward. Bella felt powerless, as if he had captured her will as well as her waist.
As if she’d go anywhere at his direction.
Like a mindless goat.
No man had ever put his arm around her in such a commanding way, and she felt the lack of her usual layers of clothing. As if by some magic he created enough space for them to pass, she almost felt as if his bare arm lay against her bare skin.
Be he of high or low degree, she’d fallen in with a rascal who didn’t know the meaning of restraint. A wise woman would spurn him, but she did so want to dance.
They plunged through the throng into the ballroom. It too was decorated to look like marble and pillars, though there’d been no attempt to hide the painted and gilded ceiling, glittering in the light of hundreds of candles. Down the center of the long room, a line of costumed guests danced to the tune “The Lady of May.”
He moved them to one side so others could enter, and Bella found the strength to free herself from his arm.
He allowed it, his interesting mouth curled in humor. “Which nymph are you, my lovely one? By your stars I would guess one of the Pleiades. Stars at your toes too,” he remarked, in a tone that made Bella’s naked toes curl.
“Kelano,” she said quickly. “Do you have a name, goatherd?”
“I’m too lowly to be named. Ebony hair,” he remarked, boldly touching a long curl on her shoulder. “That could indicate Kelano the harpy, dark and clawed.”
How could a touch on a wig make her shudder?
“Or Kelano of the Amazons,” she pointed out, brushing his hand away. She’d researched her name. “Beware, sir. I may have a concealed bow and arrow.”
“Perhaps I should search you. In case of danger to my goats.”
“I think not!”
He reached out to touch the cloth covering her right shoulder, and for a moment she thought he might actually attempt it. But then he sighed. “Alas, nor do I. But you come as a mystery within a puzzle, Kelano, wrapped in a many-layered disguise. I must know more. But the night is young and there’s time.”
“Time?” she asked, trying not to sound breathless.
She’d met some bold men when she was young, but never anyone like this. Though her breathing felt shallow, Bella was thrilled down to her starry toes. He was flirting with her in a most deliciously wicked way. And she was flirting back.
How long had it been?
Four years.
Aeons.
“Time to peel away layers until we arrive at truth,” he said.
“Yours as well as mine?” It was an instinctive riposte, meant to repel, but he grinned and she realized her provocative riposte was very foolish.
“Of course,” he said. “Shall we begin?” Again an invading touch, but this time a quick finger down her side.
“No,” she said, stepping back, but coming up against a wall behind her.
“We could find a quieter spot. . . .”
Bella felt her eyes widen. He was proposing just the sort of scandal she’d come here to expose. And she, disastrously, was tempted!
“Dancing first,” she said quickly.
Later she’d slip away from him.
“Kelano the wise.” But then his smile became full of anticipation. “A slower pace does lead to greater pleasure, does it not? Come.”
This time he did hold out his hand rather than compel her. Bella knew wise Kelano would find an excuse to escape now, but she put hers into his.
“You truly do enjoy dancing, don’t you?”
As she was bouncing on her feet in time to the music, Bella didn’t attempt to deny it, and she ran with him to join the end of the line to weave into the longways dance. Soon she was lost in the patterns of the steps.
As they met in the middle and turned, he said, “I think I might know you.”
Despite a stab of panic, Bella smiled, but when she whirled off to turn with the next gentleman, her alarmed mind hunted through dan
ger.
Could the goatherd be someone she’d known four years ago? She was certain he wasn’t any of her country neighbors, and what London beau would remember her from a passing moment? And yet . . . and yet she realized there was something vaguely familiar about him.
Where?
When?
Stubbled cheeks seemed part of it, and that was a rare detail among gentlemen. . . .
She couldn’t pin it down, but it nibbled at the back of her mind even as she smiled and flirted with other gentlemen. Recognition could be disastrous.
Was he recognizing Bella Barstowe or Bellona Flint? She couldn’t imagine how anyone could recognize Bellona in this costume, especially as Bellona didn’t mix with society at all.
“And who are you, pretty maid?”
Bella started and stared at the man she was mindlessly partnering. She gathered her wits to give the conventional response. “That’s for you to guess, sir.”
“Melia,” he suggested.
She had no idea who Melia was, but shook her head and danced on, wondering why she hadn’t given that conventional answer to the goatherd. Instead, she’d told him her name, just as she’d gone where he took her. He was a very dangerous man, and he thought he recognized her. As soon as the dance ended, she must elude him.
For now, she stole glances at him, assessing the danger.
Frequently, their eyes met.
Why was he watching her? Was he too puzzling over this sense of familiarity?
Was he part of Lady Fowler’s reforming circle? No. The few men who supported her were clergymen and scholars. The goatherd was too wicked by far. Only see him flirt with every woman he passed in the dance. Of course, she was doing the same, but all in a noble cause.
She noted with regret the reactions of the targets of his flirtation—rendered silly, every one of them, young to old. She’d heard of men who could turn a woman’s wits to water, and now she’d met a specimen.
And been turned silly herself for a while.
No more of that. She attended to her partners and looked for scandal. There were certainly partners she’d like to pillory, such as the fleshy senator who squeezed too close in the dance, or the stick-thin one who took an excuse to poke at her breast. Or this hairy one with moist lips who was sweating so profusely that his toga was damp.
No, that was unkind, for the room was very hot. The long windows stood open, but even though it was September it was unseasonably warm and she felt no cool breeze. When she returned to dance with the goatherd, she said, “It’s so hot in here.” She saw the wicked spark in his eyes and hastily deflected a suggestive remark. “A blessing that we’re all lightly dressed. Perhaps this costume should become the fashion for dancing. Imagine this heat in layers of petticoats and silk.”
“Or a suit of embroidered velvet,” he agreed.
“On a goatherd?” she teased.
“Do goddesses sweat?” he tossed back.
“But I am a nymph. . . .”
“And nymphs are notoriously naughty.”
“And goatherds are . . .” But she could think of nothing to say.
“Goats are lecherous,” he offered helpfully. “Perhaps it’s contagious. Oh, dear,” he added, squeezing her hand slightly, “we’re contaging.”
“Then you’ll have spread lechery throughout the whole body of dancers, sir. Which, on reflection, would be rather like giving a rash to a leper colony.”
“Kelano! You shock me. But if you are hot . . .”
He deftly slipped them out of the dance and through open doors onto the lamplit terrace. It was cooler—on her sweat-damp skin almost cold—but a fire of alarm rushed through her.
She turned back toward the room, but he said,
“Cold?” and picked up something from a bench. He swirled a large shawl around her shoulders, capturing her and pulling her toward him.
She tried to brace her hands on his chest to hold him off but she was too late. A moment ago she’d been dancing, and now here she was, trapped against his scantily clad body.
“Playing hot and cold?” he asked.
“Playing the goat? Release me.”
He chuckled and then he kissed her. A quick kiss at first, but in moments one arm came around her and his other hand cradled her head. He kissed her again, deeply and with skill, teasing her mouth open so she felt his tongue on hers.
She tried to resist, but a starved piece of her, the part that had danced and flirted once, and yes, even kissed on dark terraces a time or two, sprang to terrifying life. She’d been kissed and enjoyed being kissed, but she’d never been kissed like this before. Never felt quite like this before.
So endangered.
So seared.
No!
She twisted her head and pushed fiercely away.
He allowed it, but he was smiling, eyes glittering, and he’d captured the ends of the shawl again, snaring her.
“Let me go!”
She intended a demand, but breathlessness made it more of a gasp. She knew she was feverishly awaiting his dramatic response.
He released the corners of the cloth.
She gathered it around her to conceal bare arms and shoulders—and disappointment. “You shouldn’t have done that.”
“Then you shouldn’t have come to the revels.”
“Is that the sort of event this is, then? Where young ladies are attacked for playing a part?”
“It’s the way of any masquerade, if the lady too wishes to play.”
“I did not—”
“If my kiss offended, I apologize, but you did not seem powerfully offended, my very sweet and tasty nymph.”
Bella swallowed, innate honesty forcing her to admit that he was right, and the wicked, foolish parts of her wanted to fall into his arms again.
She found the strength to unwrap herself, and dropped the shawl back on the bench with what she hoped was a casual air. “After our brief diversion, slave, I must return to more elevated circles.”
“Don’t trust the senators and gods. For all their august glitter, they’re men just like me. If you’re the sort of innocent you imply, you will wish me to return you safely to your party.”
It was a challenge, as deft as a blade between the ribs, and she remembered his remark about recognition. What did he suspect? She tried to read the subtleties of his expression, but out here the lamplight was dim, doubtless by design.
“If I allow that,” she said, “you would know who I am.”
“Know a person by the company she keeps? Intriguing. You think you can remain eternally unidentified?”
“I can try.”
That mouth, that sensuous mouth, curved in a true smile, creating brackets in his lean cheeks. “I will find out, you know.”
Bella wanted to return that smile, but she raised her chin. “I doubt it.”
“It’s merely a matter of when. I already feel I know you.”
“And I doubt that.”
“Are you a provincial, then, new to Town?”
“You’ll tease no more information from me, slave.” She was in danger, however, the longer she dallied here, so she said, “And now, farewell,” and slipped back into the ballroom.
Praying he wouldn’t pursue, she wove quickly straight through the line of dancers, ignoring objections. When she reached the far door, she glanced back. Part of her hoped he was close behind, about to capture her again, sweep her again into yet more wicked folly, but most of her was wiser.
She felt a pang of disappointment, however, to see him still in the doorway to the terrace, having lost all interest. He was talking to a gray- haired man in a simple robe.
There, see, you idiot. That encounter, that kiss, meant nothing to him. And of course she’d never truly thought otherwise. She felt able to linger a moment, puzzled by his sober, intent manner.
She remembered that she’d wondered if he too was an invader. In that case she’d think him talking to a conspirator, perhaps plotting to harm someone. Were the two men pla
nning to kill the duke, or set fire to the house? She should do something to stop that.
Then he looked across the room, straight at her. She’d swear his masked eyes widened. Had he understood her thinking? Frightened in a new way, she turned to leave the room, but a group of people were pushing in and she had to step aside.
She shot a quick glance back at the goatherd.
He hadn’t moved, but he was still looking at her.
Bella turned again to flee, but now she saw some people were staring at her. Directly at her. Their masks concealed their expressions, but their intensity seemed almost hungry.
Had she been recognized as an interloper? Were they about to tear her apart?
One woman looked her up and down, lip curling. Lud, had the wretched man disturbed her gown and left her indecent? Bella looked down at herself. All was in order, even the stars on her toes, but something was amiss, and she didn’t know what. Almost blind with panic, Bella slipped through a gap in the crowd and hurried off to her right, trying not to look like a criminal fleeing justice. She had no idea where she was going. She prayed only to find a quiet place to collect herself.
Then she heard the hiss: “Scandalous!”
Bella flinched as if stabbed, but when she looked around no one was looking at her. Three Grecian goddesses were half whispering in the way of people sharing gossip, and smiling with glee at a reputation to shred.
Bella checked around again, but no one else was nearby.
Her heart rate was settling and her mind clearing. Perhaps she wasn’t in imminent danger of any kind. And scandal was what she was here for.
She bent down as if she needed to adjust a strap on her sandal, listening to the whispers.
“In flagrante delicto, dearest. Absolutely!”
“But who?”
“Grandiston, I heard.”
A titter. “Then no wonder. So very, very virile in that ancient armor . . .”
Grandiston? The name was vaguely familiar, but Bella couldn’t place it. Was he important enough to be meat for Lady Fowler’s letter? And who was the woman?
One of the women must have asked the same thing.
