Midnight Masquerade

by Shirlee Busbee

  Assailed by the increasing conviction that she had misunderstood everything about Dominic, she jumped up from the table, her one thought to find him and attempt some sort of new beginning between them. She had been a fool! She must find him and try to explain, try to find a way across the ever-widening breach between them.

  Her thoughts in a jumble, she paid no heed to the fact that she was not properly dressed to go riding, and ignoring the scandalized stare of the groom, ordered a horse saddled. Riding astride in a fashion that would no doubt provoke comment up and down the river, she kicked her horse in the ribs and rode in the direction the groom had indicated that Dominic had taken several moments earlier.

  Impetuous and headstrong as Melissa was, she had ridden only a half mile down the road before it dawned on her that explaining her actions was going to be awkward. How did you tell your husband that you were sorry about the way you had been behaving, but you thought that he was a debaucher of innocents and a philandering womanizer?

  Slowing her horse to a walk, she bit her lip. She could apologize for last night without giving too detailed an explanation about what had prompted her actions. Her mouth twisted. That should be easy enough—even now she couldn't explain the conflicting emotions that had raged through her. Closing her mind to the difficulties that lay ahead, she decided that she would simply lay all her contrary and infuriating behavior on the natural anxieties of a new bride and, she admitted ruefully, that was a great deal of the truth. She would also, she thought with a sudden rising of her spirits, clear up any misconceptions he might harbor that she had married him only for mercenary reasons.

  If he realized that she had been as trapped as he by what had happened that night at the Whitehorn tavern and that his money did not appeal to her, might they in time learn to trust each other... and even love? A wistful glow entered her eyes. She didn't think that she would find it frightfully arduous to fall deeply in love with Slade. In fact, she very much feared that she was already halfway there.

  But first, she thought apprehensively, she must convince him that his fortune had nothing to do with their marriage. Hopeful and yet nervous about the coming confrontation, she urged her horse into a gallop, eager to make peace between them.

  Chapter 16

  Melissa might have had thoughts of peace on her mind, but Dominic was considering ways of wreaking sweet revenge on the seductive body of his bride. She was not going to be the only one to get what she wanted from this farce of a marriage, he thought blackly as he guided his bay gelding along the gently meandering road that led to Willowglen.

  When he had ridden away from the cottage, he'd had no particular destination in mind; he'd simply needed to put some distance between himself and his calculating little bride before he did her a violence. His pride had taken a beating at the hands of the new Mrs. Dominic Slade, but it was not his nature to suffer such slights and insults meekly, and he'd consoled himself by thinking of various means to bring to her knees the mercenary, conniving baggage he'd had the misfortune to marry. He discovered, curiously enough, that his most satisfying visions of revenge were those in which a sweetly contrite Melissa pleaded or his caresses and affection. Of course, he would turn an indifferent shoulder to her pitiful entreaties for his affection—at least he hoped he would, but he was aware of uneasiness on that point.

  By the time he'd relished a few scenes concerning the subjugation of his bride, he'd begun to feel better, his first burst of rage having abated. It was then that he discovered that he was almost halfway to Willowglen. Having no desire to return home at the moment, he continued on his way, thinking that he'd enjoy a chat with Zachary and that he wouldn't mind looking Folly over again.

  Certainly Dominic had not thought of meeting with Deborah Latimer, or rather Lady Deborah Bowden, as she now styled herself. But he had just turned down the lane leading to Willowglen when he came upon her, followed by her groom.

  Despite being in no mood to exchange polite pleasantries, Dominic had no choice but to stop and greet her. And then there was the fact that he was curious about what she was doing visiting with young Zack.

  Smiling, he said, "Good morning, Lady Bowden. Out for a morning ride?"

  Her delicate features framed by guinea-gold curls, the wide blue eyes limpid and inviting, Deborah sent him a wistful little smile. "Good morning, Dominic," she said in her soft, lilting voice. Sending him a reproving glance, she added, "Must you be so formal with me? Especially since once..."

  It was amazing, Dominic thought with astonishment as he sat there easily controlling his restive horse, how indifferent he was to her now. Curiously he let his gaze run over her, noting how skillfully the attractive riding habit of sapphire-blue cloth revealed her ripening curves, idly aware of how gracefully she sat upon the dainty black mare she was riding—and how completely unmoved he was by her fragile loveliness.

  At twenty-five years of age, Deborah was undoubtedly lovely, her small face perfectly heart-shaped, all her features from the spiky-lashed blue eyes to the pink Cupid's bowmouth, exquisitely formed. She was not tall, but she had a lushness of figure that Dominic had always found appealing, and though he could admire her appearance, he'd learned from experience that little intelligence existed behind the lovely facade. Once he had thought she was the embodiment of everything perfect, but Latimer's machinations and Deborah's own actions had shown him the error of his thinking. He no longer bore her any malice because she had taken his youthful dreams and trampled them; the only emotion Deborah Bowden aroused within him these days was pity. And he did pity her. Pitied the lack of spirit that had enabled her to be bullied by her unscrupulous brother into a marriage to a man old enough to be her grandfather. Pitied the lack of courage that would not even now let her break free of Latimer's grasp. Pitied the absence of backbone and mettle to fight for her own happiness....

  Gently he asked, "Is everything all right? Latimer hasn't...?"

  The lovely eyes brimmed with tears, and cursing himself for a softhearted fool, Dominic dismounted and walked over to stand beside her horse. Glancing back at the sober-faced groom, he muttered, "Ride ahead, James—I would like to talk with your mistress in private."

  The groom had hardly disappeared around a bend in the lane before Deborah threw herself into Dominic's arms, great sobs racking her body. "Oh, Dom!" she wailed. "If only I had listened to you in London all those years ago."

  His arms reluctantly filled with yielding feminine flesh, Dominic flung a harassed look around, cravenly hoping that no one would come upon this embarrassing scene. Resignedly he said, "Now, Deb, we've been through this before. I don't blame you for what happened, but it was a long time ago and you made your choice and there is no going back to yesterday... as I told you just last week."

  Her arms creeping around his neck, she pressed her face against his chest and gave a heartrending sniff. "You're right, I know, and I should not have written you, asking to see you when you were an engaged man," she got out mournfully. "I impose too much on our old friendship and your kindness."

  Privately Dominic agreed with her—she'd written him three or four times since she'd discovered he was in the area, and they had been such sad and helpless little letters that he had finally felt compelled to see her, to offer his help. And seeing her, watching the play of unhappy emotions run across those lovely features as she had poured out her tale of woe, of Latimer's abuse of her, his threats, her fears, Dominic had been moved and filled with pity at her plight. His first impulse had been to get her away from Latimer, and he had extravagantly offered to take her to his parents' home in Natchez—she would be safe there, he had urged. When she would hear none of that, he had vowed that he would settle a sum of money on her, not a grand sum, but enough to give her independence as long as she spent her money wisely; but that too she had refused, staring up at him with those big, trust-filled blue eyes.

  Incomprehensible to him, rather than take his money, she was willing to let Latimer continue his nefarious ways, and it appeared
that once again brother Julius had his eye on a doddering, rich old man who would make, from Latimer's point of view, an excellent second husband for her. Dominic had argued vigorously with her, telling her not to be a fool, to simply refuse to do as Latimer demanded. But Deborah had shaken her beautiful head. "Oh, I could not!" she had exclaimed breathlessly. "He is my brother and he would beat me unmercifully if I didn't do what he wanted. That, or throw me penniless out in the streets. You just don't understand."

  Dominic wouldn't have argued with that—he didn't understand her reasoning at all. Didn't understand why she allowed Latimer to browbeat and manipulate her, or why, since she had spurned him in London, she now viewed him as her only savior. He knew that in part it was his own fault—he should never have answered that last letter of hers. But once she had meant everything to him, and although she no longer held any allure for him, the memory of what had been prompted his desire to help her. Royce, he admitted wryly, would twit him unmercifully for his soft head, but he did feel sorry for Deborah and wanted to see her happy. If only, he thought impatiently, she'd let me send her to London, far away from Latimer's influence.

  Sighing, he absently put his arms around her waist and rested his cheek on the top of her small riding hat of black beaver. "Deborah," he murmured, "you have to leave Latimer. Let me take care of things for you."

  It was just as well that Melissa couldn't hear what he had said, for the mere sight of her husband standing in the middle of the road embracing Deborah Bowden was enough on its own to make her teeth snap together and her golden-brown eyes blaze with a feral light. Jerking her horse to a standstill, she sat there in stunned fury, her bosom heaving. Any idea of peacemaking and any hope she had held that Josh and Latimer had been mistaken about her husband's womanizing proclivities vanished. Which one of the two transgressors in front of her she would have liked to take her riding whip to first was questionable, but realizing that to do so would only complicate the situation, she checked this immediate impulse with a great effort. And as the seconds crept by and she sat glaring at the oblivious pair, something of vital importance occurred to her: even if Dominic was a womanizer, and of that she no longer had any doubts, he was still her husband, still the only man who had come near to touching her deepest emotions, and she wasn't about to stand meekly by and let Deborah Bowden fawn all over him. Nor, she admitted with narrowed eyes, was she going to quietly abandon the field to the other woman.

  A dozen impractical schemes flashed through her mind, but she had no time to examine each one, and giving rein to her impetuous nature, she kicked her horse forward. Forcing a lighthearted smile on her lips, she called out gaily, "Oh, Dominic! There you are! How mean of you to race off ahead of me that way." Approaching the pair, she smiled at them, acting as if she found it perfectly acceptable for her husband of less than a day to be publicly embracing another woman. "Hello, Lady Bowden. How are you this morning?"

  To say which of the two principals was more taken aback would have been difficult to ascertain; certainly Dominic knew that he would not have acted so tamely if he had caught Melissa in this sort of compromising position. Of Lady Bowden, it was difficult to say what was going through her mind, the blue eyes resting guilelessly on Melissa's vibrant features, a tremulous little smile curving her bow-shaped mouth.

  "Oh, Miss Seymour," Deborah began breathlessly, then, giving a small giggle, amended gently, "But, of course, you are now Mrs. Slade. How silly of me."

  Unhurriedly Deborah removed her arms from around Dominic's neck and stepped away from him. Smoothing out the creaseless skirt of her riding habit, she murmured, "You mustn't mind me crying on Dominic's shoulder. We are old friends and habits die hard, as I'm sure you understand."

  Smiling, Melissa replied sweetly, "Of course I wouldn't want to do anything to come between such old friends."

  Stifling the grin that twitched at the corners of his mouth at the chagrined expression on Deborah's face, Dominic glanced away, his heart lifted by the implications of this exchange. His young bride might act indifferent to him, but if he was any judge, from the militant glint in those topaz eyes, he was confident that she was jealous—and prepared to do battle on his behalf.

  His first reaction to the sight of Melissa bearing down on them had been one of anger and despair, anger at his own folly and despair that he could ever explain how innocent this situation was. There had also been a strong inclination to wring the clinging Lady Bowden's slim white neck for having put him in this position. He had suffered momentarily all the natural embarrassment and uneasiness of a man caught in such a compromising predicament, but at Melissa's pleasant greeting, other emotions had taken control—admiration for both her beauty and her poise, and sheer delight that she was displaying such obvious signs of jealousy. If she were as indifferent to him as she had claimed, why would she be jealous if he sought consolation in the arms of another? And if she were jealous, then a whole host of interesting possibilities presented themselves to Dominic.

  With difficulty he refrained from grinning idiotically and was even able to find it in his heart to be grateful to Deborah for engineering this little scene. Hiding both his amusement and his pleasure in the circumstances in which he suddenly found himself, he turned away from Deborah and walked over to Melissa.

  Laying a warm hand on hers as she gripped the reins of her horse, he murmured, "It is kind of you to be so gracious and tolerant." A mocking light entered the gray eyes, "Most brides would not be so understanding... but then you have made it clear that what I do doesn't concern you, haven't you?"

  Melissa gave a funny little choking sound as she bit back the urge to tell him precisely what she thought of his actions, and lying through her pretty, white teeth, she said mildly, "If you are discreet, my dear..." She glanced across at the avidly listening Deborah. "You may have all the doxies you want." With that parting shot, she dug her heels into the sides of her horse and wheeled away, her gown billowing out behind her as she kicked the animal into breakneck speed.

  Dominic watched her disappear down the lane, thinking that she had looked magnificent, with her tawny hair tumbling about her cheeks and her eyes flashing with a golden fire. Even the rucked-up gown, which displayed an immodest amount of her slender calves and ankles, had only added to her captivating beauty, giving her the air of some untamed creature that appealed powerfully to his senses. He continued to stare after her receding figure until Deborah's voice brought him back to the present.

  "What a hoyden you have married, Dominic," Deborah said with gentle malice. "I've heard tales that her father simply let her run wild, but I never believed it before. Did you see the improper way she was garbed?" She gave a scandalized cluck and went on spitefully, "You're going to have your hands full with that one!"

  An odd smile on his chiseled mouth, Dominic turned to look at her. "Yes, I am... and believe me, dear Deborah, I shall enjoy every moment of it. Now, shall I help you to mount—or would you prefer that I find your groom?"

  Aware that for the moment he would not fall victim to her wiles, Deborah smiled winsomely and murmured, "Oh, my, I have made you angry, haven't I?"

  Glancing at her coolly, he said politely, "Why, no. But you will understand that I must be on my way?"

  Deborah shrugged her slender shoulders good-naturedly and said sunnily, "Of course, how foolish of me—you wish to be with your bride."

  Dominic nodded his head and effortlessly lifted her back into the saddle. Remounting his horse, he said, "Good day, my dear. I hope that you will not allow your brother to take advantage of you as he has in the past... and remember, my offer to send you either to my parents' home or to London is still available."

  Her lashes lowered demurely, Deborah responded, "You are too generous, Dominic. I shall never forget your many kindnesses to me. I count on you as my only friend."

  Dominic shrugged his shoulders and shaking his head, muttered, "Deb, do not say such things. There are others, I am sure, who will stand by you, should the need arise. N
ow, if you will excuse me?"

  Sending him a wistful smile, she nodded. "Good-bye, my dear. Go to your bride, and I..." She sighed. "I shall go to my brother."

  Ordinarily, Dominic might have been moved by her words, but his thoughts were already on Melissa and he answered absently, "Yes, you do that. Good day." And without another glance or word, he kicked his horse into a gallop, eager to find his jealous bride.

  He found her as he had suspected he would, down at the stables at Willowglen. She was in one of the paddocks, Folly tied to the whitewashed fence, industriously brushing the stallion's already burnished coat, a ferocious scowl on her face.

  Dismounting, he threw his reins to one of the stablemen and strolled over to her. Leaning his arms on the top rail of the wooden fence, he stood there for several moments, watching as she continued to brush Folly, her strokes becoming stronger and faster as the minutes passed.

  Melissa had been aware of him from the instant he had ridden into view, but she refused to acknowledge his approach, even when he came over and leaned on the fence. She had been dwelling on the pleasurable fantasy of shoving Lady Bowden's face into the manure pile when he arrived, but his presence ruined her enjoyment in that pastime. She had not been able to think of a punishment horrid enough for him, and turning her back on him, she continued to groom Folly, considering and discarding several disagreeable fates for her errant husband. As he remained leaning on the fence, apparently absorbed in watching her brush the horse, her sense of ill-usage grew, until finally she could stand it no longer. Throwing down her brush, she spun around to face him. Hands on her hips, topaz eyes glittering, she demanded, "How could you! We are not married twenty-four hours and you are out, out..." Words failed her and she glared at him in silent rage.

  Helpfully, he said, "Womanizing?"

  "Yes, womanizing!" she hissed.