With a shift of her fingers, Mazie sent the arrow flying through the air. The two women watched the arrow hit the target a hand’s width from the center.
“Haven’t you ever wanted to be someone else?” Mazie turned toward her. “To leave the past behind and start fresh?”
“Yes, of course. But I am not eager to start again with nothing; I am too attached to my life.”
Cat was right. Mazie would have nothing. Again. No community, nowhere to belong. She had just begun to feel settled here in Radford after years of wandering.
“A rolling stone gathers no moss,” Cat muttered.
“Do I look like I want to be mossy?” Mazie did not care that her voice was sharp.
“No.” The other woman considered her carefully. “But you look like you want to be held.”
“I want to be free,” she insisted, but the words lacked the conviction she wanted to feel. Everywhere her skin recalled Trent’s warmth and heft as he held her. She would be spinning again, out into the horizon, with nothing to hold on to.
Roane would be there, she assured herself. And maybe Mrs. Pearl. She wouldn’t be alone like before.
“I know he seems like a brute sometimes, but Trent really is a sweetheart. He will be crushed if you flee. Especially now.”
Mazie shook her head, biting back tears. Her arms felt weak, listless as she pulled back on the bowstring. “I would rewrite our story, if I could.” In her story, the one she had written these last days, Trent would turn to their side. He would act with benevolence.
He would not hang her brother.
But fiction was not reality. She could not afford to forget that again.
“I would like to dance with him, to have that memory to carry.” Mazie couldn’t look at Cat as she told the truth that was also a lie.
“The Mortons’ ball, then?”
Mazie shrugged, hoped the motion looked unsure and wistful, not crafty and devious and all things false.
Chapter Twenty-Three
“Virtue is bold, and goodness never fearful.” Shakespeare
The Mortons’ house party was a renowned event that drew even the most devoted Londoners from the city. This year’s ball was greatly anticipated, to Mrs. Morton’s delight, as the Midnight Rider had everyone abuzz with his proximity. Constables from other counties had arrived to help patrol the High Road and keep it safe for the rich and titled travelers. Guards were stationed at intervals, torches blazing and guns at their side.
Mazie had witnessed it all from the window of the Radford carriage earlier that eveningthe eerie glow of the firelight in the dark, the smell of smoke and the loud clatter of horse hooves as the armed outriders escorted them through the gauntlet.
The gates to the Morton’s estate were even more ablazehuge, bright fires gave a dramatic punctuation to the event. The back gardens as well were brilliantly illumined by torches and swinging lanterns. From her vantage point at a window in the ballroom, Mazie watched couples wend their way through the statues and flowers outside.
In all, it was not the ideal situation in which to rendezvous with Roane. It was crazy, in fact.
But she knew how to do this, how to push aside her fear and bluster her way forward.
She took a long sip of champagne and tried not to wince at the crisp sharpness on her tongue, then took another sip, ignoring the knot of sickness in her belly. Beside her, Cat was chatting with a white-haired lady about some special variety of roses. Since their arrival thirty minutes prior, Mazie had recognized a number of guests but had yet to speak with any of her old acquaintances.
She had yet to speak with Trent either. As soon as they were announced, he’d been swarmed by people. He still stood by the stairs, a circle of men around him. A strange jealousy burned in her skin. She did not like sharing him with a room full of people. It was a ridiculous emotion, especially considering they had gone to great pains to avoid each other in the last few days. Since that fateful argument in his bedroom, there was nothing left to say between them. He would never forgive her brother, and she would never give him up. It was as if a shadow had fallen over the house with the quiet meals and thick tension.
But no matter how many times she told herself to stop looking at Trent across the ballroom, her gaze wandered over like an ill-trained dog hoping for affection.
The man was too gorgeous by half. In his formal black-and-white attire, he was a shock to her system.
And tonight would be the last she ever saw of him. But she must not think of her impending loss or her heartbreak would show on her face.
At this moment, he looked far from pleased. His face held that overly polite expression that she knew too well. The men surrounding him appeared stiff and uncomfortable and she assumed they were upset about the Midnight Rider.
Were circumstances different, she would wander over and see if Trent needed saving. But circumstances were as they were, and she could not help him.
He must have felt her gaze though, for he lifted his eyes to her. So somber. She felt his heaviness everywhere. Her heart ached with it.
All the more reason to leave. She could not afford to be in love with this man.
She shifted her gaze back to the ballroom. Would Roane be here, in the throng? She scanned the cavernous room draped in billowing green silk for a tall, sandy-haired gentleman. The floor was thick with dancers and the windowed wall, where she stood with Cat, was crowded as warm revelers sought a touch of breeze. Her heart thumped in her chest as she studied the guests. She hoped Roane wouldn’t be so audacious as to enter the house, that he would wait in the not-so-dark gardens.
There was too much at stake if they were caught.
She couldn’t help it—her eyes sought out Trent again. He was watching her. He leaned on one leg, restless, his wide shoulders blocking out the men behind him. Even at this distance his eyes were a clear, penetrating grey.
Heat rushed to her skin. Guilt. Desire. It was a game she no longer chose to play.
He turned and murmured something to the men then disentangled himself from the group, left them glaring at his back. He walked toward her, his gaze trained on hers. What was he doing? Did he suspect something? Boom. Boom. Boom. The rush of blood in her veins kicked and sped. He flicked his glance toward a few guests, his mouth moving as he offered some kind of pleasantries, but in moments it was there again, that penetrating stare. Focused on her.
His intention was clear on his face. Anyone could see that he had her in mind.
Seduction.
Punishment.
Her. All of it for her.
He hid none of it as he walked through the crowded room, his body graceful and athletic beneath his formal clothes.
Boom. Boom. Boom.
The noise of the crowd and the music fell away. All she knew was him, unrelenting as he plowed toward her. Her body trilled and hitched, lifted and lifted under his unwavering attention as it did when he pleasured her. When he touched and licked and did not stop.
He did not stop.
Not until he was directly before her. Close enough that she could touch him. And she wanted to. Right there, where his cravat tucked into his waistcoat, where she knew his muscle was broad and thick.
“What is wrong?” His eyes scanned her face.
Boom. Boom. Boom. “I—what—no.”
Not the most convincing answer. And he did not look appeased at all.
“I suppose I am a touch nervous.” She would never smell sandalwood or lemon again without thinking of him.
He frowned. “I want to see you restored to this life, your life. But we can go if you wish.”
“No.” She jerked her head. “No, it is good I have come. You are right. I should face this part of my life. I am Lady Margaret. I always will be.”
His hair was slicked back, revealing the powerful handsomeness of his face. The hollows of his cheeks, the line of his jaw. His mouth twisted in a rueful smile. “To be honest, I don’t think it matters if you are Mazie or Lady Margaret. You se
em well enough as you.”
She flushed hot as she recalled her own words the night she appeared at his door. Then the way he had stripped her bare with his lovemaking. So surprising, this man. Again, he reminded her of a many-faceted jewel. A black sapphire that could cut glass.
Or break her heart.
She lowered her gaze, studied the innocent linen of his cravat. Perhaps she would not dance with him after all. To touch him might be her undoing.
Despite herself, words slipped from her mouth. “Will you be all right?”
With these men. With the betrayal of your father. With my escape.
“They will not vote me on to the Committee on Foreign Trade.”
She lifted her gaze to his. “The men by the stairs?”
“Yes.” Trent took her empty glass from her hand and gave it to a passing footman. His mouth tightened and small lines fanned out from the corners of his lips. After weeks of judging the tone and landscape of his expression, it was easy to see that he was worried. Oh, she did not want to ache for him.
“I know how much the committee means to you.” Her voice was soft and betrayed too much.
He looked at her, his grey eyes cutting. Then tell the truth, help me find the Midnight Rider.
“Perhaps it is for the best.” He was trying hard to hold it all in. To be kind to her. Oh, it was terrible. “I need to spend more time here in Radford, among my tenants. I have neglected them too long.”
He reached out and fingered her hair, here, in the ballroom, for all to see. “I like these sparkles in your hair.”
Mazie shivered at the contact. It would hurt less, her mind promised, once she was gone.
He lowered his hand but studied her, touched her with his gaze—her neck and the sweep of her shoulders, her décolletage. She felt herself greeting him, her skin welcoming him. Stay. I am yours.
He lifted his gaze, held hers. She would cry. Here in the ballroom.
He held out his hand. “Dance with me.”
He spoke the words as intimately as if he had said “touch me”.
She hesitated. Pain and longing made a muddle of her mind. But she gave him her hand. Of course she did. She’d never truly had a choice. His gloved fingers tightened over hers and he led her away from the window into the crowd. Mazie couldn’t help but think of her mother and how pleased she would be at this moment.
The orchestra was playing a waltz.
She couldn’t possibly touch him here in front of all these people.
She couldn’t pretend she did not love him.
“I haven’t waltzed in an age.” Her voice sounded unusually breathless, nervous.
“Trust me.” He took one of her hands and placed it on his shoulder, then the other he secured in his grip. His large palm landed on her back, and his touch branded her skin.
His touch. His hands. Would she one day forget how they felt on her body?
Moving. All at once they were moving. No, not moving, pouring through the ballroom. Like cream, rich and smooth. And thick. There was nothing light about it, nothing fluttering or ornate. Simply melody, feeling, blood and breath. Dip and turn, glide and step. Heartbeat and violin.
His body moved perfectly with the music. His every intention flowed from his fingertips into her skin and became her own steps and rhythm. Everything that had passed between them in lovemaking was shared here, before hundreds of watchful eyes. The tenderness and grace. The mindless communion. The conversation between their bodies that had no need for words.
Her head back, she closed her eyes and let Trent lead her. She felt the movement of his body, his muscles bunching and stretching, the strain of the violin, then a turn. The music pulsed, up and down, slightly faster. He whirled her until her skirts swung wide, then pulled her through longer gliding steps.
He pulled her along with him in this beauty.
It was like a river, all of it, pouring through her. It poured over her. She felt it everywhere, on her skin, in her breath, streaming through her every motion. It poured over her and she was part of it. Inside it. Nothing separate. Impossible to be separate.
Everything in her opened, like wings. Like silk unfurling. She laughed and opened her eyes. He was watching her. No smile but no frown either. Just watching. All of him in it, the watching.
She could not dismiss it.
She could not ignore this connection between them, this force that came alive when they touched.
He was not a man to walk away from.
Candlelight from the chandelier gleamed off his dark hair and in the deep grey of his eyes. Their gazes held, his hand tightened on her back and he made a daring move, a long step and turn in one. Heaven. Freedom. Happiness.
She laughed and he laughed too. Here, on the dance floor, the Earl of Radford laughed with his prisoner in his arms.
Something had happened between them. Something even greater than her love for him, something beyond herself. Beyond her own world. She was not the center of it, but she was part of it. Intricately.
Inescapably.
She could run, but she would never be free.
It was inside her now. Part of her. Forever.
I would choose the fall over the innocence, I think. In the end it has given me a freedom I never dreamed of before.
She could let herself fall again. She could stay.
She could stay and love him, this beautiful man. Gorgeous, imperfect man.
His eyes turned to a smoky grey and his hands tightened, pulled her closer to him. “God, Mazie,” he murmured. “You cannot look at me like that in the middle of a crowded ballroom.”
Desire poured through her in one hot pulse of her heart.
What if she did stay? What if she trusted him? How she felt in his arms. Trusted this inescapable bond between them. This sense of belonging to something greater.
Could she—
The music ended.
With a squeeze of his hand, Trent released her and stepped back. Immediately she missed the intimacy of his body. His arms. She was alone with just the touch of air on her skin. He led her from the dance floor and she closed inward. Eyes were on them. She did not like feeling so exposed.
She wrenched herself together, gathered her independence around her like a blanket, like the sheet she had dragged off Trent’s bed the morning of their argument.
She forced a smile. “Thank you, Lord Radford. You dance like a dream.” For indeed, it was a dream. Because certainly it wasn’t real. “There is Catherine. Would you like to return me to my, ah, chaperone?”
He dipped his head toward hers and returned her smile. “I would like to dance with you again. I will find you in a bit. I promise.”
He would try to find her, but she would be gone.
Her pace measured and even, Mazie walked down the terrace steps to the graveled path. Torches blazed around her, offering no security of darkness, and she could not calm the racing of her heart.
Soon, she would be free. Truly free. She would ride away from Radford and, one day after her heart had healed, maybe laugh with Roane about their adventure.
She turned back toward the lit windows, wanting to catch one last glimpse of the man she loved. She did not see him.
Goodbye, Trent.
Her heart in her throat, she darted down a side path and gave in to the urge to hurry her steps. Finally, she was away from the lights and edging toward the dark shadows at the back of the garden.
She couldn’t believe she was free. Real freedom. Not the kind Mrs. Pearl espoused about responsibility and all. But the bodily kind. The running-in-the-woods-all-the-world-available kind of freedom.
“Roane,” she whispered. “Psst.”
He emerged from the blackness like mist. “Shh.” He pulled her deeper into the shadows until they stood behind the scrubby arms of a well-manicured bush.
Mazie bit her lip and scanned her brother for any signs of injury. Dressed in riding clothes and a simple neck cloth, he looked well. His sandy curls were a bit long, but he ap
peared hale and hearty. She threw herself into his arms.
“Guards are everywhere, Roane.” Tears pricked behind her eyes. For him, her worry, her gladness at seeing him well. For herself. For Trent.
“I know. I’ve been monitoring them. We’ll have to be” He drew back. “Are you crying? Did that bastard hurt you?”
“Of course he didn’t hurt me.” Not physically. “I am as well as can be expected.” He tightened his arms until her cheek pressed against his chest. Such a good older brother. “What about you? I have been so worried, Roane.” Her voice broke and a sob escaped her.
“I am unhurt, Mazie Daisy. No need to cry.”
She drew in a breath that lifted her shoulders, then let them fall as she exhaled. “It’s been a long night and my nerves are raw. Do you truly think this will work?”
“It has to. I couldn’t get to you at that blasted estate. Giltbrook Hall is a fortress.”
“It’s worse since your robbery in Radford.” She stepped out of his arms and swiped at her tears. “A clergyman? Why tempt fate with such a foolhardy move?”
He took her hand and pulled her deeper into the garden. “It is a long story, brat.”
She followed him as he wove through the shadows. “But you have made it all so much harder. It’s a bloody war out there tonight, Roane.”
“Ah, such language, Lady Margaret.”
She cuffed him on the shoulder. “I was imprisoned and Mrs. Pearl was under suspicion. Did you have no care that another robbery would make it worse for us?”
“It’s fine now. No need to get in such a huff.” His blue eyes were hidden in shadow, but she knew they would reflect bemusement. The man was a study in nonchalance.
“What about Ascot? What were you doing there?”
“You heard about that?”
“Yes, I heard about that. A small army of soldiers nearly captured you.” She pressed her lips together. She wanted to give him a good scolding. Her brother was too daring, too arrogant by half.
“I know I veered off plan but I enjoyed the challenge.” He looked over at her. “But, since you are so worried about me, we cannot afford to tarry a minute longer. We leave this night.”
The Runaway Countess Page 28
