But it was hard to ignore the scandalized looks frequently shot her way. Still, somehow she managed to maintain the indifferent mask she'd practiced in the mirror. It wasn't fair. ‘Twas not as if it was she who had been at fault. She had not been the lying cad, the one who'd tried to seduce an innocent girl. And yet society did not care. They knew only that she'd been found in a compromising position with a man who was not her husband. That Ariel had believed with every innocent beat of her heart that Archie would, indeed, come up to scratch mattered not at all. He hadn't loved her. Hadn't even wanted to marry her afterward.
Fie on them all.
"For someone so fair you look remarkably blue-deviled, my lady."
Ariel started, turning toward the baritone voice. For a moment she found herself gawking, then that practice session in the mirror came to her rescue. She straightened. Truly, he was the most sinister-looking man she'd ever seen, yet handsome—fan-yourself-with-your-hand handsome. He had a scar across his cheek that ended near the corner of his left eye. He looked like a panther who'd been in one too many fights. Dressed all in black he was: black coat, black breeches, even a black diamond winking from his black cravat.
She blinked, telling herself to stare was rude.
Yes, but what a sight to stare at.
"Which really is a pity," he continued, his silver eyes glowing. Those eyes were remarkable, truly his best feature, a myriad colors all coalescing into one. "For such a pretty face should never have a frown upon it."
And Ariel went back to staring, for when he smiled, the scar drew tight across his face. The sight fascinated her, although she supposed some women would have swooned at the sight he made. He wore no wig. That was unusual, too. More unusual still was the way he wore his hair. The ink-black strands were pulled into a tail so tight that it stuck out behind him. No powder. No hair ribbon. Just a leather thong.
"I'm sorry, do I know you, sir?" It must have been her time in the country that made her feel suddenly gauche and tongue-tied as she waited for his response.
"No, my lady, I do not believe we've been introduced."
No, indeed, for she would remember such a man. He looked devilish with an odd half-smile lighting his face. Ariel swallowed, suddenly wanting to escape his presence. "Then I do beg your pardon." She curtsied. "We should not be conversing."
He threw back his head and laughed, the scar brought to ominous, disturbing attention. People stared, Ariel realized, and not just at her. She looked away, trying not to let him see how much he disturbed her with his strange face and all-black attire.
"Do you think, my lady, that talking to me will harm your reputation?"
She drew back, though she told herself not to react to his words. So he knew of her past? Well, she supposed the whole ballroom knew. Half of London probably, too. No reason to feel hurt.
"Funny, I did not think you so naive," he added.
She straightened her shoulders. "I will agree, sir, that my reputation is a bit tarnished, yet despite what they say, I am a lady. As such, I intend to act like one."
She moved to leave, glad to be departing from his disconcerting company. A hand on her arm stopped her. The contact jolted her, so much so that she found herself snapping, "I beg your pardon."
"Don't go."
She looked at his hand pointedly. There was a ring upon it. The stone was unusual. Green with what looked to be faint red spots upon its surface. But then he removed his hand. The ring dipped out of sight. She could still feel where he'd touched her through the silk of her lavender gown.
"I meant no offense. I merely wanted to make your acquaintance."
"Well, now you have made my acquaintance, so I bid you good-bye."
"No," he said quickly, his eyes pleading. "Do not go. I sense that you are as lonely for company as I am."
She stiffened. "I am not lonely."
"Ah, but I think you are."
Suddenly she didn't care that she risked hurting his feelings by being blunt. "I do not care for company right now, sir. Now, please leave before you cause even more of a stir."
"Have we caused a stir?" He looked around, then faced her again. "I see we have."
"How fortunate that your eyes work when it appears your ears do not."
He smiled, the unsettling half-smile returning again. "Yes, well, despite my scar I'm told my mouth works very well, too."
She felt jolted that he would so openly acknowledge his blemish. But if he didn't care, neither should she. "My mouth works, too, and it's telling you to go."
"But I don't want to leave. 'Tis much more fun conversing with you."
"Very well, then I will leave." She turned on her heel.
He stopped her. Again. She glared. He released her.
"Are you afraid to talk to me?"
She lifted her chin. "I am scared of nothing, least of all you."
"Really, then I wonder why you looked about ready to flee the ballroom a moment ago."
"I was not going to flee."
"Poppycock, my lady. You were."
"And if I was, what concern is it of yours?"
He shrugged. "I merely wonder why you would ever give them the satisfaction of seeing their arrows hit true and why you would give them the added satisfaction of running away."
He saw too much. "What do you mean, sir?"
His lips tightened, his eyes turned challenging. "You know very well what I mean."
Yes, she did, but she would not acknowledge it to him for all the guineas in the world.
"Dance with me, my lady. Show them you're made of sterner stuff."
She blinked up at him. "Who are you?"
He didn't respond immediately, almost as if he weighed whether or not to answer. "I am Nathan Trevain."
Trevain. She stiffened. "Relative of the duke of Davenport?"
The right side of his face tipped in a sardonic smile, but then he bowed. "My uncle."
Which made him—
"His heir." He must have read the question in her eyes.
"Congratulations, sir. I hear that that particular dukedom is very profitable. You must be pleased to find yourself the future recipient of the title."
For the first time she thought she might have pricked him with her words. "I hardly give it a thought."
And something was not quite right about his accent. His last words had come out sounding a bit flat. "No? And here I thought all men counted their wealth before inheriting it."
"Not this man."
"Mmm mmm. I'm sure you haven't."
"If you're trying to anger me, it will not work. My offer to dance with you still stands."
"And I refuse, or should I write my response down since you seem to be so hard of hearing?"
"If your penmanship is as pretty as you, you may do whatever you wish."
"Find me pen and paper, then, and I will do as you ask."
His smile returned again. "What? Leave your side so you can run off and hide? I think not, my lady."
Ooo, but he frustrated her.
"Dance with me, Lady D'Archer. I will allow you to impress me with your handwriting later."
She looked up at him in disgruntlement. "Pity about that pen," she growled. "I do believe I could have stabbed you with it."
He drew back, as if he were startled that she dared to spar with him. She saw his eyes spark, a definite improvement over the coldness she'd glimpsed there. "Such bloodthirsty words."
"My hope was that they would make you go away," she huffed in exasperation.
"They will not," he said firmly. He leaned toward her. She resisted the urge to step back. Gracious, but he was handsome. And intimidating. "Within five minutes of your arrival I was being regaled with scandalous tales of your past. You are infamous, my lady."
"Then why, sir, are you standing here conversing with me?"
"Because I rather like to associate with infamous people. So much more interesting. And they do complement my devilish looks, don't you think?"
"And that is why yo
u wish to dance with me?" she said, ignoring his question.
"No, I wish to dance with you because I think it a mistake for you to run away."
"I was not going to run away," she bit out, exasperated.
"Yes, you were."
She stared up at him unblinkingly. "You're not going to leave me alone, are you?"
"No."
She continued to stare. Bothersome man. But he had a point. Society would be scandalized if she deigned to dance at its posh soiree, especially after making its disapproval of her return so well known. And wouldn't that be lovely? For a change she would be behaving exactly in the manner they believed her capable of.
A spurt of rebellion had her tilting her chin. "Very well, Mr. Trevain, I shall dance with you," she surprised herself by saying. The man had the audacity to let triumph shine from his eyes, and while she did not like the look or appreciate it, she didn't care. One dance. That was all. Surely she could handle that.
"A good choice, my lady." He bowed, offering her his arm, the green and red stone catching the light.
"That remains to be seen," she murmured, taking that arm, though she made sure the contact was light. Distant.
He led her toward the dance floor. She tried not to think about how much she'd missed dancing in the recent years. They stopped just shy of the spinning couples, the two of them in plain sight of nearly everyone. She tried to concentrate instead on something other than the fact that he seemed so tall while he stood next to her. They had to wait for the music to stop. Phoebe shot her a look of surprise and then pleasure as she spied her. Ariel wished she could feel as happy, but Phoebe had always been an innocent. Even when the scandal had broken, she'd refused to believe anyone could think ill of her cousin. Ariel, too, had wanted to believe that. It'd taken less than a week to realize how cruel and heartless society could be.
All too quickly the music ended. Ariel took her position with Mr. Trevain, her wide skirts brushing those of the other dancers. Already she could hear the stir of voices, the lifting of one in particular. The word "gypsy" reached her ears. She refused to look at the person, although the mention of her mixed parentage infuriated her more than anything that had come before. Yes, they could think of her what they would, but when they started mentioning her mother's heritage, they maligned a race that cared more for its own than any other culture.
"That's better."
She looked up. Candles in the chandelier above flickered in a small breeze that brought with it the scent of roses and hot house citrus blooms. The light illuminated a face that still looked handsome, despite the scar. It was the eyes. They were so penetrating, so intense, almost as if he tried to see inside her to perhaps read her mind. "What is?"
"You have more color in your cheeks."
She lifted her chin. More color? Indeed she did, for she could feel it. Anger. She was angry. She seized the emotion, pulling it around her like she would an iron cloak.
"You shouldn't let them upset you, you know. By doing so you give them a great deal of power."
The music had begun, Ariel realized gratefully. Hopefully the steps of the dance would keep conversation down to a minimum, but she should have known better. It was a country dance, one that kept him near to her for most of the set. Worse, it allowed him to touch her hand, as he did now, the palm of it flat against her own as he raised it above her head, held it there, his commanding gaze darting to her cleavage as they circled each other. Once again she felt a sense of danger.
"Do you deny you would have fled the room?" he asked.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
They separated momentarily, came back together. "Bull," he said.
She looked up at him, giving him her best I-am-the-daughter-of-an-earl-you-are-the-son-of-a-nobody glare. Only he wasn't the son of a nobody. As she recalled, it was the duke's younger brother who'd sired Nathan Trevain, Nathan's father having renounced his title to live in the colonies. And that explained his odd accent. It wasn't his disfigurement. He was from the colonies.
"I feel perfectly amiable toward the people in this room."
He shook his head. "You, my lady, are a liar."
She lifted a brow. They circled each other like warring hawks. "And you, sir, are a cad."
"Why, thank you. But tell me, what is it about these people that makes you want to befriend them?"
"I do not wish to be friends with them."
"Then why do you care what they think?" Nathan saw her lips tighten. He had no idea why he pushed the matter. He should be flirting with her. Smiling. Laughing. Certainly she was easy enough on the eyes to do so. Instead he found himself wanting to spar with her, enjoying the moment, before he remembered she was nothing to him but a pawn and the daughter of a bitter enemy.
A pretty pawn, he thought, even with her wig on, for he knew beneath it lay thick, black hair, the kind of silky tresses that would surround a man whilst he made love to her. He'd watched her prior to tonight, admired her from a distance. Yea, even wanted her, though she was the type of woman he always sought to avoid: Beautiful. Blue-blooded. No doubt a pampered princess. Beautiful women were not to be trusted, he thought, having to fight to keep his hand from rubbing his scar.
But thoughts of his scar had him remembering the task at hand and the fact that he should not be intrigued by Lady Ariel D'Archer. It was those damn eyes. Cat eyes. They would be something else when aroused, her gypsy heritage plainly evident in the way her cheekbones tilted exotically. Smooth, porcelain-looking skin stretched flawlessly over them. Skin that had never seen more than an hour's sun. Skin that had never been exposed to harsh elements. Skin that he longed to stroke. But this was business, and he would not mix business with pleasure, especially with a woman who was so obviously not for him.
"Not going to answer?" he said, when it seemed she would be silent all night. "Pity, for it's been my observation that most of the people you wish to impress aren't worth the paper their lineage is written upon."
At last she looked at him, those sensual eyes of hers narrowing. She didn't appear to be repulsed by his scar. That was good, for he'd worried she would be.
"And how have you arrived at that conclusion?" she asked.
"Simple observation."
"And yet you are one of them."
"Am I?" These British, so easy to fool. Even now, not a person in this room knew they had an enemy in their midst, a man more than one British official had sworn to capture. No, he would never be one of them. Bloodlines and titles did not interest him.
"But of course you are. At least, that appears to be what you think."
She was trying to insult him again, for her unspoken words were that she considered him anything but a gentleman. Well, bully for her. And against his better judgement he found himself admiring her spirit. She stood in his arms all but thumbing her nose at society, despite the fact that they'd treated her horribly this night. Oh, she might have tried to conceal how much their slander had wounded her, but he could tell. She held herself proud, too proud for someone unaffected by what went on around her. And as someone who'd endured his share of curious and repulsed looks, he knew the feeling well.
"While I cannot deny my bloodlines, I cannot claim to be a true gentleman. I'm too new to England."
"And how new is that?"
"Two months." He saw surprise in her eyes, wondered for a moment what she would think if he told her he would have been here sooner if possible. But with the war so recently over, finding a ship to sail to England had been difficult. "Thus I do not subscribe to the dictum that he or she with the oldest title wins."
"How unusual."
"Indeed. Nor do I particularly like the fashions." He looked around them, then leaned toward her, adopting a look of sincere curiosity. Once again, he was surprised she did not draw away. It gave him hope that his plan might succeed. "Tell me, why must women place the tallest wig upon their head? And wear the widest hooped skirts? Is there some sort of competition going on?"
He sa
w her lips twitch before a frown of disapproval slipped upon her face. "Indeed not, sir. The women are merely adhering to the fashion of the times."
"Are they?" he asked, pretending to be enlightened. "How interesting. Well, then, perhaps that is where you erred tonight. You should have worn a bigger wig. Your return to society might have been better received then. After all, half the women in this room hide their shocking lack of morals beneath a giant head of false hair. Why should you be any different?"
"You're incorrigible," she muttered, yet he thought he saw a small smile on her exquisite face.
"Indeed I am, but let me make one last observation." He tilted his head a bit, a habit he had formed to hide his defect, and smiled. "'Tis obvious you can truly be called a lady while most of these women behave as anything but." He spoke rather convincingly, he thought.
"Thank you. . .I think."
He continued to smile down at her. But something in her changed. She all but physically withdrew. It didn't help that the steps of the dance separated them. When they came together again, the amusement was gone, replaced by icy aloofness. In vain he tried to think of something else to say that would once again amuse her, but the music ended before he could do so. She stepped away.
And it was over.
"Thank you, sir." She curtsied.
"You're welcome," he answered. But she was already gone. He watched her go, her head held high, a piece of dark hair escaping from the bottom of her wig.
"Damn," he muttered. What had he done wrong? And just how the hell was he supposed to befriend a woman who all but ran from his arms?
2
And Ariel did flee—right to the nearest exit, which happened to be a balcony door that opened to a garden. The source of all the blooms inside instantly revealed itself. A riotous smell assaulted her senses. Roses. Jasmine. Lilies. She inhaled deeply, realized she panted and raced down the steps in search of privacy so that she could better regain her breath. Fortunately, it was all but deserted outside, the evening a bit too chilly for any but the most desperate of partygoers. And she was desperate. Gracious heavens, but the man inside disturbed her. It must be his wicked good looks, for she could think of nothing else that would do it.
Enchanted by Your Kisses Page 2
