Once Upon a Time

by Marylyle Rogers

  More than touched, Amy leaned forward to hug the beloved woman—but carefully in deference to brittle bones.

  Chapter 2

  Amy stood primly erect on the dance floor's edge gowned in pale green, a pastel shade acceptable for young women. The first gala ball of the new London Season had barely begun but already the less than sturdy fabric of her patience had started to fray. Its condition was further strained by the invisible yet very real weight of her mother's glaring disapproval. Amy determinedly averted gray eyes darkened by leashed irritation from her parents… and their companion.

  Hundreds of candles provided a warm, flattering illumination to the whole of the Duchess of Melton's vast ballroom. Their light reflected from highly polished silver and sparkled over the cut edges of crystal vases holding the masses of roses scenting the air. The room was filled by festive women in luxurious gowns and men in equally elegant attire who either danced to music provided by a small band in the gallery above or mingled among the various tables and chairs carefully scattered about the edges. The sounds of soft laughter and social chatter added to the heady atmosphere of the upper class enjoying the company of its peers.

  But while most guests were delighting in the festivities, Amy felt like a piece of less than prime meat offered to the highest—or any—bidder. This yearly Marriage Mart was disgusting but her mother's deep embarrassment over her youngest daughter's failure to snare a husband during the previous three Seasons was even more disheartening.

  And why hadn't she? Why? Amy forced a smile but her eyes remained bleak. According to her mother it was because she'd forgotten that intelligence in a woman was an anathema to men. Forgotten? Hah! Amy was unlikely to ever forget repeated lectures on the need to play a featherbrained fool since any hint of quick wits was a flaw difficult to overcome in the competition to secure a wedding band.

  With the cynicism of close exposure to the inner workings of Society, Amy knew what her mother feared most. In an endless pursuit for the approval of the small cadre of elite hostesses who ruled over Society a daughter unwed in her fourth Season was an awkward burden to carry. And even knowing her mother was only one among many anxiously seeking the acceptance of these social arbiters wasn't enough to make it easier.

  Amy's eyes narrowed on a figure garbed in rich but matronly purple: When the woman stared back, she nodded at this member of the haughty few who, supported by Queen Victoria's implicit backing, sternly stood guard to ensure that rigid rules of conduct and high moral standards were upheld… and socially ostracized those who failed.

  Annoyed by the simpering manners expected of unmarried women—in truth of all women—Amy fervently wished it were possible to escape. Warm memories of the peaceful Irish countryside beckoned only to be immediately chilled by a bleak truth. It would've been difficult under any circumstances to escape parents anxious to palm responsibility for a daughter near to being termed a hopeless old maid off on some hapless groom. But it was truly impossible now that they had a pigeon in sight. And never mind that Amy couldn't abide the man.

  Amy peeked sidelong to where her parents were still listening to the self-important Orville Bennett. The man's muttonchop whiskers trembled with each blustering word but did nothing to compensate for a nearly bald head. The sight was nearly as unpleasant as her parents' willingness, nay, obvious desperation to pair Amy with him. And one that further tightened the knot of cold panic born in her with the first glimpse of her parents fawning over the short, stout man. Their ability to pretend sincere interest in all the windy Orville had to say made it even harder for Amy to hide her growing contempt for the man. Utterly lacking the tact to smoothly insert bald facts into social conversation, Orville too often brashly catalogued his familial bonds with great nobles of the past and bragged of his ancestors' valor. Only Society's discomfort with the grubby world of money forced him to temper his boasts of business successes.

  Amy nearly glared at the colorful patterns of dancers gracefully swirling over the marble floor. She'd never been comfortable during the Season's endless functions and this year would be worse. After this first in the trying round of events she'd be relentlessly thrust into Orville's company. The future was bleak. There would be balls, tea parties, soirees, formal afternoon "at homes," garden parties, dances, the occasional opera, and on and on and on… Then what at the end—a desperately unwanted wedding? Likely so but she meant to fight every step of the way.

  Amy's modestly gloved fingers tightened on a fashion-required fan. And at the bleak prospect of that vainglorious little man becoming a permanent part of her life, she nearly snapped the delicate ivory and silk accessory in two.

  Couples caught up in the dance whirled past while Amy, anxious to fend off dark thoughts of an unpleasant future and control rising panic, forced herself to take slow, even breaths. She even let herself welcome this scene's reminder of what she'd spent days attempting to forget—similar but much brighter images from her incredibly vivid Irish dream. She'd shared that story only with Beatrice, trusted maid and longtime friend. And Beattie had convinced her that it truly had been a dream, only an unusually tangible dream.

  "… meet Lady Cornelia Danton, Viscountess of Wyfirth…"

  The overheard words cast a shadow across Amy's pleasant memories, but Amy valiantly fought the intrusion.

  "Amethyst, the Duchess of Melton is speaking to you."

  The poorly hidden irritation in her mother's voice jerked Amy's attention back to the present.

  "My apologies, Your Grace." Amy contritely shifted her full attention to their evening's hostess, a faint blush tinting her smooth cheeks. "I have been enthralled by the beautiful effect you've created by joining this elegant company with the charming background of your gracious home."

  Looking only slightly mollified by this praise, the tall and overbearing woman permitted a slight curve to bend her lips with a smile that failed to reach her eyes.

  "Yes, well, I interrupted your group's little tête-à-tête to introduce a fresh and welcome arrival to London Society newly come from his Irish estates."

  Amy's glance instinctively followed a wave of the duchess's hand. It can't be! Her mouth fell open. It just can't be!

  Amy's unfeminine reaction brought a faint gasp of reproach from her mother even while their hostess continued.

  "Comlan, Lord of Doncaully, meet the Honorable Amethyst Danton."

  Feeling faint for the first time in her more than two decades, Amy unabashedly stared at the bright green eyes and golden hair of her fantasy king again come to life. Logic, Amy firmly told herself, logic. Yes, that was it. Cool, clear reasoning would see her through this challenge to rational thinking.

  Introductions complete, Comlan spoke. "De-lighted to meet you, Miss Danton." His gaze slowly moved from the top of dark hair parted down the center and looped back into delicate netting decorated with tiny silk flowers down to the dancing shoes peeking from beneath pale green skirts. He had wondered if his memory were playing tricks on him. But, no. The quiet beauty was here and her eyes truly were solemn gray—a shade unheard of in his realm.

  Unwilling to trust her voice, Amy merely nodded with lips clamped tightly together. The given name and even the appearance of his handsome face were the same, but formal words suggested a first meeting which, despite her goal of calm rationality, further flustered Amy. It was an uncomfortable sensation and she didn't like it at all!

  When the Irish lord next claimed her abruptly icy fingers to brush a gallant kiss over their tips, Amy was intensely aware of her parents' disapproval and Orville's glower. Comlan's mocking half-smile, hinting amusement over a secret shared, added to her confusion and badly weakened her sorry attempt to find firm footing on the wildly tilting deck of her emotions.

  Stifling his contrary nature's instinct to laugh, Lord Comlan courteously extended an invitation to the uneasily frowning damsel. "Would you permit me to lead you in the waltz just forming?"

  Before Amy could respond, he swept her out onto the floor. She ne
arly groaned. The twirling motion could only add to the chaos of her thoughts.

  Yet, as the devastating man guided her into the dance's graceful steps, something in Amy's core recognized and yielded to his nearness, to the feel of his strong arms. Her sea-foam gown blended with the other shades floating gracefully around the room while, just as in her dream of the fairy palace, sweet music wrapped the two of them in a lovely, private realm. Knowing she shouldn't but unable to prevent it, Amy gazed upward. With so scant a distance separating them, the whole world faded into obscurity. She saw dangerous emerald fires in his eyes.

  When a gray gaze initially darkened by suspicion went cloud-soft with wonder, Comlan once again found himself caught in this mortal woman's thrall. It was more disturbing than he'd willingly admit, proving him not so impervious to the snare at the heart of feminine wiles as he'd long believed. King of a realm where stability was despised while capricious whims and volatile fancies were prized, he'd enjoyed many pleasurable alliances with females amongst his own. But never during the vast length of his days had any succeeded in casting the spell which he feared the mortal Amethyst Danton had all but unknowingly begun to spin the moment he'd discovered her slumbering in the midst of his sister's fairy ring.

  Logic, Amy reminded herself again. Logic. Struggling to find the way through a dreamy haze, she forced herself to focus on rational facts. Rational? Hadn't her dream's hero said he and his were by nature unpredictable? If that was so, then this polite gentleman couldn't possibly be him.

  Amy bit her lower lip. By thinking of her dream in terms of reality she'd just nullified the whole argument. "Logic… Sanity…" She ardently repeated the goal, so anxious to force it on recalcitrant thoughts that she failed to realize she'd murmured the words aloud.

  "Traits you admire?" Comlan quietly asked, and then, when the dark beauty in his arms took a misstep, steadied her through the next slow spin.

  "And scientific inquiry." Amy nodded, desperately grasping at what seemed a solid anchor to hold her steady in a whirling world utterly lacking such desirable qualities. "It's the future and solid facts based on provable realities are the path to reach that promising day."

  Miss Amy Danton's words washed over Comlan like ice water. Their differences, it seemed, went even deeper than the surface ones separating their worlds. Their basic natures were at odds. And yet, he had to fight a near overwhelming compulsion to take her tempting lips and claim again the indescribably sweet ambrosia of her kiss.

  Gazing helplessly up, Amy felt as if the mesmerizing lights glittering in emerald eyes were encasing her in a delicate web of dangerous enthrallment which like dandelion fluff effortlessly floated up into an irrational plane of emotions. So thoroughly was Amy lost to her surroundings that when both the music and her partner stopped, she was caught unprepared. The unpleasant shock was a gale that dashed her against harsh reality, and she pulled from the Irishman's hold with a poor demonstration of her usual grace.

  His lovely partner's abrupt action restored a sardonic curl to Comlan's lips. Clearly their lengthy and very public visual bond had shaken her. Unfortunately there was little he could do to ease her distress—at least not here and not now. The silver resentment flashing in Amy's eyes deepened his amusement and at the same time inspired sharp regret for all the restrictions placed upon any from his realm venturing into the mortal world.

  Amy took exception to the golden man's mocking expression. It seemed a disheartening confirmation that by acting like some lovelorn adolescent she'd made a silly goose of herself. Promptly turning her back on Lord Comlan, she stalked proudly away and paused only on seeing the waiting embodiment of an unwelcome future in the pompous man hovering at the dance floor's edge.

  The approaching woman's smile pleased Orville. It held more welcome than Amy had ever shown him before and deepened his confidence in the likely success of the plan to circumvent a foolish foe. And if in the process he got even richer, then so much the better.

  As the first strains of a new tune began, Orville stepped forward to meet Amy. "Since the Irish intruder prevented me from claiming the last, surely this waltz is mine."

  Thoughts preoccupied by that intruder, Amy permitted the long-despised Orville to escort her back into the dancers midst. She immediately regretted it as a mistake—but too late. Granting even so minor a request was bound to increase the difficulty in refusing more later.

  Encouraged by Amethyst's uncharacteristic yielding, Orville led her into the waltz. Having had difficulty mastering the steps, pride for that hard-learned ability partially masked his self-satisfied smirk and prevented him from noticing Amy's faint scowl.

  "Doncaully, did the duchess say?" Orville recognized the prudence in an immediate start on discrediting Amy's previous partner. "Never heard of the place, myself. Nor him." Warming to the subject with a sudden inkling of how much a threat the handsome stranger could become, he added, "Egad, who's ever heard of this Irishman before?"

  Disgust burned in Orville's contemptuous words and Amy felt it radiating out from him. He was a stiff, graceless dancer at the best of times, but now annoyance so intensified his lacks that Amy had to take care in moving her feet swiftly enough to prevent him from tromping on tender toes.

  "I'll wager the man is some common lout thinking to work his sort's trickery over us all." Orville glared blindly over the top of his partner's dark hair. "And to what purpose? Not beneficial, not beneficial at all."

  The obvious bigotry behind Orville's emphasis on Comlan's Irish heritage made it difficult for Amy to hide her disdain from the man she'd no doubt had only just begun a lengthy diatribe against his target's "sort."

  "In truth, we must guard against this barbaric Irishman's mere presence dragging us down into his vulgar mire." Orville was encouraged when Amy's bright smile flashed in response.

  Knowing Orville would be certain to misinterpret it as support for his overbearing opinion, Amy quickly stifled her smile. In reality her mirth was inspired by the possibility—though a remote and unlikely fantasy—that the one Orville declared a barbarian might actually be the king of a far richer realm than any Orville was ever likely to see. Absently protecting herself from the bungling moves of an increasingly irate partner and anxious to block the sound of his sour words, Amy turned her attention to their fellow dancers.

  Amy focused on the first familiar figure to come into view. Garnet, her only brother, swirled his petite wife around the floor with all the grace Orville lacked. As they passed near, she briefly met her sister-in-law's eyes and caught a glimpse of warm sympathy. Frivolous but loyal, Louvisa had been Amy's best friend since childhood. And Lovey was the only one, besides the faithful Beattie, who knew precisely how Amy really felt about Orville.

  "And," Orville, pompously announced while leading his dance partner with the unreliable assurance of insufficient experience, "I mean to see that an investigation be done into this Lord of Doncaully's true background."

  Harsh words exposed a meanness of spirit that snapped Amy's attention back to Orville.

  "If it proves he's as coarse as I've no doubt he is, I'll see his chicanery revealed to all the good people of our class!"

  Orville's malicious declaration struck Amy with an unaccountably deep fear that he might succeed in destroying the Irish newcomer. She couldn't let that happen! Startled by the fire in her silent vow, Amy rushed to convince herself that she meant to hamper Orville's sorry goal merely for the sake of causing as much damage to his plans as his courtship threatened to wreak on her life.

  But how? Amy's depressingly rational mind refused to be satisfied with an idle intention to act. Their stiff dance continued and Orville's harangue went on and on. Amy heard only the steady whine of his droning voice while mentally casting about for some method to upset his aim. The next moment she was annoyed with herself for not having instantly known the answer: A simple warning to Lord Comlan of Doncaully about Orville's plan would assuredly suffice.

  Amy frowned. Simple, yes. But not easily do
ne. She was an unmarried woman. And the complications inherent in any unmarried woman boldly pursuing private words with a clearly eligible bachelor, a stranger at that, were many and daunting. Even to dance with the same man more than twice was to risk Society's censure. To seek time alone with this handsome newcomer would be to tempt ruin— the very thing her parents most assiduously guarded against.

  But, Amy brightened, Lord Comlan might ask her to dance a second time… She regretfully dismissed the viability of that possibility, although unable to smother an irrepressible spark of hope that he might. Beyond the fact that his nearness seemed to wipe sane thought from her head, this crowded floor was hardly the place to bluntly introduce any serious subject.

  Amy's gray eyes searched the room and found an even more troublesome barrier. The sight of the Irish lord's golden head tilted toward another nearly as bright seemed proof that he had become yet another devotee among the Reigning Beauty's crowded court of admirers. Amy sternly told herself she didn't care that, under fair-haired Isobel's sway, he was unlikely to waste another glance in the direction of a dark—if not downright dowdy—near spinster, and far less apt to spare her a moment in his company.

  But there must be some way to manage a few confidential words. Never mind Society's long list of "Don'ts," with cool logic and calm reasoning she would find a strategy to accomplish her goal.

  "Did you warn the dark colleen?" demanded the short, wiry man who met the leader returning from a fancy ball at the door of plush lodgings leased for the Season in an affluent area of the City. "Kin we hie ourselves back to where we rightly belong?"

  Light spilled through the open portal, laying a bright shape down shallow entry steps and glowing over golden hair ruefully shaken. While stepping inside, Comlan tamed the grin inspired by this irascible companion's refusal to adjust his pattern of speech to match that of those inhabiting their current surroundings. Dooley was a human who, after living more than half his allotted mortal years, had wandered into the Faerie Realm one autumnal eve during the few hours of the annual Samhain festivities when the border between their worlds was fluid. Then, having no family ties to hold him back, Dooley had chosen to remain within King Comlan's bright and cheerful domain.