Falcon and the Sparrow

by Marylu Tyndall

  Percy hopped out of the carriage, gave Miss Dawson one of his lascivious winks, then turned to assist Lady Irene and Chase’s sister. Chase perused the petite governess beside him, only to enjoy the blush rising on her cheeks from Percy’s blatant flirtation. He found her naïveté both refreshing and charming.

  Miss Dawson had barely said a word during the carriage ride to the Billingsworth house, not when they’d stopped at his parents’ massive estate, nor when his sister had uttered a rude exclamation upon finding her in the landau, nor when Lady Irene snubbed her with her disapproving silence, nor even when Lord Markham had allowed his drooling gaze to feast upon her during the whole journey. She’d simply smiled and endured their cold mannerisms and surly remarks with a grace that confounded Chase. Was it weakness … or something else?

  After showering Chase with her most seductive smile, Lady Irene glared at Miss Dawson with a tilt of her pert nose before taking Percy’s arm and proceeding to the front of the house. Couples donned in their finest attire milled about on the square and exited from other carriages that pulled up all along the gravel courtyard.

  Lord Markham burst from the carriage, shaking it on its hinges. A waft of strong wine emanated from him. His glazed eyes scanned over Miss Dawson before he offered his arm to Chase’s sister. “Would you do me the honor, Mrs. Barton?” He gazed at the towering white pillars of one of the largest town houses on Grosvenor Square. From the windows, orchestra music floated on shimmering light that drifted down upon new arrivals. “Looks to be a fine party, eh, Randal?”

  Chase snorted. “We shall see.”

  “Really, Randal, quit being such a boor. You have a beautiful lady on your arm and an evening of wine and dance to enjoy. Have fun for a change.” Lord Markham led Katharine to the back of a crowd that had formed at the front entrance.

  “You’ve been silent this evening.” Chase glanced at Miss Dawson. Disappointment gnawed at him when her features were lost in the shadows. Then she turned toward the house. A wash of candlelight flickered over her face, and he had a strong urge to caress her cheek. Her eyes glanced over the scene as if distracted before they landed on him again.

  “Better to be silent than to say something I would regret, Admiral.”

  “Hmm. A good philosophy, I’ll wager. And certainly one which present company could use some instruction upon.” He chuckled, and her responding smile seemed to scatter the darkness around them. He took her arm and caught up to his sister and Lord Markham, feeling a sudden lightness in his step.

  Katharine turned to Chase, ignoring Miss Dawson at his side. “How could you offend Lady Irene so?” she hissed.

  “Offend?” Chase snickered. “You invited me to this soiree. You never said I couldn’t invite a guest.”

  Lord Markham bellowed his greetings to people he knew as he made his way toward the door.

  “You know as well as I that I intended for you to escort Lady Irene,” Katharine whispered.

  “Precisely why I invited Miss Dawson.”

  “You are incorrigible.”

  “So I am told.” Confident he had thwarted her latest matchmaking scheme, he grinned. But then he felt Miss Dawson stiffen at his side. He sobered his tone. “I do not wish to guide Lady Irene’s affections down a course that leads to naught but an empty dock.”

  “You should give her a chance, Chase. She’ll make a good wife. And she adores you so.”

  Miss Dawson’s grip tightened on Chase’s arm. “I assure you, Mrs. Barton, I am only here as a favor to your brother. I have no intention of coming between him and Lady Irene.”

  Chase snapped his gaze to Miss Dawson. She’d said the words with a conviction that suddenly dampened his newly improved mood.

  “You assume too much, Miss Dawson,” Katharine retorted with a smirk. “I assure you that you pose no threat to Lady Irene.” Miss Dawson gave her a curt grin and looked away.

  Dominique gazed across the floor where couples had just begun a cotillion to start off the evening dance. A small orchestra played at the back of the huge gala room filled to near bursting with ladies in shimmering gowns and lords in pristine evening wear. Draped across the walls, garlands molded from stucco surrounded impressionist paintings of flowers and fruits. Long mirrors paneled one side of the room, reflecting the glittering light from a multitude of cut-glass chandeliers. Chairs and taborets padded with velvet lined the walls where ladies already took their seats. Dominique gazed up to see a domed ceiling frescoed in bright colors that added to the magnitude and gaiety of the scene. Several people crowded around a buffet against the far wall where lemonade and wine punch were being served to refresh the guests after dancing.

  Dominique had never seen anything quite so magnificent. Her plain gown so paled in comparison with the beautiful attire of the ladies surrounding her, like a sparrow among so many peacocks, that she longed to slip into the shadows. She glanced around for the admiral, but he had been stolen away by a group of navy men wishing to discuss something of import. She must convince him to dance with her so she could snatch the key from his coat and leave as soon as possible.

  A group of noblemen, sharp in their evening wear, stood in a regal cluster beside her, discussing politics while allowing their sultry gazes to devour every lady who passed by, occasionally feasting upon Dominique as if she were the hors d’oeuvre.

  Several gentlemen had already requested she reserve a dance for them. She’d agreed, unsure how to respond to the attention she was drawing, and as she stood surrounded by so much opulence, she suddenly felt more out of her league than ever. Butterflies fluttered a wild dance in her stomach as a nervous hunger consumed her. Lord, what am I doing here? I don’t belong among these people. And where is the admiral?

  Mr. Atherton gave her a saucy nod from the dance floor as he escorted Lady Irene through the regimented steps of the cotillion. Mrs. Barton huddled with a group of ladies by the banquet table, their sharp eyes periodically darting her way in disapproving glances. A head of gray hair dislodged from the crowd and seemed to be bobbing in her direction.

  Dominique cringed. Lord Markham. Something about the man sent a cold shiver down her back. Please, Lord, do not let him come my way. But she’d no sooner shot up the prayer than the beast appeared beside her.

  “Miss Dawson, I daresay, your beauty shines like the sun among these many paltry stars.” He waved stubby jeweled fingers over the glittering sea of alluring females.

  Dominique tensed. “Thank you, milord, but I’ll wager you say that to all the ladies.” She tried to move away from him, but he sidled up beside her, brushing his arm against hers.

  “Ah, I see the admiral has been telling tales about me.” He leaned toward her and grinned, blasting her with a puff of wine-laden breath that stung her nose. “Perhaps they have piqued your interest, mademoiselle?”

  “My only interest, milord”—Dominique forced a steely tone into her voice—“is in being a governess to the admiral’s son.”

  “Yet I fail to see how you can do that from a ball, and especially when you display yourself in so tempting a fashion.” His bloodshot eyes fixated upon the swell of her bosom, and Dominique turned aside and splayed her fan over her chest, horrified. Was her gown too provocative? A blush rose up her neck and onto her face. She glanced down at her dress, then at the gowns of the other women standing nearby. No, by far she wore the most modest attire in the room.

  Lord Markham must have misinterpreted her embarrassment as a playful attempt at flirtation, for his thick fingers grabbed her arm and turned her about. “Perhaps you need some air, mademoiselle? A stroll outside may do you some good?”

  Was he mad? The last thing she intended was to place herself alone with this salacious hound. “No, I’m quite happy here, thank you.” She tugged on her arm, but his grip tightened.

  He raised a cultured brow and wrestled with his cravat as if overheated. “ ’Tis a bit stuffy, wouldn’t you say? I would enjoy some cool air. Won’t you join me?”

  The word
s sounded more like a command than a request. “I do believe some cooling off will do you good, milord, but no, I respectfully decline your offer. Now please release me at once.”

  Lord Markham’s eyes hardened as he wrenched her closer to him. “Now you listen—”

  “What’s this, Markham, stealing my lady?” The admiral’s baritone voice had never sounded so pleasing. He erected his strong presence like a tower of defense between them. One glance at Dominique’s face, and the smile that graced his handsome lips melted into a thin line.

  Lord Markham released Dominique and tossed a jovial chuckle toward the admiral. “We were just about to dance.”

  “Yet as her escort, I believe the privilege of the first dance falls to me, does it not?” The admiral furrowed his brow as he glanced between them.

  The tight ball of nerves in Dominique’s stomach began to unravel, but the thought of dancing with the admiral and trying to steal his key caused it to wind back up again.

  “Of course.” Lord Markham nodded. “Won’t you save a dance for me, Miss Dawson?”

  Dominique dropped a curtsy and gave him a tart smile but did not grace him with an answer.

  With a snort, he marched away.

  The admiral’s concerned gaze landed on her. He studied her for a moment then cocked his head. “Are you all right, Miss Dawson? I believe you have gone white again.”

  She watched Lord Markham slither through the crowd like a snake seeking his next victim. “Yes, I’m fine.” She forced a smile.

  The admiral followed the direction of her gaze. “Forgive him; he means no harm.”

  “I’m not so sure.” Dominique stared into the admiral’s soothing brown eyes—eyes that were usually guarded but that now held a warmth that sent her heart fluttering.

  “He will not touch you.” He said the words with the same authority he must wield upon his ship, and she knew he meant them. His protectiveness cloaked her like a warm blanket. She watched the rise and fall of his chest beneath the gold buttons of his blue waistcoat and remembered how he’d stolen her breath away that evening when she’d first seen him at the bottom of the stairs, waiting for her. Why, she’d barely noticed poor Mr. Atherton standing beside him until she neared the front door.

  She shifted her gaze under his continual perusal and scanned the resplendent room and the lords and ladies ensconced in their bright dance. Was she really here? At a wonderful ball with a handsome admiral? She felt like a princess in a fairy-tale dream. Would her life have been filled with such glorious parties if her parents hadn’t died? She shook her head.

  Whom was she trying to fool? She was no princess. Never would be.

  She was but a pauper on a pauper’s mission to save her brother’s life. There was no one to protect her or her brother—save God. She waved her fan through the air, trying to dry her eyes, not wanting the admiral to see her distress. Raising her gaze to his, she hoped to draw upon the strength she saw there, knowing all the while that this man who stood beside her declaring his protection was the same man she must steal from, the same man she must betray. She had to get that key from him tonight, or all would be lost.

  As they waited their turn to follow the lead couple in the dance, Chase found he could not keep his eyes off Miss Dawson. She was like a beacon of light on a stormy night that drew him to shore despite every effort to sail in the other direction. The closer he came to the light, the brighter things appeared. Yet he was well aware of the jagged rocks that dotted the shallow water as he neared her, threatening to tear his ship to pieces … and his heart along with it. He could not bear that pain again.

  She looked around the room, uncomfortable in the silence. Then her eyes met his.

  “May I ask you something, Admiral?” “Of course.”

  “Why are your parents not in attendance? Why did you not go in to see them when we picked up your sister at their estate?”

  “A rather bold question.” But he supposed that was one of the things he liked about her.

  “Forgive me.” She lowered her lashes as they stepped forward in a movement that brought them even closer.

  Chase flexed his jaw. “My parents and I have had a parting of ways. We have not spoken in years.”

  She gave him a look of astonishment as they stepped around each other and then back again. “I’m sorry.”

  “They disapproved of my marriage. My wife was a common seamstress.”

  “Yet even now … after …” She bit her lip as she stepped back in line.

  “Yes, even now …” He waved a hand to dismiss the topic, unsure why he’d even disclosed it. The last thing he wanted was her pity.

  She turned from him and approached the man to his left as Chase stepped toward another lady. The sudden separation caused an ache that soon dulled when she reappeared in front of him again, a tender smile on her lips. Candlelight danced over her hair in a display of reds, browns, and golds. Her rosy cheeks matched the color of her lips, and he found his gaze drifting down to them, wondering at the feel of them on his, wondering at their taste, wondering …

  And much to his astonishment, she slipped even closer to him. Grabbing her arm, he dashed from the dance floor, dragging her behind him.

  “What is the matter?”

  “I thought you might be in need of refreshment,” he lied. “And I do not wish to monopolize your time.”

  His sudden change in demeanor caused her forehead to wrinkle in the most amusing way, and he shook his head, forcing himself not to gaze upon her. Everything she did, every movement, every expression, delighted him.

  Skirting around him, she grabbed a glass of lemonade as Lady Irene flounced their way. Her hair sparkled like spun gold. “Won’t you save a dance for me, Admiral?” She stepped in front of Dominique as if she weren’t there and puffed out her chest in a creamy, bountiful display. Sapphire blue eyes shot a silent appeal.

  “I would be honored,” Chase said with more exuberance than he felt. Despite his annoyance with Lady Irene’s brazen request, he needed a distraction from Miss Dawson. He needed to get his mind off her and find what was left of his reason. What better way to do that than to spend time with Lady Irene? “Yet I see you are not in want of admirers.” He motioned toward the cluster of men she’d left standing across the dance floor looking rather like a pack of sick puppies, but realized too late his comment could be construed as jealousy.

  “But none so important to me as you,” she cooed.

  Obviously she had taken it as such. Chase shifted his gaze to Dominique, who met his eyes briefly before glancing away.

  “Ah, there you are, love.” Percy approached Lady Irene with well-practiced elegance. “I should have assumed I would find you with Admiral Randal.”

  “I am not your love, Atherton.” Lady Irene gave him a scathing glance.

  “Oh, my heart. Cut to the quick once again.” He winked at Dominique then flapped his hand toward Chase. “Take her away, Randal. I make a poor escort for such a comely enchantress.”

  “Don’t listen to him. He’s done naught but dance with every beautiful lady here and left me quite on my own.” Lady Irene drew her lips into a pout that Chase knew was supposed to captivate him, yet he found his glance angling around her, searching for Miss Dawson.

  Percy reached her first. Out on the floor, a Scottish reel had begun. “May I have this dance?” He extended his arm toward Miss Dawson. She set down her lemonade and glanced at Chase.

  He waved them on, battling a rising fury in his gut.

  “Now I can have you all to myself, Admiral.” Lady Irene slid her gloved hand into the crook of his arm, a look of satisfaction on her face. But Chase soon found his gaze locked upon Percy and Miss Dawson. The lecherous man fondled her delicate waist as he led her to the center of the floor.

  “Ah, see.” Lady Irene grinned. “They appear well matched, don’t you think?”

  Dominique had not danced a reel in years, not since her presentation at court five years earlier. She was amazed that she rem
embered the steps so well, but perhaps it was Mr. Atherton’s exquisite skill that sent them floating over the floor as if their feet never touched the polished marble beneath them. The handsome member of Parliament curved his lips in a wolfish smile, and she wondered why she felt none of the unease in his presence that she did whenever Lord Markham gave her an equally seductive grin.

  “He is quite taken with you, you know.” He managed to shout above the melodious combination of flute, violin, and piano that filled the room.

  “I beg your pardon. Of whom do you speak?” Dominique took his hand and pirouetted around him. “The admiral, of course.”

  Dominique drew her lips in a tight line, remembering the abrupt way the admiral had pulled her from the dance floor. She must have insulted him with her impertinent questions, or perhaps he’d grown bored of her company or she’d taken the wrong dance step. Either way, he clearly had no interest in her, especially given the way he’d brushed her off on Mr. Atherton as if he longed to rid himself of her company. Though her heart felt as though it had suffered a blow, ’twas for the better. His attitude certainly helped her to stifle her own wayward emotions and concentrate on the task at hand—getting the key from him. She must do it tonight. “I fear you are mistaken.”

  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the admiral in close conversation with Lady Irene on the outskirts of the dance floor. He laughed and leaned his ear toward her every word. They were suited for one another. Lady Irene’s gold-trimmed ivory gown flowed around her in a sweep of shimmering silk, the jewels hanging from her neck and ears glittering with the same shine as the golden curls framing her face. What did Dominique have to compare with her? Besides, Lady Irene had loved the admiral from childhood.

  “I’ve known Randal for years, Miss Dawson. I am not mistaken,” Mr. Atherton whispered in her ear.

  “I believe ’tis obvious his affections are toward Lady Irene,” she retorted as he guided her through the line of dancers.

  “Bosh … pure bosh, Miss Dawson. Look at his face.”