Dancing on the Wind (29 page)

Of
course
Strathmore would find her, Kit thought with furious exasperation. The two of them could be dropped into the vastness of the Sahara and be drawn together like opposite poles of a magnet. But there was no sign that he recognized her, which was all that mattered. With only a few square inches of her face visible and that altered by cosmetics, her current disguise was one that even Strathmore would be unable to penetrate.

That didn't mean she should give him the opportunity to try. She altered the set of her mouth to mimic the delicately voluptuous poutiness of a Frenchwoman, then said with a Parisian accent, "I 'ave promised thees dance to another man, monsieur."

"When the fellow finds us, I shall yield to his prior claim," Strathmore said in fluent French. "But until then, it would be a pity to waste the music."

Since he did not release her, she was forced to follow him into the pattern of the dance—the wicked, scandalous waltz, which was condemned by high-minded citizens because it stimulated impure thoughts. Since Strathmore had that effect on her all the time, heaven only knew what a waltz would do.

She had the sense that he was watching her with unusual intensity. Did he have any suspicions? She tried to read his expression, but his black half mask made that impossible.

Their steps matched perfectly. Again she was unsurprised; ever since their first meeting, they had been caught up in a different kind of dance. They glided across the floor in silence.

Conversation was essential, for silence made her too aware of his nearness. Without removing her left hand from her partner's shoulder, she opened her fan and began cooling her face while she tried to think of something innocuous to say. She should not have had that third glass of champagne, for her usual powers of invention seemed to have failed her.

He solved the problem by asking, "When young French ladies are taught to dance, are they also taught how to fan themselves without missing a step? It's a clever trick."

She gave a trill unlike her usual laughter. "Frenchwomen are full of clever tricks, monsieur." Too late she realized that her remark was the kind of brazen flirtation she had been using on Roderick Harford.

"Splendid. I find tricky females irresistible," Strathmore said blandly..

He drew her closer so that their bodies were lightly touching. Every movement of the dance became a caress—a brush of her breasts against his chest, over even as she became aware of it; the whisper of his breath against her temple; the pressure of his knee as it skimmed her thigh; a grazing of pelvises that sent heat coiling through her limbs.

Though each contact was fleeting, the overall effect was powerfully erotic. She wanted to twine around him, to turn those teasing touches into a fierce embrace. Precise, physical memories of their supper at the Clarendon Hotel caused color to rise in her cheeks. She ducked her head, grateful that Strathmore could not read her mind.

He murmured into her ear, "You dance well, madame."

"As do you, monsieur, but you are too close for propriety," she said with gentle reproof.

She tried to move farther away, but his firm clasp on her hand and waist prevented that. "Propriety at midnight during a masked ball is a very different matter from propriety at high noon in a drawing room, madame. Look around you."

It was true that many couples were locked more tightly than she and her partner. But none of the other men, she was sure, had Strathmore's ability to make a woman's bones turn to taffy___

"You remind me of someone," he said thoughtfully.

Mental alarms went off, yanking her from her languid mood. "A good memory, or a bad memory, monsieur?"

"Both. A most delicious female, but maddeningly elusive. She was much of your height"—his cheek brushed her hair—"and as as delightful to hold as you"—he pulled her more closely in demonstration—"and she was graceful, like you." He gazed down into her eyes with a shrewdness that frightened her. "I wonder if your kisses are like hers."

Before he could act on his last comment, she pulled away, saying frostily, 'Only a most stupid man tries to compliment one woman by comparing her to another."

"You're quite right. I have been too often stupid about women." He raised her hand and kissed her gloved fingertips. "Forgive me. I shall try to be wiser."

More double meanings. Clearly he suspected her identity, but he was not sure. Thank God for the mask and her careful disguise. However, the intense attraction throbbing between them could not be concealed, and the longer they were together, the more suspicious he would become. "I do not think that continuing to dance with you is wise, monsieur."

"Why should we be wise?" His right arm slid around her waist and his domino enfolded her like protective wings as he drew her back into the waltz. She caught her breath at the sweetness of his embrace. She had been right to be wary of silence, for without words to protect her, she had no defense against him.

Torn between longing to stay and the knowledge that she shouldn't, she compromised by vowing to leave as soon as the dance ended. But the music flowed on and on, far longer than a normal waltz, weaving a web of sound and desire. Gradually, the frantic beat of fear that had driven her for weeks eased, soothed by the warmth of his closeness. Her eyes drifted shut, and her cheek came to rest against his shoulder.

Dimly she knew that their dance was an act of mating as explicit as if they were lying naked on satin sheets,yet she could not break away. They glided through the turns of the waltz, their dominoes floating about them as diaphanous as mist, black and midnight blue swirling together.

Finally—yet too soon—the music stopped. They halted beneath a chandelier, their gazes locked as if bound by a sorcerer's spell. Behind his mask, she saw that desire had turned his eyes as golden as new minted coins.

She wondered what her own eyes showed, and knew that she must leave
now
. "Good night, monsieur," she said, her throat dry.

As she turned to go, he caught her wrist. "Don't leave yet," he said thickly. "Or rather, let us go together."

She twisted away from his grip. "Sorry, but I have already made plans for the rest of the night."

Hot wax spattered across her cheek from one of the candles above. She raised her hand, but his fingers were there first, gently rubbing away the fragments of cooled wax. "Come with me now. Surely your 'other plans' can wait for an hour."

He spoke with the calm confidence of a man who did not doubt that in an hour he could make her forget all other obligations. But hers were more significant than mere fornication, as alluring as that might be. She shook her head. "I'm sorry, monsieur, but honor forbids. Perhaps another time."

She sensed the Sex of his fingers barely in time. Before he could pull off her mask, she slapped his hand away with her fan, shattering the ivory blades and ripping the delicate lace. "Do not seek to change the rules, monsieur," she snapped. "Such intimacy as we have shared is possible only because we wear masks. If I do not satisfy you, go seek the lady you think I resemble. She might be more accommodating."

"I can't help but wonder if I have found her," he said softly. "Though the appearance is different, the spirit is the same. Can there be more than one woman who shimmers with such a flame, and kindles such desire?"

Damnation. In spite of her best efforts, Strathmore was three quarters convinced of her identity. But notquite sure; if he had been, he would already have hauled her from the dance floor to a more private place.

Attack was safer than defense. She uttered a very French oath learned from the Parisian girl who had been her nursemaid, then turned away, her domino flaring wide. "You become tedious, monsieur. Do not trouble me again."

As she moved away, languidly rolling her hips in a manner quite unlike her usual walk, she could feel his gaze boring into her back. It took all of her willpower not to bolt. Only the knowledge that flight would confirm his suspicions kept her steps slow and steady.

She joined the largest group of people so that the earl would lose sight of her, then slipped out of the ballroom. When she was safely out in the foyer, she leaned against a wall, shaking. How could she have been such a fool as to let that happen? She should have walked away as soon as he accosted her. And how long had she been with him? Harford had intended to return to his room in an hour, and hah? of that must have passed. There was no time to waste.

Quickly she removed the pebbles from her slippers, for they were uncomfortable, and it was no longer necessary to alter her walk. Then she made her way upstairs at a speed just short of a run. Several times she saw other couples in corners or entering a bedroom, but all were too intent on their own concerns to pay attention to her.

Blackwell Abbey was U-shaped with a center section bracketed by two shorter wings. Dozens of identical doors opened onto the dimly lit corridors. To prevent guests from embarrassing errors, elegantly written cards announced who was in each room. She warily eyed the door marked with Strathmore's name, even though she knew that he must still be downstairs.

She reached the end of the corridor and fished out the key, then spent two frustrating minutes trying to open the unmarked door. Perhaps Harford was playing some kind of idiotic game with her.

Could she have come to the wrong place? She thought about it and realized that she had gotten her directions reversed and come to the east wing instead of the west. Mentally cursing herself, she retraced her steps, instinctively circling wide around Strathmore's door. Right around the corner, along the main corridor, right again. Last door on the left.

This time the key turned smoothly, and the door swung open to reveal a sitting room. She stepped inside with relief, then locked the door behind her so that she would have warning of Harford's return if she wasn't gone before he came upstairs.

A single candle lit the room. She studied her surroundings, wondering what to look for. Once before she had searched a room of Harford's, but then he had been a guest in someone else's house. This sitting room and the adjacent bedroom were places where he actually lived for part of the year, and he must have imprinted himself deeply into his surroundings.

She began searching. The bookcase contained an impressive array of salacious books, repellent and of no value to her. She opened the wardrobe and ran her hands between the garments, trying to find traces of some unde-finable essence. Then she turned to his desk and began searching his papers with frantic haste while she prayed that he would stay longer at the ball than he had intended.

The desk contained two drawers full of bills, none of them paid. Another drawer contained highly explicit love letters written in different feminine hands. She skimmed them quickly, but it was all rubbish. Even the doggerel verse about "Roderick's remarkable rod" scanned badly. Obviously, Harford did not favor women with intelligence.

In the center drawer was a journal containing terse notes. She studied them for a few minutes and realized with distaste that it was a record of the women he had bedded, complete with evaluations of their skills and willingness to indulge his sometimes peculiar tastes. If she were actually the trollop she pretended, she would be destined to end up in these pages. He would have made a note of her tattoo.

She flipped through all of the entries for the last several months, but found nothing to confirm her suspicions. She was leaning over to pull out the lowest drawer when an angry voice barked, "What the hell are you doing?"

She jerked upright, heart hammering, and saw Harford glowering in the doorway. Dear God, why didn't it occur to her that he might have second key? She must brazen it out. "Looking through your desk, of course," she said innocently. "I became bored waiting, monsieur, so I decided to explore."

"Next time, don't explore a man's desk," he said, his irritation fading with the quick mood change of the drunk. "You're French? I didn't notice that earlier."

Damnation, she had spoken in the character she had created for Strathmore! "In a bedroom, I am always French," she said throatily. "The French may be our enemies, but they are masters at the art of making love."

"Oh, I don't know about being our enemies. Napoleon's a damned clever fellow, far superior to our own royal family. We haven't seen the last of him."Harford removed his mask, then unfastened his domino and dropped it over a chair. "Start undressing. I want to see if your face is as good as your tits."

It was the moment she had been waiting for. She stepped full into the candlelight and reached for her mask. Though her hair color was different, he would surely recognize her if he was the man she sought. She revealed her face, watching him with hawklike intensity as she waited for the reaction that would tell her all she needed to know.

Nothing! Not a flicker, not a widening of the eyes, only the careless comment, "A bit long in the tooth, but you'll do for a night. I've found that older females make good bedmates because they're so grateful."

A cold knot formed in her belly. He wasn't the one.
He wasn't the one
! She could not have explained how she knew, but she was positive. Though he might be involved in a tangential way, he was not the prime villain.

She had learned what she had come for. Now the trick was to escape without getting raped. "It isn't kind of you to mention my age," she complained as she edged toward the door. "A proper knight wouldn't say such a thing."

"Stop babbling about knights." He pulled off his coat and untied his cravat. "You came here to get bedded. I'm willing to oblige, but don't waste my time with female nonsense."

"You're not chivalrous at all." With a flounce she reached for the doorknob. "I don't think I like you anymore."

Moving with a speed that belied his drunkenness, he seized her shoulders and swung her around to face him. "You're not going anywhere," he growled. "It's too late for me to find another woman, so you're going to stay here and get exactly what you asked for."

His hot, wine-soured mouth clamped over hers. It was horribly like the incident at Bourne Castle when he had thought her a chambermaid. Suppressing her distaste, she made a sound deep in her throat, as if aroused by his crude embrace, and wrapped herself around him.