Betina Krahn (9 page)

He seized her gloved hands, held them up reverently before his gaze, and gave a dramatic sigh. “I could not bear to be away from you another day, my dearest jewel. I took the fleetest packet from Barbados and flew straight to Gracemont the moment we docked. I was devastated to find you not at home. Your Mrs. Humphrey said you had come here.”

He glanced around at the people eyeing him and developed a slightly pained expression. But it was not chagrin at his lack of proper dress or embarrassment at the disapproving stares of Baltimore’s elite that caused him such discomfort. Louis Pierpont, the sole survivor of what was once one of Baltimore’s most influential families, cared little for such things.

“I simply had to come to you. I knew the Vassars would not mind if I arrived uninvited. They are good and charitable people.” He tossed a glance around them at the grandeur of Pennyworth’s drawing room. “Despite their regrettable materialism.”

Clearly, it was finding her in such a worldly setting that caused the aggrieved expression he wore. She knew full well his attitudes toward elegant society and lavish entertaining. He had long ago forsworn accepting invitations to
such events, as a witness to the world that he pursued a higher, “nobler” path.

“But you said in your letter you wouldn’t be home for weeks,” she said, hoping her distress wasn’t visible. “What about the new mission?”

“The mission staff arrived from Boston earlier than expected, and things went so well with the new doctor and reverend that I decided the mission could get along without me.” He smiled as if indulging her. “You didn’t think I would miss your
birthday
, did you?”

“No, of course not.” It was all she could do to return even a portion of his smile; her face felt frozen.

The flicker of longing in his eyes was painful to witness … until his gaze dipped lower and slid down her fashionably bared shoulders. The pallor of his cheeks disappeared as he flushed and dragged his wandering attention under control. Conscious of his dismay—she also knew his views on the decadence of clothing from “heathen” Paris—she glanced down at the neckline of her gown.

“My heavens, Louis,” she said, abruptly turning the focus back to him. “You seem so much thinner. Have you been ill?”

“The heat in Barbados is so difficult. I’m afraid I dwindled a bit.” He took out a handkerchief and dabbed at his forehead and throat. “But I’m certain that will change, now that I’m home.” He fastened his gaze on her eyes and made so bold as to brush her cheek with his fingertips. “I must gather my strength”—he lowered his voice—“for our future together.”

Panic seized her.

“Oh, my!” She snapped open the fan dangling from her wrist. “It must be the surprise—I’m suddenly feeling lightheaded.”

Louis looked around them and quickly ushered her to one of a number of deserted chairs along the nearby wall.
Sinking onto a seat, she swayed, closed her eyes, and pressed the back of a hand artfully to her temple.

“Perhaps a glass of punch …” she said, gazing up with what she hoped would pass for appealing frailty.

“I shall get you one straightaway,” he declared.

The minute Louis disappeared through the rear salon door, following a trail of goblet-carrying guests toward the refreshment tables, she straightened, waited an extra heartbeat to be certain he was gone, and then bounded off the chair in the opposite direction. And ran straight into a wall of black wool.

Barton McQuaid, approaching from the other side, caught and steadied her. After a pause, he jerked his hands from her bare shoulders and cleared his throat. “Miss Wingate.”

“Mr. McQuaid. I was just … ummm …” She reddened and again lifted a wrist to her forehead.

“In need of a breath of fresh air?” he prompted.

She frowned, then realized he must have seen her attack of the vapors. “Not at all.” She straightened. “I was just on my way …”

Glancing past him, hoping to see someone or something to help her complete that response, she glimpsed trouble brewing instead. Morgan Kenwood was coming through the French doors that led to the terrace, looking anything but pleased. She stifled a moan and glanced frantically toward the rear salon doorway. There, Louis Pierpont, punch cup in hand, was being detained briefly in the doorway by people who recognized him and offered him greetings.

What was intended to be a private groan escaped her.

On her left was Morgan Kenwood … horse czar, country squire, neighbor, and self-appointed fiancé. On her right was Louis Pierpont III … philanthropist, sometime missionary, childhood friend … and self-anointed betrothed.

There was no time to develop a plan. She was about to be caught between contradictory and onrushing futures—a matrimonial squeeze—and the last thing she needed was to have them collide in front of Baltimore’s elite.

She needed an obstacle, something big enough to hide behind and mobile enough to drag from the room with her. The only thing at hand was one large and largely annoying Westerner. She regarded her other dreaded options a moment longer … then slid to McQuaid’s side, shoved her arm through his, and steered for the door.

“I was just on my way out, Mr. McQuaid.”

He scowled and looked off in the direction of whatever—whoever—had set her fleeing. He must have caught sight of Louis returning. “Where are you leading me? Besides away from your parson?”

“He’s not a parson. He’s a missionary. And he definitely is not
mine
.”

“Does he know that?” he asked.

He must have seen the look Louis gave her, she realized. In addition to McQuaid’s more obvious faults, he was a bit too perceptive to suit her.

Eager to be out of both his company and his debt, she released his sleeve as soon as they cleared the doorway and entered the main hall. But Morgan’s distinctive baritone drifted through the doorway behind her—“Wait, is that her?”—and she realized that while she might be out of the salon, she wasn’t out of danger. McQuaid’s company and the strains of music floating down the staircase from the ballroom on the second floor seemed her best hope of
avoiding both Morgan and Louis until she could think of a way to leave the party early.

“Upstairs”—she seized his arm again, scrambling for an explanation of why she was pulling him up the steps with her—“the Vassars have a most marvelous fresco on the ceiling of their ballroom. You simply must see it.”

“A fresco.” He took the steps, beside her, with long, sure strides. “Heck, yes. Can’t wait to see that. Never miss a
fresco
if I can help it.”

She glanced up at him through severely narrowed eyes. One corner of his broad, expressive mouth was curled slightly. Insufferable man. He probably didn’t even know what a fresco was. As soon as this interminable evening was over, she was going to see to it that she never crossed paths with him again.

A spirited country dance was under way in the gaslit ballroom and the music had enlivened conversation as well as feet. It was no surprise to her that heads turned and fans came up to hide whispers as they paused in the doorway. She could just imagine what was being said. He’d rescued her as she arrived, been paired with her at dinner, and now sported her on his arm … it was nothing short of a scandal in the making.

Anxious at the delay caused by people socializing and blocking the way just inside the door, she gave a quick glance over her shoulder and received yet another jolt. Morgan had started up the steps to the ballroom, but it was the sight of the person behind him that caused her hands to turn to ice in her gloves.

In growing horror, she stared at another all-too-familiar figure climbing the stairs, dressed in a regal set of men’s evening clothes, negligently donned and worn. One of his cuffs was unfastened, some of his vest buttons and shirt studs were not done, and his silk tie was carelessly lopsided. Reckless dishevelment only seemed to add to rakish,
raven-eyed Paine Webster’s magnetic appeal He could have worn a burlap bag and still have been the most attractive man in four counties.

Her fingers must have clamped on McQuaid’s arm, for he glanced down at it, then at her with a frown. “Do leave some flesh on. I may have a use for that arm some—”

“Quick, this way.” She pulled him discreetly along through the groups of guests, toward the dance floor.

“Beg pardon?” He balked, when he sensed her intent, and stared at her.

“Just come with me!” she whispered through a rigid counterfeit of a smile.

He glanced over his shoulder to see what had set her to flight and apparently spotted the familiar Morgan Kenwood bearing down on them.

“Who … that guy? First the missionary, and now him. Don’t tell me they’re trying to sell you inventions too.”

“Not exactly,” she muttered, halting at the edge of the dance floor and scanning the couples forming twosomes for the next dance. She looked up at him, taking in the light in his eyes, the fierce cast of his features, and the physicality that surrounded him like a cloak. She could be asking for trouble. But in this instance, she just might be better off with the devil she
didn’t
know. Her decision made, she opened her arms and did the unthinkable.

“Dance with me.”

Even having been absent from polite society for ten years, Bear McQuaid knew that a woman asking a man to dance at a party like this was a stunning breach of etiquette. He stepped in front of her to block the other guests’ view.

“You know, you ought to take it easy on that punch,” he declared, alarmed by the sight of her offering him such personal access to her.

“Dance with me.” She glanced around him and whatever—whoever—she
saw caused her eyes to widen. “
Now.
” In desperation, she met his gaze and lowered her voice and pride. “I’ll make it worth your while.”

The offer startled him and he scrambled for a response.

“My rates, I should warn you, are fairly steep.”

“My pockets, I assure you, are fairly
deep
,” she said in an impatient whisper. When he still hesitated, she reached for his hands, placed one at her waist, and stretched the other out in hers … just as the music began to play. She took a step backward, but he didn’t move.

“One problem.” His voice lowered. “I haven’t danced in years.”

“Why doesn’t that surprise me?” she said sharply, again glancing past his shoulder. “All right—I’ll lead and we’ll keep to the edge.”

He didn’t know which was worse: the torture of having to follow her around the dance floor like an ill-trained bear, or the torture of having to hold and look at her warm, fragrant form without allowing that contact to have its logical, predictable effect. His only solace was the resounding echo in the back of his mind:
She would make it worth his while
.

Damn straight, she would.

“Your feet should alternate with mine,” she said with a wince.

“My feet do damned well if they can alternate with each other,” he said testily. “If it becomes too much for your delicate constitution, we can always stop and let your friend over there take my place.” As they turned, he caught a glimpse of her prime pursuer watching, red-faced, from the far edge of the dance floor. “Who is he, anyway?”

“He is Morgan Kenwood … the owner of Kensington Farms and Stables. We’ve been friends for years. His
family’s land borders mine and he thinks—” She abruptly changed courses, both in conversation and footwork, bumping into him and stepping hard on his toes.

“Hey!” His eyes bulged briefly. Concentrating with desperate new intensity, he seized control of their movement.

“What do you think you’re doing?” she demanded.

“I just remembered how to dance,” he said, grimly turning her in a graceful arc. “The pain brought it all back.”

They moved in less-than-voluntary harmony for a few moments before he recalled where he had been aiming his attempts at conversation. Anything, he thought, would be preferable to staring in stony silence at that damned golden hair of hers … those big blue eyes … those smooth, naked shoulders. Why did women have to cinch themselves up like that … make themselves nothing but treacherously irresistible curves and crevices?

“So, what does he want?” he asked shortly. “This Kenwood fellow.”

“What does everyone want?” she said through a forced smile.

Without thinking, he quoted Halt Finnegan’s definition of the “good life”: “A warm bed, a full stomach, and a good five-cent cigar?”

When she looked up at him and blinked in confusion, he reddened.

“Money,” she supplied after a moment, averting her gaze.

“Money?” A pricking sensation occurred in the region of his conscience. “You think he’s after your money?”

“It usually comes down to that.”

“You don’t think he might have at least
one
other motive?” he asked, thinking that with a woman who looked like her, any red-blooded man should be able to come up with at least a dozen possibilities more interesting than government greenbacks. He caught himself peering raptly
at the plunging neckline of her gown and jerked his gaze away. Any man except him, of course. All he wanted was …

A straightforward, by-the-book business loan. He felt another twinge of conscience that said it wasn’t quite that simple. Every time he came within ten feet of her, his honorable financial intentions got tangled up with long-dormant physical needs. The worst part was, he didn’t know which of his two desires—for her money or her person—was causing this uneasiness.