The Conqueror's Dilemma (14 page)

Without
waiting for a reply, he turned and swiftly pushed his way through the press of
people towards the stairway they had negotiated only moments earlier.

He
heard Hector calling after him, but paid no heed. On impulse, he had asked his
friend to accompany him to the masquerade. Kilbride had made no secret of his
shock, and William guessed it was why he had dragged in his sister, with whom
he must perforce remain as escort. Ariadne would no doubt make him dance with
her, and William could find them again when he was done. For now, he must
discover Tiffany.

As he
sped down the relative dark of the stairway, past several couples amorously
engaged, he tried to recall what he had answered to the Drumbeg’s query about
the Pantheon. Her tactics had been blatant and all too obvious. But if he was
right, she had mentioned the Pantheon before he had recognised what she was at.
He could not have approved it, in which case it was possible the woman could
have abandoned her intent to bring Tiffany here. On the other hand, it was all
too likely she had an engagement to attend it, for the set she occupied was
less particular than his. William’s early youth in York had been spent in just
that social order and he knew their habits.

Reaching
the main floor, he felt at once the enormity of the task he had set himself.
There were numbers of young ladies, dancing or perambulating, who might be Tiffany
Felton. Trim outlines abounded and white figured predominantly in their dress.
Nearly all were masked, and William began to hunt for those with locks of paler
hue.

Walking
slowly around the perimeter of the floor, his eyes searched intently. It was
not long before he became aware of a number of ogling looks from the females he
examined. A pretty figure he must cut. Anyone would suppose him to be seeking a
suitable partner to indulge with a little dalliance. It enabled him to dismiss
a number of feminine creatures, however, for such invitations had nothing to do
with Tiffany.

After
making one complete turn, he was obliged to concede defeat. Frustrated, he
stood in silent contemplation of the thronging crowd.

‘I see
you haven’t found her,’ said Ariadne’s voice behind him.

‘Don’t
see how he could,’ commented Hector. ‘Like looking for a needle in a haystack.’

‘Yes,
thank you, Hector,’ William replied in a dry tone. ‘I have discovered that.’

As
much as he could see of Ariadne’s face was wearing its merry look. He cursed.
‘And you are amused by what precisely?’

‘You’ve
been looking for Tiffany.’

‘Well,
of course he’s been looking for Tiffany,’ chimed in Kilbride, before William
could express his annoyance. ‘That’s what he’s here for.’

‘Whereas
what you should be doing,’ pursued Ariadne, ignoring her brother, ‘is looking
for Lady Drumbeg.’

‘But
he don’t want to find the Drumbeg.’

‘No,
she’s right,’ William cut in. ‘You’re a godsend, Ariadne, thank you. I’m glad
you chose to come. Where the Drumbeg is, I must surely find Tiffany close by.’

‘I
wish you good fortune. Now, Hector, you are to dance with me.’

Kilbride
groaned, but obediently led her towards the far end of the floor where they
might better hear the musicians.

William
was already scanning those standing underneath the gallery, out of the way of
the main crowds, where one might reasonably expect to find the dowagers and
chaperons. The luck favoured him almost immediately. Indeed, he wondered he had
not seen the woman before, for she was unmasked and, although she was
accompanied by another female, shorter and far stouter, her gaze was trained
upon a particular place within the crowd.

Approaching
with caution, William took up a position to one side, far enough away to escape
notice, but close enough that he might follow the direction of Lady Drumbeg’s
gaze. Within a few moments, he spotted a girl who had a look of Tiffany.

No
wonder he had not before seen her. She was gowned, as expected, in white, but
he caught only glimpses of her muslin petticoats under a domino of blue, the
hood of which effectively concealed her sandy locks. A black mask prevented him
from seeing her eyes, and there was nothing in the lower part of her face to
give her away. But there was no mistaking the tilt of that head.

As he
watched, she was circling her partner, one gloved hand held firmly in his. It
was evident she was not enjoying the experience, for her arm was at full
stretch, as if she sought to keep her distance from him—unlike several other
couples in the set, who contrived to brush against one another’s bodies as they
trod the
ronde
.

William’s
gaze shifted to her partner and he experienced a severe shock. Tiffany was
dancing with one of the most disreputable roués on the town.

A rush of rage welled up in William’s
breast. What in the world was the Drumbeg woman about to allow the child to be
manhandled by the likes of Sir Lambert Chicheley? Had she no sense of what was
fitting? The fellow was sixty, if he was a day. Besides being known for his
penchant for very young women, of which more than one was said to have been a
victim. None of them had been of the first stare, for no careful chaperon would
have allowed the man near their charge.

Revolted, William stared for
several moments, seething in silence. Until it dawned upon him that quite half
his anger was directed at Tiffany herself. Was she altogether too naïve to
recognise Chicheley for what he was? Why could she not have refused to dance
with him? She was no namby-pamby miss, unable to fend for herself, despite her
difficulties with etiquette. She could not possibly suppose there was any rule
extant which precluded her refusing a dance. Or could she?

The question proved immaterial. He
could not remain inactive, witnessing such a sight. Without further thought, he
strode forward, thrusting without ceremony through the crowd until he was
within touching distance of the offending Chicheley. He put out an avenging
hand, and yanked the man’s shoulder, pulling him back from Tiffany even as she
stepped forward in the dance to meet him.

A concerted gasp and muttering
broke out around them, but William had ears for none of it. Chicheley, his wig
askew, had righted himself from a near fall and was sputtering indignantly.

‘What? What? How dare you, sir!
What the deuce d’you mean by it, eh?’

William ignored him. In one
stride, he reached Tiffany, seized her ungently by the arm, and let fly. ‘Are
you completely lost to all sense of decorum? Come away at once!’

A faint intake of breath was all
the response he got before Chicheley intervened, seizing the girl’s other arm
and attempting to pull her away.

‘Are you mad, sir? In the middle
of the dance! How dare you, I say?’

Caught between the two men, Tiffany
stood dazed as the intruder in the dark domino pushed in front of her towards
Sir Lambert, thrusting out a fist.

‘Unless you want a little of the
home-brewed, you’d better release her.’

She had not thought the Conqueror
could snarl, but his tone proved all too menacing for the elder man. Tiffany
felt him let go, and saw him step back a pace. But he continued to bluster.

‘You’ll regret this, sir. I don’t
know who you are, but you won’t get away with it, let me assure you of that.’

‘And let me assure you,
Chicheley, that if I ever catch you anywhere near this young lady again, I’ll
knock your teeth down your throat. Do you understand me?’

A thrill shot through Tiffany’s
breast. Was this truly Mr Westerham? What he meant by it she had no time to
fathom, but gratitude overwhelmed her. She had not thought anyone could save
her from Sir Lambert’s unwanted advances, yet the Conqueror had appeared out of
the blue, behaving in a manner as bewildering as it was welcome.

‘Who—who are you, sir?’ stuttered
Sir Lambert, seriously discomposed. ‘You’ve no right—none at all. I shall—I
shall—’

But William had had enough.
Without further ado, he flung an arm about Tiffany’s shoulders and pushed
through the interested crowd about them, in a direction away from where he supposed
Lady Drumbeg to be watching.

Hustling Tiffany as speedily as
he could, William sought to get her out of the ballroom. Reaching the far
gallery, where the throng thinned out a little, he made the best of his way
under it and into a corridor. It led, as he knew from past experience, into a
series of little antechambers, the uses of which were obvious in a place of
this type.

But William’s intention was far
from romantic. He had not thought beyond the necessity to get Tiffany away from
Chicheley. Instinct had sent him this way, seeking privacy. What he would do
with it once he got it was a matter that only fell into place when he had
thrust his prize through the aperture and slipped the curtain across the
entrance to indicate it was occupied.

Tiffany almost tripped into the
little room, released from Mr Westerham’s supporting arm. By the time she had
righted herself and turned, he was busily employed in lighting a taper at the
single candle in a wall sconce that lit the place and applying it to two others.
The brighter light revealed his dark locks, freed from the hood of the black
domino he wore, but the half-mask nevertheless gave him a rakish air that dried
the breath in her throat.

His first words, uttered in a
tone of biting contempt, effectively doused the little flame fluttering in her
breast.

‘Are you dead to all sense of
shame? What could induce you to allow that woman to drag you to a place like
this? And don’t try to tell me you didn’t know it could not be respectable. As
for that—that vice-ridden reprobate, have you so little discernment as to allow
a fellow of his type to ogle and squeeze your arm? I thought better of you,
Tiffany.’

A flood of resentment threw
Tiffany headlong into speech. ‘You thought better of me? And what am I to think
of you, Mr Westerham, coming to a place like this? Not to mention your
extraordinary conduct. You have no right—’

‘You widgeon, I came to find you.
Impossible as it is to meet you in any other way, I sought this means of taking
opportunity to say what I must to you. Though I scarcely expected to find you
hobnobbing with a man of Sir Lambert Chicheley’s ilk. What did you mean by it?’

Tiffany hardly heard the last of
this speech, her attention catching on its opening. Surprise kept her
momentarily silent as she stared up at his masked features. Tight-lipped anger
hardened his jaw, and sparked a tiny thrust of hope into her bosom.

‘What is it you must say to me?’

The breathless quality in her
voice arrested William’s fury. Her eyes were glittering oddly through the mask
and the memory of those flighty pixies within caught at his senses. Next
moment, he had captured her head between his hands and fastened his lips to
hers.

Shock held Tiffany briefly in
thrall. A series of images flashed through her mind, depicting those defensive
tactics taught her by her uncle to counteract just such an occurrence. Only
before she could think of putting one of them into practice, she was plunged
into utter disarray by a flood of heat washing rapidly through her veins. Her
knees were suddenly jelly as she was hit by an intense awareness of the
Conqueror’s body close against her own. Her lips, crushed beneath his, felt as
if they pulsated along with the rhythm of her fast-beating heart.

And then Mr Westerham released
her.

Unbalanced, Tiffany staggered
back, seizing automatically at the near wall for support and gasping for
breath. After a moment or two, the vague thought crossed her mind that it was
unlike the Conqueror not to aid her, but when she was able at last to look
across at him, she discovered the reason.

His mask was off, and the brown
eyes were staring at her aghast. As if she, and not he, had been the
perpetrator of that devastating assault. Tiffany’s tongue loosened of its own
accord, unthinking words pouring from her.

‘Don’t look at me like that. I
did not ask you to do it. You brought me here, sir, not the other way about. I
don’t know what rule of etiquette you have violated, but I am sure there is
something. Even Sir Lambert never attempted to kiss me, and he is the vilest man
I know.’

Conscious of thickening in her
voice, Tiffany caught herself up. She would not burst into tears—even if she
felt like it. But the Conqueror must have noticed, for he shifted towards her a
step. Tiffany retreated, throwing up a hand.

‘Don’t come near me!’

She saw him pause and tried to
read his face. Her vision was hampered, and she recalled the mask she wore.
Reaching up behind her head, she tugged at the strings until it loosened and
came away from her face. Tiffany held it protectively before her, glaring up at
him as the upset rode into anger inside her.

‘Have you nothing to say?’ she
demanded impatiently.

William shook his head. ‘I don’t
know what to say, Tiffany. I already owe you too many apologies to begin.’

He had thrown himself completely
off balance. What had possessed him to seize her in that rude fashion? He was
sorry for the child. Child? She had been all woman to him at the fatal moment.
He could have sworn he was in charge of this mild attraction. Nothing could
have been further from his intention than to kiss the creature. He had lost
control, both of himself and the situation. It was a new feeling—and wholly
unwelcome. He sought a way through.

‘Tiffany, I didn’t mean to do it.
I don’t know what came over me.’ A ragged laugh escaped him. ‘The heat of the
moment—this place—something to do with your eyes through the mask, I think.’

Worse and worse. Tiffany fought
to keep herself from dropping into a threatening melancholy. She would not let
him see how his words affected her.