Enchanted by Your Kisses (4 page)

A spurt of rebellion had her tilting her chin. "Very well, Mr.
Trevain
, I shall dance with you," she surprised herself by saying. The man had the audacity to let triumph shine from his eyes, and while she did not like the look or appreciate it, she didn't care. One dance. That was all. Surely she could handle that.

"A good choice, my lady." He bowed, offering her his arm, the green and red stone catching the light.

"That remains to be seen," she murmured, taking that arm, though she made sure the contact was light. Distant.

He led her toward the dance floor. She tried not to think about how much she'd missed dancing in the recent years. They stopped just shy of the spinning couples, the two of them in plain sight of nearly everyone. She tried to concentrate instead on something other than the fact that he seemed so tall while he stood next to her. They had to wait for the music to stop. Phoebe shot her a look of surprise and then pleasure as she spied her. Ariel wished she could feel as happy, but Phoebe had always been an innocent. Even when the scandal had broken, she'd refused to believe anyone could think ill of her cousin. Ariel, too, had wanted to believe that. It'd taken less than a week to realize how cruel and heartless society could be.

All too quickly the music ended. Ariel took her position with Mr.
Trevain
, her wide skirts brushing those of the other dancers. Already she could hear the stir of voices, the lifting of one in particular. The word "gypsy" reached her ears. She refused to look at the person, although the mention of her mixed parentage infuriated her more than anything that had come before. Yes, they could think of her what they would, but when they started mentioning her mother's heritage, they maligned a race that cared more for its own than any other culture.

"That's better."

She looked up. Candles in the chandelier above flickered in a small breeze that brought with it the scent of roses and hot house citrus blooms. The light illuminated a face that still looked handsome, despite the scar. It was the eyes. They were so penetrating, so intense, almost as if he tried to see inside her to perhaps read her mind. "What is?"

"You have more color in your cheeks."

She lifted her chin. More color? Indeed she did, for she could feel it. Anger. She was angry. She seized the emotion, pulling it around her like she would an iron cloak.

"You shouldn't let them upset you, you know. By doing so you give them a great deal of power."

The music had begun, Ariel realized gratefully. Hopefully the steps of the dance would keep conversation down to a minimum, but she should have known better. It was a country dance, one that kept him near to her for most of the set. Worse, it allowed him to touch her hand, as he did now, the palm of it flat against her own as he raised it above her head, held it there, his commanding gaze darting to her cleavage as they circled each other. Once again she felt a sense of danger.

"Do you deny you would have fled the room?" he asked.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

They separated momentarily, came back together. "Bull," he said.

She looked up at him, giving him her best I-am-the-daughter-of-an-earl-you-are-the-son-of-a-nobody glare. Only he wasn't the son of a nobody. As she recalled, it was the duke's younger brother who'd sired Nathan
Trevain
, Nathan's father having renounced his title to live in the colonies. And that explained his odd accent. It wasn't his disfigurement. He was from the colonies.

"I feel perfectly amiable toward the people in this room."

He shook his head. "You, my lady, are a liar."

She lifted a brow. They circled each other like warring hawks. "And you, sir, are a cad."

"Why, thank you. But tell me, what is it about these people that makes you want to befriend them?"

"I do not wish to be friends with them."

"Then why do you care what they think?" Nathan saw her lips tighten. He had no idea why he pushed the matter. He should be flirting with her. Smiling. Laughing. Certainly she was easy enough on the eyes to do so. Instead he found himself wanting to spar with her, enjoying the moment, before he remembered she was nothing to him but a pawn and the daughter of a bitter enemy.

A pretty pawn, he thought, even with her wig on, for he knew beneath it lay thick, black hair, the kind of silky tresses that would surround a man whilst he made love to her. He'd watched her prior to tonight, admired her from a distance. Yea, even wanted her, though she was the type of woman he always sought to avoid: Beautiful. Blue-blooded. No doubt a pampered princess. Beautiful women were not to be trusted, he thought, having to fight to keep his hand from rubbing his scar.

But thoughts of his scar had him remembering the task at hand and the fact that he should not be intrigued by Lady Ariel
D'Archer
. It was those damn eyes. Cat eyes. They would be something else when aroused, her gypsy heritage plainly evident in the way her cheekbones tilted exotically. Smooth, porcelain-looking skin stretched flawlessly over them. Skin that had never seen more than an hour's sun. Skin that had never been exposed to harsh elements. Skin that he longed to stroke. But this was business, and he would not mix business with pleasure, especially with a woman who was so obviously not for him.

"Not going to answer?" he said, when it seemed she would be silent all night. "Pity, for it's been my observation that most of the people you wish to impress aren't worth the paper their lineage is written upon."

At last she looked at him, those sensual eyes of hers narrowing. She didn't appear to be repulsed by his scar. That was good, for he'd worried she would be.

"And how have you arrived at that conclusion?" she asked.

"Simple observation."

"And yet you are one of them."

"Am I?" These British, so easy to fool. Even now, not a person in this room knew they had an enemy in their midst, a man more than one British official had sworn to capture. No, he would never be one of them. Bloodlines and titles did not interest him.

"But of course you are. At least, that appears to be what
you
think."

She was trying to insult him again, for her unspoken words were that she considered him anything but a gentleman. Well, bully for her. And against his better
judgement
he found himself admiring her spirit. She stood in his arms all but thumbing her nose at society, despite the fact that they'd treated her horribly this night. Oh, she might have tried to conceal how much their slander had wounded her, but he could tell. She held herself proud, too proud for someone unaffected by what went on around her. And as someone who'd endured his share of curious and repulsed looks, he knew the feeling well.

"While I cannot deny my bloodlines, I cannot claim to be a true gentleman. I'm too new to
England
."

"And how new is that?"

"Two months." He saw surprise in her eyes, wondered for a moment what she would think if he told her he would have been here sooner if possible. But with the war so recently over, finding a ship to sail to
England
had been difficult. "Thus I do not subscribe to the dictum that he or she with the oldest title wins."

"How unusual."

"Indeed. Nor do I particularly like the fashions." He looked around them, then leaned toward her, adopting a look of sincere curiosity. Once again, he was surprised she did not draw away. It gave him hope that his plan might succeed. "Tell me, why must women place the tallest wig upon their head? And wear the widest hooped skirts? Is there some sort of competition going on?"

He saw her lips twitch before a frown of disapproval slipped upon her face. "Indeed not, sir. The women are merely adhering to the fashion of the times."

"Are they?" he asked, pretending to be enlightened. "How interesting. Well, then, perhaps that is where you erred tonight. You should have worn a bigger wig. Your return to society might have been better received then. After all, half the women in this room hide their shocking lack of morals beneath a giant head of false hair. Why should you be any different?"

"You're incorrigible," she muttered, yet he thought he saw a small smile on her exquisite face.

"Indeed I am, but let me make one last observation." He tilted his head a bit, a habit he had formed to hide his defect, and smiled. "'
Tis
obvious you can truly be called a lady while most of these women behave as anything but." He spoke rather convincingly, he thought.

"Thank you. . .I think."

He continued to smile down at her. But something in her changed. She all but physically withdrew. It didn't help that the steps of the dance separated them. When they came together again, the amusement was gone, replaced by icy aloofness. In vain he tried to think of something else to say that would once again amuse her, but the music ended before he could do so. She stepped away.

And it was over.

"Thank you, sir." She curtsied.

"You're welcome," he answered. But she was already gone. He watched her go, her head held high, a piece of dark hair escaping from the bottom of her wig.

"Damn," he muttered. What had he done wrong? And just how the hell was he supposed to befriend a woman who all but ran from his arms?

And Ariel did flee—right to the nearest exit, which happened to be a balcony door that opened to a garden. The source of all the blooms inside instantly revealed itself. A riotous smell assaulted her senses. Roses. Jasmine. Lilies. She inhaled deeply, realized she panted and raced down the steps in search of privacy so that she could better regain her breath. Fortunately, it was all but deserted outside, the evening a bit too chilly for any but the most desperate of partygoers. And she was desperate. Gracious heavens, but the man inside disturbed her. It must be his wicked good looks, for she could think of nothing else that would do it.

She would not think of it. She would compose herself and then go in and find Cousin Phoebe to tell her she wanted to leave. She'd done what she'd set out to do. She'd made an appearance in society. Even danced a set.

A dance that has left you shaken.

No, she corrected herself. It wasn't the dance. It was the man himself. She was honest enough to admit that. There was something about him, something that both frightened and exhilarated her. When he touched his palm to hers, she'd found herself thinking more than once that there was more to him than met the eye. It was that which alerted her to danger and that which piqued her curiosity.

She found a bench at the edge of the lawn far away from the ballroom and prying eyes. Spreading her lavender skirts, she sat down upon the stone seat. Coldness seeped through her dress, but it failed to chill her. Warmth from her dance still permeated her blood. Was it because she sensed within him a kindred spirit? Someone who also endured his share of rude and offensive looks? Is that what it was? Truly, she did not know.

"There you are."

And as if she'd conjured him up, the object of her thoughts stood before her. Light from the ballroom shone on the right side of his face, leaving his left in shadow. And though with the scar he looked roguishly handsome, without it he looked devastatingly handsome. The sight took her breath away. Forceful, silver eyes were like enigmatic pools of mercury, his lips a sensuous invitation that smiled down at her invitingly.

"You raced away so quickly, we didn't have time to say good-bye."

And all she did was stare, and with that stare came the oddest emotion. . .almost a desire. But that was ridiculous. She'd only just met the man.

Slowly she stood. Her dress rustled as she did so, dew collecting upon the edge of her gown and moistening her slippers.

"You followed me."

Even in the darkness she could see him lift a wry black brow. "How very astute of you to notice."

And still a part of her liked his dry humor. Liked it very well indeed. "Yes, well, I truly wish you hadn't. Just right now I wish to be left alone."