Lord of Ice (24 page)

Damien chuckled modestly.

The debonair man glanced at Lucien with a half smile. “Sorry I couldn’t make your wedding, old boy. I just got back from Vienna.”

“You crossed the Alps at this time of year? The overland journey must have been hell.”

“Hell frozen over is more like it.” Their friend shrugged. “I had no choice. My son was ill.”

“And Catherine couldn’t bear to tend him without you?” Damien asked with a knowing smile.

Lucien winced. “Forgive my brother, Ian. I don’t think he was ever told. Damien, Lady Griffith passed away two years ago.”

Watching their exchange, Miranda and Alice both widened their eyes, but the flicker of pain in the handsome man’s tawny eyes was fleeting.

“Oh, my God.” Damien wilted at his blunder, looking perfectly appalled. “Griff, I am so very sorry. I had no idea—”

“It’s all right,” the man murmured. “You’ve been off fighting a war.”

“What happened?” he asked, at a loss. “Was she ill?”

“She died in childbirth,” he replied, then took a drink of his wine, looking off across the ballroom. His gaze passed Alice and came to rest upon Miranda.

She stared soberly at him.

“I hope your boy has recovered?” Lucien said delicately.

A sardonic smile crooked the man’s mouth. “Measles. He’s doing better, thanks. But enough of this grim talk, you two scoundrels. Tell me which of these beautiful creatures belongs to whom.”

“This is my wife, Alice,” Lucien said with warm pride, turning to the petite blond. “Darling, allow me to introduce our boyhood friend, Ian Prescott, Lord Griffith. His family has owned the estate adjoining Hawkscliffe Hall for centuries.”

Lord Griffith bowed to her. “Madam. I needn’t tell you, I am sure, what an excellent man you have married.”

Alice smiled at him, then looked askance at her husband. “Indeed, my lord. He has his moments.”

“And what of you, Monsieur Earl?” he asked Damien in good-natured mockery. “Is this your bride? For I did not receive an invitation to the wedding—”

“No! No. That is—she is my ward, Miss Fitz-Hubert. She’s the niece of one of my lately fallen officers. Miss FitzHubert, allow me to present Lord Griffith. As Lucien said, we wandered many an idle summer’s day through the north country fells with this rogue when we were but lads.”

Lord Griffith bowed to her, catching her eye again with a subtle look of interest. “Miss FitzHubert. I am sorry for your loss.”

“As I am for yours. Pleased to meet you, my lord.” She offered him a rather meek curtsy.

Just then, the duke and duchess rejoined them. Hawkscliffe greeted Lord Griffith with the same enthusiasm the twins had shown. After introducing him to his wife, in turn, the two young matrons took matters in hand.

“You gentlemen may reminisce on your squandered youths, but we are going to introduce Miss Fitz-Hubert around,” Alice announced, hooking her arm through Miranda’s with a determined air.

“Enjoy,” Lucien said mildly.

“Behave,” Damien ordered.

For nearly the next hour, Alice and Belinda showed her how to go about among the ton, and soon Miranda found herself easing into the role. It took all her theatrical skill to hide her nervousness, but with her two patronesses flanking her protectively, she managed to hold her own. She was anxious, and rightly so, about the reception she would find among the ton on account of her being illegitimate and only half aristocratic on her father’s side, but she met many people who nodded in approval at the mention of the former Lord Hubert, her papa. She behaved with such demure meekness that even Brocklehurst would have been amazed.

Then, to her relief, the dancing was announced. She turned and felt her heart skip a beat to see Damien striding toward her through the crowd.

“Come,” he ordered when he reached her side. He tucked her hand into the crook of his muscular arm.

“You want to dance with me?” she exclaimed, holding her breath.

“It’s just a formality,” he said in a lofty tone. “No one else here will feel free to do so unless I do so first. Besides, Lady Holland had got hold of me and Lucien, and was bragging her head off again about her great friend, Bonaparte. Intolerable,” he muttered under his breath.

Depositing her in her place for the dance, he did not answer the question. They each aligned themselves with the appropriate sides, ladies facing gentlemen.

One would have thought he was going through military maneuvers as he executed a very correct salute and retreat. Miranda smiled at Damien, coaxing an answering smile from him in return as they drew together once more. She placed her hands in his, turning with him in the center; he released her and they both returned to their places in time with the beat. They watched in pleasure and awaited their next figure as the alternate couples promenaded a few stately steps up the set, then cast off and wove around the stationary couples, who then echoed their movement. The dance progressed and the divertimento lilted. They went hand-over-hand with their neighbors, Lucien and Alice, then revolved in a star-four with them, only to be paired together again in a romantic turn á la gypsy. She was aware of nothing but him as they revolved slowly, staring into each other’s eyes. For a second, the music seemed eons away. There was only his touch, his hand on hers . . . and the memory of his arms around her, his hands stroking her, his mouth ravishing hers in the most intimate kiss she had ever felt or even imagined. Then the moment passed as fleetingly as it had come. They retreated to their designated sides and the dance moved on.

Later that night, she danced twice with Lord Griffith, then with Lord Alec, who showed up fashionably late. She also stood up with a few young officers from the regiment who had known her uncle. She did her best to muster up a smile when she ran into the boys who had rushed to her aid on Bond Street, and who had introduced themselves that night at Drury Lane as Ollie Quinn and Nigel Stanhope.

When they each asked her to dance, there was no graceful way to refuse, despite the fact that the boorish Mr. Quinn would not stop ogling her chest. Yet even this did not annoy her as much as seeing Damien dutifully standing up to dance with other ladies. Of course, he could not have done otherwise without appearing unforgivably rude, but she felt a twinge of jealousy, nonetheless. At length, she escaped Mr. Quinn and Mr. Stanhope by accepting Alec’s invitation to visit the refreshment table with him and Lord Griffith. The pregnant duchess was already there, nibbling at the sumptuous offerings; Lucien and Alice were dancing.

Miranda joined the duchess and, at her bidding, took a taste of pineapple for the first time in her life. The spiky-topped fruit was the height of extravagance, the enduring symbol of hospitality imported from some exotic, sunny land. She exclaimed fervently over the juicy, tangy fruit until Lord Griffith, watching her, laughed outright at her enthusiasms.

“Wherever did Damien find you?” he asked, regarding her with growing interest in his unusual, tawny-gold eyes.

“I’ll never tell,” she replied with a tart smile, then turned to inspect the more traditional fare that spanned the table. “Aren’t you eating anything, my lord? How can you resist? It all looks and smells delicious.”

“Indeed,” he murmured, gazing at her.

Standing off to the side, Alec looked from Lord Griffith to her, then lifted his eyebrow and gave her a slight nod of approval. Miranda blushed slightly, shot him a scolding look, and turned her attention willfully back to the food. She had barely eaten all day in her nervousness over the ball, but now that she had settled into it, there was much to tempt her—trestles of syllabub in several varieties, the quintessential Christmas pudding, endless cakes and trays of delicate biscuits, festive red pippins and orange wedges, as well as innumerable meat pies and brawns for those who wished for a light supper. Lord Griffith turned away to speak to a few guests who had greeted him, and Miranda sampled an almond syllabub. Just as she started to lift another sweet spoonful to her lips, somebody tapped her on the shoulder.

She turned around; then her eyes widened and her face paled. Standing before her in the full regalia of the Eleventh Dragoon Guards was a young cavalry officer with straight, sandy-brown hair. His high cheekbones tapered down to his narrow, slightly cleft chin. The boyish smirk she remembered so well still lingered on his lascivious mouth, but his dark green eyes had grown harder.

“Trick!” she breathed.

“Hullo, kitten.” He gave her that satyric crook of his eyebrow that used to make her heart race, but which struck her now as altogether practiced and calculated.

She stared at him in amazement.
He’s changed.
She could not believe the dissipation she saw in her old beau. His hair was slightly greasy and askew. He reeked of drink and was not terribly steady on his feet.

“God, look at you. When did you become this goddess? Where did you learn to dance so beautifully? Damn my eyes, but you’re ravishing,” he purred, slurring his words slightly.

“And you are in need of a shave,” she replied, folding her arms across her chest.

With a laugh, he touched the stubbled gruff that roughened his jaw. “Haven’t been home since the day before yesterday. I’ve been going from one party to the next. What are you doing here? You’re a long way from Birmingham—and that farmer’s shed where we used to meet.” He flashed her a smile that made her whole body stiffen with alarm. “You haven’t forgotten, I trust.”

She looked away, blushing. “Please do not speak of it.”

“Don’t be embarrassed my pet. You guarded your virtue well. God knows I tried everything short of taking you by force.”

She looked away with a wave of remembered hurt and anger rushing through her. “You certainly did. You even promised marriage.”

“I would have promised anything to lift your skirts. What can I say? I was young and foolish.”

“So was I,” she whispered.

He lifted his eyebrow with a look of distaste, then wobbled on his feet with drunken, arrogant indifference. “Surely you know better than to take me seriously, M'randa. You knew I was going off to war. Why so bitter? It wasn’t as though you didn’t enjoy it.”

She steeled herself. “Good-bye, Trick. Our acquaintance has long been over.”

“My, what a fine lady we’ve become!” He grasped her arm, stopping her. “Are you too good for me now?”

“Trick, you horse’s arse, I always was. Let go of me.”

“Don’t you walk away from me. You might be something fine now, but I remember when you were little better than a peasant girl. You have to admit we had fun, Miranda. What say you to another rendezvous for old times’ sake?”

“When hell freezes over.” She flicked a contemptuous glance at his white-gloved hand locked around her upper arm. “Let go of me, Trick. You are playing roulette with your life.”

He scoffed. “As I recall, that uncle of yours didn’t pose much threat last time I had my hands on you, so why should I . . .” His bold words withered and his face paled. His hand dropped from her arm and he took a step backward, staring at a spot just behind her.

“Miranda, my darling, you must introduce me to your friend.”

Relief poured through her at the sound of Damien’s voice. She glanced over her shoulder and found him standing behind her, his body tensed for a fight, but before she even had time to worry that violence might break out in the middle of the ballroom, Damien took another tack.

Moving up behind her so close that their bodies touched, he leaned down protectively, claiming her by placing one hand gently on her waist, linking his fingers through hers with the other hand. Nuzzling her temple like the most devoted lover, he bristled with danger, holding Trick in a narrow-eyed stare.

Miranda stood in her guardian’s light embrace, bewildered, but thrilled by his scandalous show of possessive affection. “M-my lord, this is Captain Patrick Slidell of the Eleventh Dragoons. I’m sure you will recall me telling you about him.”

“Yes, of course. So, this is 'Trick,' “ he mused aloud, his tone silken. He studied the younger man as though he were an insect under a microscope, one he was contemplating squashing.

“Trick, this is my new guardian, Colonel Lord Winterley. I trust you’ve heard of him.”

Trick stammered a greeting to Damien, made a hasty excuse, and fled. With a dark, low laugh, Damien released his hold on her waist, but kept hold of her other hand. Miranda turned to him and let out a sigh of relief.

“You scared me. I thought you were going to kill him.”

“So did I,” he said dryly, tucking her hand into the crook of his arm. “Now then, if you’ll permit me, I’ve come to claim you for a second dance.”