Mariel (35 page)

“Miss?”

She whirled to face the speaker. “Yes?”

“Is there a problem?”

She wanted to demand he identify himself, for his words gave her no clue to who stood in front of her. “I am looking for Reverend Beckwith-Carter.”

“He is over there by the pillars.”

Before she could ask him for better instructions, the person was gone. Pillars? What pillars? Where? Over there could mean any direction. Bravely, she struck out in the one she thought might be correct. Within a few steps, she found herself facing a wall again. Her hand went out to touch glass. It was a window.

She tried to recall where Ian had said the ball would be held. If it was in a conservatory, this would be no help. Many windows would ring the room. If a regular ballroom, she could use this as a reference point. She paused to listen to the music, concentrating on sifting it from the other noises. It was to her right. She must go left.

If she was not so distressed about being lost in this unknown house, she would be outraged at Ian. He promised not to leave her alone for a minute. As soon as they entered the house, he allowed his attention to be monopolized by an ex-lover with the unlikely name of Portia. She comforted herself with vowing to let him know of her displeasure when she found him.

Enrapt in her thoughts of reprimanding him, her concentration wavered. When she bumped into someone, she heard cries of dismay and felt a spray of liquid on her arm. Anger burst from a male voice as he demanded, “Why don't you watch where you are going?”

“I am sorry,” she murmured as she touched the damp spots on her gloves. She hoped the wine he was drinking was not red wine. It would stain them so horribly.

He did not seem ready to accept her apology. She backed away as she sensed his face too close to hers. The thick odor of liquor on his breath gagged her.

“Look at my waistcoat!”

“I'm sorry,” she repeated as someone she did not know said, “Leave her alone, Muir. It was simply an accident.”

“Open your eyes, lady, and watch where you are going. Are you blind?”

Her choked answer was halted by familiar hands on her shoulders. “Ian,” she whispered gratefully. She forgot her rage with him in her relief.

Over her head, Ian locked eyes with Rupert Muir. He should have guessed the tall man would be here when he encountered the possessive claws of Portia. Brother and sister never failed to attend these events together. Both enjoyed viewing the trouble the other could be guaranteed to create.

“Is there a problem?” he asked in a calm tone which belied his true feelings.

“Well, hello,
Parson
Beckwith-Carter.” The snide emphasis on the title brought snickers from the crowd of dandies around Muir. He smiled as he viewed the auburn haired man. Running a hand through perfectly coiffed hair, his dark eyes drilled into Ian's. It angered him that he could not penetrate that hard wall Beckwith-Carter could raise so easily. “I had not thought to see you in London this season. I expected you would be out in the hinterlands saving the souls of orphans and widows.”

“I have business in London, so I thought to stop in and see my family. I might ask you the same. I thought your family banished you to the country after your last escapade.”

He shrugged. “Father relented when he could not tolerate my company at the Hills any longer.” His gaze went to the silent woman standing between them and noted Beckwith-Carter's hands stroking her shoulders. For the first time, he noticed how beautiful she was and realized he did not know her. He thought he had met every lovely woman in London—he had seduced as many of them as he could convince to welcome him to their beds.

Mariel sensed the anger in the air and took a half step back toward Ian. She wanted to feel his arms around her. That he did not like this man she could tell by the way he spat his words at him.

“Come, Mariel,” came the gentle order in Ian's voice. He took her quivering hand and placed it on his sleeve. As they turned to go, she felt another hand on her arm. She jerked her arm away, sure it was the horrible Mr. Muir who dared to be so forward.

“Mariel? Lady Mariel Wythe?” Laughter sounded in the obnoxious man's voice. His next words were spoken so loudly, she was sure many would hear him. “No wonder you bumped into me like a bat caught out in the dawn. You are blind after that automobile accident. Is that why you hooked up with the good reverend? Is he going to work a miracle for you?”

Ian said too quietly, “That is enough, Muir. At least have the decency to lower your voice if you cannot have the sense to act like a gentleman of your class.”

“What a pair!” Muir continued. “The crippled parson and the blind heir to a family of madmen.”

When Mariel was released to fall backward several steps, hands supported her to keep her from slipping to the floor. It warned her how many were enjoying the unexpected spectacle. She gasped as she heard the dull thud of a fist impacting on bare flesh.

“Ian!” she screamed. “Don't!”

Other shouts drowned hers. The strong fingers holding her pulled her back as another series of blows sounded. From across the room, the orchestra ceased playing in a shrill cacophony.

“Stop it,” Mariel begged. “Stop it, please.”

The man released her, ordering her not to move. She heard him yell as he jumped into the melee. More confusing orders crisscrossed the room. A woman's scream echoed off the ceiling. A begemmed hand took Mariel's and pulled her away from the fight.

“Mariel, come with me.”

“Mrs. Beckwith-Carter?”

Even as she was drawing her past the spectators, she said in her no-nonsense voice, “Cynthia, my dear. ‘Beckwith-Carter' is too much of a mouthful to say each time you speak to me.”

“Ian—”

She put her hands on Mariel's shoulders, bared by her ballgown. “Sit here, my dear. Oh, you, there. Champagne for Lady Mariel.”

The fragile stem of a glass was placed in her hands. When she heard Ian's mother order her to drink, she took a sip. She started to speak again, but Cynthia hushed her by saying she wanted to watch the fight.

“Is it continuing?”

“Sit.” This command was in a sharper voice.

Mariel lowered herself to the very edge of the settee. She flinched as she heard the semi-intelligible comments from those around her. Who was winning, who was losing, who was fighting, she could not determine. When the orchestra started to play again, she yearned to ask those around her what had happened.

When a handkerchief was pressed into her fingers, she realized she was crying. Raising it to her face, she gasped as she felt the embroidered initial at one corner. “Ian!” Her hand reached out to touch his face.

“Careful,” he warned with a laugh. He took her fingers and moved them to his right cheek. “That one is fine. The other is a bit tender.”

“You're hurt?”

Ian gazed at her shattered expression and wondered how he could ever have thought her love for him had died. Displayed there for all the world to see were her fears for him and the love she was afraid to offer him again. He took her hand and pressed it to his lips. Smiling sent a pang across his head, but he ignored it as he saw her mouth part in a soft invitation he yearned to accept. In this crowded ballroom with everyone watching, he must accede to propriety.

“I am fine, Mariel. Muir's fist grazed me once or twice, but the rotter forgot the number of times I beat him at Eton.” He chuckled. “It's good to learn my sedentary life has not ruined my reflexes.”

Standing, he accepted the good-natured jesting of his friends and family. He was reaching for Mariel's hand when a white-laced tempest whirled between them. As she had before, she shoved Mariel aside. The sharp sound of her hand on his aching face silenced those around the settee.

Ian's eyes narrowed as he regarded Portia Muir with ill-concealed rancor. Her blond beauty was unaltered, but he had changed. He had not thought of her wistfully in more than a year, not since the last time he saw her at a party in the home of a mutual acquaintance. Before his accident, she had used all her wiles to try to convince him she would be the perfect wife. Not once had she visited him while he was recuperating. The first time he met her when he was on his feet again, she pointedly ignored him.

“You are a hypocrite, Ian Beckwith-Carter!”

He laughed coldly. “And you are proving you have the same lack of manners as your brother, Miss Muir.”

“
Miss
Muir?” she exploded. She glanced at Mariel who was moving to stand next to Ian. “Now that you've found yourself a titled lady who will have you, you think you are too good for the rest of us.” She sneered at Mariel, “Pity. That is what he feels for you. The saintly Reverend Beckwith-Carter! He sees you as another chance to secure a star in his heavenly crown.”

Mariel slipped her hand into Ian's and said, “Miss Muir, I can assure you that Reverend Beckwith-Carter does not pity me. You are mistaken, for you see, I can tell by the way he is speaking to you that you are the one he pities. It is a shame, for even on our short acquaintance, I would say you are not worthy of that compassion.”

Portia sputtered, but found herself looking at the back of the woman dressed in the fabulous dress she had identified immediately as a Worth original. Her eyes narrowed as she saw her rival raise a handkerchief to the small cut on Ian's face. She did not miss either his smile or the way his arm slipped around Lady Mariel's waist to bring her closer to him. Their motions spoke of an intimacy she had never shared with the handsome Ian Beckwith-Carter.

Even as she watched the Wythe woman's ministrations, she could hear her brother's gloating voice in her head. When she told Rupert she did not want to marry a cripple, he suggested she spurn Ian after his riding accident. Now she wondered if her brother simply had seen a chance to keep his enemy from becoming part of their family.

Realizing everyone had forgotten her as they crowded around Ian and his too-pretty companion, Portia flounced away to find her brother. Ian had beaten Rupert senseless with only a few blows. Rupert would not stay to face the jeers of his so-called friends.

At the top of the stairs, she drained her glass of champagne and dropped the goblet into a heavy planter. She did not notice as the fine crystal shattered. All of her attention was centered on the woman still standing so close to Ian. Until she saw Ian tonight, she had not remembered how handsome he was. His time in the country had done him good, returning the healthy flush to his skin and the self-assurance to his voice.

She wanted him back, but he had found this Lady Mariel to replace her. That would change soon, she vowed. How, she did not know, but she intended to find some way to get rid of this Mariel and take her place.

Ian felt Portia's intense glare on them. From the tight expression on Mariel's face, he knew she sensed the rage as well. Tucking her hand in the crook of his arm, he asked quietly, “Do you want to attempt that dance now?”

“If you feel well enough.”

“At least the blow to my head will give me an excuse for my clumsiness.” When she laughed, he placed his cane against a chair and added, “If you will excuse us, Mother.”

“Of course.” She fluttered her fan to hide her pride in her only child. When Ian had left for his calling to the western coast, she had feared he would shut himself away in his work and not remember the man he had been before the accident nearly destroyed his life. With the help of the woman he so clearly adored, he had recovered that joy.

As Mariel stepped into Ian's arms, she whispered, “Is everyone watching?”

“No. One of the servants is answering the door.” He laughed as he drew her closer. “Everyone is curious to see how we do.”

“Shall we surprise them?”

Mariel did not admit aloud that she was the one surprised as Ian waltzed her with little difficulty along the floor. Soon she forgot the ones who must still be watching with avid curiosity. Losing herself in the rhythm of the music, she followed his steps easily. To the refrain of the waltz, he twirled her about so her full skirts swept the floor in a wide circle.

He smiled as he saw her eyes were closed. Her face glowed with happiness. His arm tightened around her to draw her closer than etiquette allowed. He did not care what anyone else thought. To enjoy this moment of holding her lithe form against him erased the memories Portia's presence had brought forth. He forgot the other woman. While he led Mariel through the pattern of the dance, his fingers stroked her back. When her head rested against his shoulder, he whispered, “Tired?”

“No.” She did not add anything more as she heard the music fade into the night. With a sigh, she stepped away from him.

“Another dance, or shall we let the others have the floor again?”

A warm flush tinted her cheeks prettily. “There are no others dancing?”

He laughed. As the orchestra leader raised his baton, he drew her to him again. “Don't worry about them, my love. Tonight is for us.”

Placing her head against the strength of his shoulder, she let the music sweep her away into the love she could not forsake any longer. Softly, she whispered, “Do you have any other old lovers I need to concern myself with?”

“Old?” He chuckled. “I doubt if Portia would enjoy being called that. No, my love, there are no others. Forgive me for losing you in the crowd. One moment you were there. The next I was fighting off a surprisingly amorous Portia. Where did you go?”

“Dancing.”

“Dancing?” Boyish astonishment colored his voice, and she laughed. “An old lover, Mariel?”

“I have had no lover but you, Reverend,” she retorted pertly. Her fingers curled around the back of his neck to tease the small hairs there. “And there is no other I want.”

Not caring about the crowd around them, he paused in the middle of the pattern. As the others whirled to the light tune, he brought her lips beneath his. The music disappeared into the distance as she answered his passion with her own. Desperately, they grasped for the happiness they could share, not suspecting, in their dreams of happiness, the threat awaiting them.