Patricia Rice (49 page)

Patricia Rice

March 1816

Soaring marble columns bearing gilded sculptures
carried the gaze upward to a staggering arched ceiling accented with
carved moldings bearing the certain stamp of Robert Adam. Beneath the
canopy of tinkling crystal chandeliers and between the
brocade-and-velvet-covered walls milled a procession of soberly
black-clad gentlemen and extravagantly arrayed ladies in the silks and
flounces of the current Season.

Despite the hubbub of orchestra and hundreds of
people speaking at once, none of the distinguished guests raised their
voices above a civil level. They circulated with well-trained precision,
balancing punch cups, napkins, fans, dance cards, and other
necessities.

The couples in the center of the gleaming waxed
ballroom swayed with stately grace to an old tune, not the rackety waltz
the Regent had accepted at court two years before. Harmony prevailed
among sedately wigged musicians and modishly styled dancers alike.

Only a few noble guests blinked at the rash
whirlwind bursting from behind an elaborate sculpture of a draped Diana.
Their serenity was only disturbed when the young lady dashed headlong
through the center of the floor.

The dancers gasped in surprise and hastily parted.
They waved their fans and raised their quizzing glances at a glorious
mass of sunset-gold hair flying past their noses. A tall, exquisite
figure, garbed in daring primrose, she vanished through the doorway
before any could correct her behavior.

Cassandra! They shook their heads, whispered behind their hands, and returned to their peaceful occupations.

The fleeing girl exploded into the mass of
still-arriving guests. Top hats and fur-trimmed pelisses discarded, the
latecomers lingered to greet old friends and smile at new acquaintances.

Black swallowtail coats and silk breeches swung in
startlement as the fiery explosion catapulted past. The men stifled
admiring looks as their feminine companions frowned with disapproval.

At the door, a tall striking gentleman had halted to
help his lady adjust her yards of Kashmir shawl. His stern features
retained an imperturbable expression as he listened to his petite
companion’s comments. The lady herself was little more than plain, but
she carried her looks with the arrogance of wealth and nobility. Even a
stranger would know she was someone of consequence, at least to herself.

When the spectacular trail of fiery beauty crashed
to a breathless halt—grabbing the gentleman’s arm to stop her headlong
flight—both gentleman and lady stared in confusion and surprise.

“Wyatt! Thank goodness! You have to help me. Tell
him you’ve already claimed my next set. I’ll escape somehow afterward,
but he’s right behind me. Dash it all, Wyatt, don’t stand there like a
looby! Look pleased to see me. He’ll never believe you elsewise.”

The tall gentleman looked even more confused, but
not unintelligent, nor inexperienced in what society requires of a
gentleman, he gallantly covered her gloved fingers. “I do beg your
pardon, miss. Are we acquainted?”

“Wyatt! It is Cassandra! Have you completely lost your wits?”

The short lady on his other arm hissed and tugged in a futile attempt to free him, but he resisted.

“Cassandra! By Jove, little Cassandra?” In
bemusement, he studied the outrageous sun goddess clinging to his arm.
“It’s been how long? You weren’t above—”

The goddess’s less-than-heavenly answer rudely cut
him off. “Since last Wednesday. I promised you this set then. Smile,
curse you, Merrick! Do not play the prim and proper with me now.” Her
gloriously lovely smile spread across her face. None watching from a
distance would have any knowledge of the biting tones with which she
addressed him.

“Lady Cassandra, there you are! I have been
searching this age for you. Lord Eddings said I might have this dance.” A
slender gentleman sartorially correct in tight black silk breeches and
white satin waistcoat—but heavily festooned with more gold than the
ceiling—bowed in front of them.

Although immaculately turned out, he bore evidence
of dissipation, and the glass in his hand smelled of spirits stronger
than punch.

Cassandra turned a blazing smile of condolence upon
the newcomer. “Sir Rupert! What a pleasant surprise. I am so sorry, but
this set is taken by an old neighbor of ours. Wyatt, Catherine, are you
acquainted with Sir Rupert? Sir Rupert, these are my old friends, Lord
Merrick and his fiancée.”

The earl barely disguised his disdain for the rake.
“We’re acquainted, my lady. I beg your pardon, but Lady Cassandra and I
previously arranged this set, Rupert. I was just taking Lady Catherine
to a friend of mine. Here he comes now.”

Over the heads of the crowd he signaled a blond gentleman of muscular build who delightedly broke off in their direction.

Merrick could scarcely be indifferent to the angry
intake of breath on one arm and the joyful exhalation of relief on the
other, but he maintained his equanimity. Rupert appeared ready to
protest, but the arrival of Merrick’s friend intruded.

“Scheffing, if you will, the lady has requested a
glass of punch while Cass and I carry out this next set. Would you be so
kind...?”

Smoothly Lord Merrick maneuvered Lady Catherine onto
Scheffing’s arm. With a nod of dismissal, Wyatt Mannering, Earl of
Merrick, led Lady Cassandra past the miffed baronet.

The weathered lines about the earl’s mouth deepened
as he guided his unexpected dance partner onto the floor. “You will
explain what that was all about?”

“That’s obvious, Wyatt,” she replied disparagingly.
“Duncan promised that libertine I would dance with him, and I took
exception to it. There simply wasn’t time to find my pelisse and summon a
carriage. If you will be so kind as to dance me to the far staircase
when the music’s over, I shall pretend to go to the powder room and make
my escape. It’s quite generous of you to rescue me. I always knew you
were the kind of man of which white knights are made.”

“That’s doing it a trifle too brown, my lady.” Aside
from the fact that there was a decade difference in their ages, and he
was due the respect of his rank, Merrick had not seen the chit in a
half-dozen years. She may have turned into a grand beauty, but her airy
familiarity rankled. “Since your brother is your guardian, you’re
obliged to obey his wishes. And I cannot remember giving you leave to
call me by name, much less molest me in public places. I require a more
thorough explanation.”

Cassandra gave a great sigh and turned a pair of
meltingly blue eyes up to him. “You haven’t forgiven me for stealing
your apples yet, have you? I did not think you so petty.”

“The apples in question were the result of years of
experimentation lost to me because of your childish prank. There were
only three on the tree. You did not need pick all of them. That is not
to the point.”

Cassandra simply smiled at Merrick’s scold. “Any
tree that bears only three apples cannot be worth much. And there is
always the next year. Presumably it bore a great many more then. How did
the experiment work out?”

“The tree bore a great deal too many while I was
away, and the gardener failed to prune it adequately. The tree split in
half and died.”

Cassandra laughed as he whirled her around in the
pattern of the dance and brought her back to him. “All those apples
wasted! That’s a terrible pity. Now, had I been there, I would have
taken enough that the tree might be standing still. The Widow Jones
always thought your apples were the best in the county.”

“Is that what you did with them? I always thought
there were far too many missing for one little girl to eat. You could
have told me who they were for. I would gladly have helped you pick
them. She always sent me the most excellent pies.”

“Telling you wouldn’t have been nearly as much fun.” Cassandra granted him a radiant smile.

Merrick merely raised an eyebrow at her lack of character.

She made a slight moue of resignation. “Besides, she died that next year and we moved away.”

Pages of explanation could have disappeared into the
gulf created by that statement. Six years ago she had been a child
pulling a foolish prank on her neighbor, who happened to be a happily
married man at the time.

A year later her home was gone and so was his wife, not to mention the Widow Jones. A momentous year, indeed.

Copyright © 2013 Patricia Rice

First published: New American Library 1992

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portion thereof, in any form.

First published by New American Library, New York.
This is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real
people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters,
places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and
any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead,
is entirely coincidental.

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