Rebel Waltz (3 page)

Banner turned so quickly that she nearly lost her balance, staring toward the door and thinking, Damn—it really is him.

Rory had changed into the costume provided by Clairmont, and not only did it fit him perfectly, it also suited him perfectly. From the smooth crown of his thick blond hair to the
mirror reflection of his black boots, he was the personification of a Southern gentleman.

“What?” she managed to ask, then realized that she was still massaging her head. Quickly, she let her hands drop.

“I said that wig's a crime,” he repeated patiently, studying the thick curls that lent her small head a deceptively fragile look.

Banner considered resurrecting her hostility, but abandoned the notion. There would be time for animosity, she decided, after he bought Jasmine Hall—if he bought it. She therefore obviously startled him with a sunny smile. “The wig itches,” she confided solemnly.

Rory blinked, torn between the instant pleasure of her smile and an uneasy suspicion about her change in attitude. “I hope you don't mind,” he said rather abruptly. “I saw you from my window and wondered where you were going.” He glanced around, then added carefully, “I don't want to intrude.”

She wondered briefly at his odd tone, then dismissed it. “This is where I work,” she explained.

“Do you paint professionally?” he asked, looking at all the canvases propped against the walls.

“It's more of a hobby, really. I'm not good enough to be a pro.”

Rory stared at her for an incredulous moment, then went over to one particularly thick stack of canvases, went down on one knee, and began looking through them. When he finally rose to his feet, he turned to stare at her again. He realized in some surprise that she honestly had no idea of just how good she was.

“Has Jake seen these?” he asked.

Banner shrugged. “I haven't shown him anything but sketches in a long time. Why?”

“Because they're brilliant,” Rory said flatly.

She felt a flush rising in her cheeks. “I'm just a hobbyist,” she told him uncomfortably.

He decided to drop the subject—for the moment. He moved around the easel until he could see the painting she'd been studying when he came in, startled to find himself gazing on what
could have been a portrait of himself. “Hello. What in the world—?”

“Odd, isn't it?” she said. “I can't understand it. I was just imagining a Southern gent, and that's what I ended up with.”

“Oh? I thought perhaps your friend—?”

She blinked at him. “What friend? What're you talking about?”

Rory looked at her, puzzled. “The man who walked across the rose garden with you. He was dressed like this”—he gestured at the painting— “and was blond. Where is he, by the way?”

Banner very carefully backed up a step and half-sat on a tall stool, unmindful, now, of her gown. She reflected in a queerly detached manner that Rory's earlier comment about “intruding” now made sense; he'd been wary of walking in on a lovers’ tryst. “Oh… I'm alone, Mr. Stewart,” she murmured.

“Rory,” he corrected automatically, trying to pin down her expression and deciding at last that it was a curious blend of laughter and be-musement. “Your friend's gone, then?”

“Mmmm,” she offered noncommittally.

Conscious of the odd feeling that he was missing something, Rory gazed at her and tried again. “It's strange that your painting looks so much like me, Miss Clairmont. Of course, there are differences.”

“Are there? We never see ourselves as others see us, do we?” she commented cryptically, then went on, “Might as well make it Banner, all right? And I really think we should be going back to the house, Mr.—um—Rory.”

“Certainly,” he agreed, watching as she removed the wig from a wickedly accurate bust of her grandfather and expertly pulled it on over her own short curls. He wanted to ask what had become of her friend—in fact, he was surprised at just how much he wanted to question her about the man—but held his peace. Since he'd entered the cottage, she'd been not only polite, but actually friendly, and he didn't want to put her back up inadvertently.

Banner led the way out of the little house, locking the door behind them but making no
attempt to disguise from Stewart where the key was kept. They went through the rose garden and into the house through the French doors, finding that the party chaos had intensified alarmingly.

Wincing as the sound of something fragile crashing smote their ears, Banner gestured for Stewart to follow her. “We'll go into the little dining room; Jake's probably waiting for us.”

Jake was, in fact, waiting for them in the dining room that was intended for and used when only a few people were to be served meals. It was small and cosy, the antique table, chairs, and sideboard scaled exactly for a family group. And Banner's grandfather was so patently delighted to see them come into the room together—and obviously on friendly terms—that her good humor very nearly deserted her.

“I was showing Rory the garden,” she said without thinking, then felt a flush creep up her face.

However, Jake Clairmont could hardly have managed to look more pleased whatever she'd
said; he merely grinned and asked Rory what he thought of the estate roses.

That topic and Jasmine Hall in general lasted them throughout the light meal. Banner said nothing; she watched Jake rather broodingly, her eyes flicking toward Rory occasionally and holding a speculative expression.

And it wasn't until they had risen from the table and headed back toward the foyer and the sounds of guests arriving that Rory abruptly realized why Jake Clairmont had been so pleased and why Banner had fallen so unaccountably silent. His first thought as understanding dawned was, That old shark! His second thought—and a ruefully annoyed one at that—was, This is going to complicate things hellishly. This is definitely going to complicate things. He was made absolutely certain of just how complicated “things” already were when he heard Banner take a moment to hiss wrathfully into her grandfather's ear.

“What you're up to, Jake, you can just forget.”

Jake didn't seem noticeably abashed, but
Rory was conscious of a strong desire to throttle the old man. Anyone but an idiot, he thought, could see that Banner was going to refuse to have anything further to do with him after her grandfather's intent had been made so painfully obvious.

The old devil was matchmaking, for God's sake!

Rory thought of several things in that moment. He thought that his own plans might now be equated with a salmon's struggle to swim upstream. He thought morosely about the unknown blond man in the rose garden. And he wondered whether it had been Fate's intention or Clairmont's to strew boulders in his path.

“Damn,” he muttered to himself. “I haven't got a ghost of a chance.”

Within an hour, the party was in full swing. Since nobody had bothered to explain anything to him, Rory'd had to discover for himself that this was a yearly affair at Jasmine Hall; the entire
neighborhood and anybody else who could manage to wangle an invitation turned up in full antebellum dress to pay tribute to bygone years. Some came only for the party; others intended to spend the night to participate in the costumed hunt the next morning.

Since Rory and Jake moved in some of the same business circles he found there were quite a few people present whom he knew. But as the guests began pouring fast and thick into the house, he started to worry that Banner and her grandfather seemed blithely unconcerned about the likelihood of gate- crashers.

He finally managed to locate Banner in the crush of people and to draw her into an alcove in the ballroom. “I don't mean to pry,” he announced firmly, “but have you and Jake thought much about gate- crashers, Banner?”

“Oh, there are always gate- crashers,” she told him cheerfully.

Rory was abruptly conscious that hers was an impersonal cheerfulness, and spared a moment for a silent curse at Jake's heavy- handedness.

With an effort, he kept his voice as easy as hers. “Well, then, crass as it may sound, shouldn't someone keep an eye on the valuables?”

“Someone is,” she assured him. “Several someones, in fact.” She nodded toward the ballroom. “See the gent in maroon velvet? And the one in gray—and the one by the doors there— and—oh, and several others. They're private security guards.”

“I see.” Rory grinned slightly. “I should have known Jake wasn't all that trusting.”

“Trusting?” Banner gazed up at him in astonishment. “Jake? Listen, my grandfather is a shark with a full set of teeth,” she said roundly.

Laughing at the probably accurate but hardly filial summation, Rory quickly caught her hand when she would have turned away. “I seem to hear a waltz,” he remarked musingly. “May I, Miss Clairmont?”

She blinked and then tried a laugh that didn't sound quite as gaily unconcerned as she'd intended. “Why not?”

Rory swept her out onto the floor among the
colorful array of laughing couples, proving himself to be an excellent dancer and also proving that he was perfectly capable of carrying on a conversation without having to count steps or mind his feet. His excellence depressed Banner for some reason she didn't try to fathom.

“Have you ever noticed that adults love an opportunity to dress up and pretend they belong to another age?” he was asking cheerfully.

“It's strange, isn't it?” she agreed. “And after spending so much time growing up, too.” Banner, with some years of Jasmine Hall costume balls behind her, also had no need to count steps. However, she was ridiculously conscious of his hand at her waist and of the strength of his shoulder beneath her own hand. Idiot, she chided herself.

“I haven't seen your friend since the party began.”

Banner started slightly, and as some response seemed called for, tried to dredge one up. “I— expect he's around here somewhere.”

Rory looked pointedly at her left hand. “No ring,” he observed.

She toyed briefly with the notion of using the blond man as a shield, then abandoned it. Just because her grandfather had an absurd idea about a romantic involvement between her and this very self- assured man dancing with her, it didn't mean that Rory shared it, she decided firmly. “He isn't—um—that kind of friend,” she explained casually.

“I see.” Rory nodded. “That's good.”

In spite of herself, Banner had to bite her tongue to keep from taking the bait. But she managed. “You dance very well,” she complimented hastily.

“Thank you. So do you. You're also dandy at changing the subject.”

She was also very good at ignoring ungentle-manly teasing. Daring him with a frown to persist, she said briskly, “If there's anyone in particular you'd like to dance with or be introduced to, just let me know.”

“When's the last dance of the evening?” he asked instantly.

“Midnight. By tradition a waltz.”

“I'd definitely like to dance then.”

“Oh? Well—”

“With you.”

“I can't,” she said apologetically, both glad and regretful that she had to refuse. “Another tradition—that's my dance with Jake.”

Rory didn't seem noticeably disappointed. “Really? Well, my loss.”

“Thanks,” she muttered.

The musicians brought the dance to a resounding conclusion just then, and Rory, staying firmly in character as a Southern gent, bowed deeply and gracefully from the waist. “Thank you, ma'am,” he said gravely.

“You're welcome,” she said with something of a snap, and quickly, irritated with herself, went off to see to her guests.

Retiring to the sidelines to watch the next dance, Rory caught Jake Clairmont's ridiculously paternal eye on him. He returned the stare
squarely for a moment, then purposefully crossed the room to speak to the older man.

The party had grown more cheerfully boisterous with every hour that had passed. Since the refreshments provided were lavishly democratic, more than one guest had succumbed and been escorted discreetly upstairs to a bed, either by a wife, husband, friend, or one of Clairmont's polite security guards.

Rory, amused and awed by the entire anachronous spectacle, wondered if anyone else appreciated this regression to another era in much more than dress. Some of the guests seemed enormously comfortable with their antebellum manners; there were several hot and rather tipsy disputes on whether or not the South really should secede, one lengthy discussion between two middle-aged men on Mr. Lincoln's merits, and one duel narrowly avoided when Banner stepped between the two combatants,
saying cheerfully that she'd have no blood in the rose garden.

Not that there really would have been a duel. At least, Rory hoped there wouldn't have been a duel. For a dizzy moment, he wondered if he'd stepped back in time. The twentieth century, he realized in astonishment, began just outside those tremendous oak doors; inside this house, the Grand Old South reigned supreme—for this night, at least.

And it was fascinating to watch.

Rory had studied antebellum architecture and furnishings extensively, but his knowledge of the manners and morals of the day was culled entirely from fictional reading. He was therefore delighted and intrigued to see both displayed before him with an accuracy he didn't for a moment doubt.

No single young lady, he noticed—deducing “singleness” by the absence of rings—danced more than twice with any young man; older gentlemen gathered in groups near the refreshment table and talked brisk business; older ladies—
Matrons! he thought delightedly—sat along the walls talking and keeping wary eyes on daughters and on other ladies’ sons. There was a great deal of lightly drawled flirtation and the batting of eyelashes over the edges of fans, and the dancing was decorous to the point of hilarity.

Banner, as the daughter of the house, moved among the guests, busily finding partners for wallflowers and keeping conversations going. Jake held court by the punch bowl.

Rory surprised a giggle from his hostess at one point, catching her in passing to ask incredulously, “Where did you find these people? Did you hire actors to put on a play, or what?”

“Aren't they wonderful? It's the same every year, and I just love it. The overnighters will be a bit sheepish in the morning, but once they're back in costume and on their horses they'll revert again.”