Sattler, Veronica (37 page)

Patrick
stared in awe for a moment at the beautifully shaped hand with its long,
slender white fingers, then reached to clasp it and draw the redhead to her
feet. But in the next instant he found himself awestruck once again as he gazed
into the most incredible pair of slanting green eyes set in a face that could
have been a symbol for the beauty of woman incarnate.

Finding
herself again on her feet, Megan had a moment to blink before looking up into
the bluest eyes she'd ever seen on a man. Moreover, the fact that she actually
had to gaze
upward
to meet their stare was no small thing in her
experience, and she found herself curiously arrested by it. Then, as the
seconds ticked by, with neither of them moving a muscle as they stood there,
gazing at each other, she began to realize it was not only the eyes or the size
of the man that was so compelling; from the top of his curly black hair to the
tips of his well-polished Hessians, this was a man
any
woman would look
twice at and then some! When she'd at last taken all this in, a slow, wide
smile etched itself across her wondering face.

Seeing
the smile, Patrick found himself in danger of choking on his own bated breath
until, letting it out with a whoosh, he quickly met it with his own, saying,
"Irish... you're as Irish as a shamrock!"

"Aye,"
Megan responded, "that I am, and proud t' be, I can tell ye, Mr....?"

"St.
Clare... Patrick St. Clare,
ma geersha,
and who might
you
be?"

"Faith,
ye speak the tongue yerself!" Megan exclaimed. Faintly she realized that
this dashingly handsome and virile stranger still held her hand clasped in his
own giant one, but she made no move to disengage it. "Me name's
Megan."

"Megan,"
murmured Patrick, sounding much as if the sound of it were a prayer ushering in
a miracle.

Megan,
too, remained transfixed as she continued to look into his eyes.
"O'Brien," she whispered at last.

"Megan
O'Brien... a beautiful name,
macushla,
and who might you—"

"Patrick!"
exclaimed a deep male voice from down the hallway. "I was wondering if you
were ready."

They
both turned to see Brett heading toward them.

Broken
from his dazed trance, Patrick released the hand he'd been holding and wondered
if the heat he felt about his ears meant he was blushing—something he couldn't
recall doing in years.

"Ah,
I see the two of you have met," Brett told them as he drew near. Then, at
their silence, he glanced quickly at the face of each before adding,
"Um... need I further the introductions or—?"

"Oh,
no, no," assured Patrick. "Miss O'Brien's just told me her name...
though perhaps, on second thought, it might help to learn how you've come by
her acquaintance."

Here
Patrick gazed inquiringly at his friend. It had just occurred to him that Brett
was no slouch when it came to inviting beautiful women into his circle and,
more important, into his bed, and the notion did not sit happily with him that
the beauty standing beside them could very well be a candidate for Lady
Pamela's replacement in the duke's affections.

"Well,"
said Brett, "it happens that Miss O'Brien is a companion to the ward I've
recently acquired. You do recall, don't you, Patrick—"

"Oh,
yes, of course," said Patrick enthusiastically. The ward... how could he
have forgotten the poor girl and the duke's awkward entanglement there! Well,
all the better—at least it was not Megan O'Brien who occupied that unfortunate
young lady's shoes.

"But
Megan," Brett was saying, "you're not dressed for dinner. Surely you
weren't thinking of abstaining? I thought I'd made it clear, after missing you
at the luncheon, that you were to feel free to join the guests."

"What?"
said a startled Megan, for she'd gone back to gazing in rapt fashion at the
rugged, virile appearance of the huge man beside her... the one with the
startling blue eyes... Irish blue eyes... "Oh, forgive me, Yer
Grace," she murmured. "Yes, o' course I'm goin' down t'
dinner...."
Nothin' short o' some earthshakin' event...
"So,"
Megan added, looking at each of them in turn, "if ye'll both excuse me, I
must be off t' change me attire or I'll be late!" And with a nod at the
duke and a warm smile at Patrick, she hastened down the hallway toward her
chamber.

* * * * *

Ashleigh
eyed Megan's willowy form with a speculative glance as they entered the drawing
room. Her friend looked as beautiful as she'd ever seen her in the tissue-fine,
cloth-of-gold Empire gown she wore with perfect grace, and Ashleigh was
delighted Megan had changed her mind and decided to join the dinner guests. But
what was foremost in Ashleigh's thoughts at the moment was
why
this change
had occurred.

Megan
had offered little in the way of explanation when she'd returned to Ashleigh's
chamber wearing the most spectacular of the creations Suzanne had designed for
her new wardrobe. When Ashleigh questioned her about her abrupt about-face, the
redhead had merely smiled enigmatically and said, "'Tis time we were
makin' our way downstairs, darlin', but I promise, once we get there, ye'll be
havin' yer answer soon enough—that is, if ye're able t' put two and two
t'gither, which 'tis sure ye are."

Now,
as they made their way into the throng of beautifully dressed ladies and
gentlemen in the huge room, Ashleigh saw her friend casting about, as if in
search of something, but just as she was about to ask her what she sought, a
familiar voice broke in.

"Well,
if I ever had any doubts about the value I'd receive for the outrageous fees
that French seamstress charged for her services, they've been handily squashed
this evening," said Brett as he came up to them. "The two of you look
absolutely ravishing, and while I hope I'm the first to tell you so, judging by
the heads you're turning with your entrance, I know I shall not be the
last."

Smiling
her appreciation at his words, Ashleigh glanced about the room and found he
spoke the truth. Underscoring the sudden lull in the buzz of conversation that
had filled the room when she and Megan first entered, there was the
unmistakably appreciative gaze of every male in the drawing room as it focused
on the two women, coupled with the assessing stares of most of the women as
well.

"Unless
I'm mistaken," Brett continued, "we'll soon be besieged by a press of
gentlemen begging for introductions, Megan. Are you prepared for the
crush?"

Megan
gave the room another cursory glance, then looked at the duke. "I've no
problem with admirin' males, if that's yer meanin', Yer Grace, but I was rather
lookin' forward t' makin' an introduction meself." She glanced down at
Ashleigh. "Ah, ye see, there's someone I think the colleen here has yet t'
meet, and, ah..."

Brett
noticed the sudden flush of color that heightened the pink of Megan's cheeks.
Hmm, so that was the way of things, was it? He'd had his suspicions after
coming upon Megan and Patrick earlier in the hallway upstairs, but Patrick had
grown uncharacteristically closemouthed about his meeting with the tall beauty
when he'd questioned him about it.

Brett
chuckled as he placed his hand lightly on Megan's shoulder and leaned to
whisper in her ear. "I think you'll find what you're looking for in the
small drawing room across the hall. A few of the guests have gotten involved in
a discussion there with Percy Shelley and his thoughts on the Irish
Question."

"Ah,"
said Megan, a delicious smile turning up the corners of her mouth, "a
subject after me own heart.... Ashleigh, Yer Grace—" she nodded
"—I'll be askin' ye t' excuse me presence fer a wee while, but I'll be
back before ye know I've been gone." And with the soft rustle of her
cloth-of-gold skirts, she turned and left the room.

"Megan,
what—?" Ashleigh turned puzzled eyes toward Brett. "What was that all
about? I—I've never seen Megan acting so oddly!"

Brett
chuckled softly. "I think she means to answer you with a surprise she has
in mind, and far be it from me to spoil a lady's surprises! I'm afraid you'll
just have to wait
'a wee while,'
my dear. I think—"

"Brett!"
a male voice interrupted. "Egad, but it's been a while, eh?"

Brett
and Ashleigh turned to find a medium-tall, middle-aged man with pale blond hair
approaching them. By his side was Elizabeth Hastings.

Brett's
tone was cool—even a bit bored, Ashleigh thought— as he answered the older man
with a curt nod. "M'lord. I see you've finally made it over here."

"The
deuce, I swear! You know I'd have come about a bit earlier, but the girls'd
have none of it." The man shot Elizabeth an accusing glance.

"Now,
father," said Elizabeth, "you know you aren't able to abide these
lengthy house parties. Lady Margaret and I had only your best interests at
heart."

"Miss
Ashleigh Sinclair," Brett intervened, "allow me to introduce Lord David
Hastings, Lady Elizabeth's father and my nearest neighbor."

As
Ashleigh curtseyed, Lord David took a moment to look her over before bending
over her hand with an exaggerated bow, "Charmed, m'dear," he
murmured. As he spoke, Ashleigh smelled the scent of brandy on his breath.

Then
Lord David turned toward Brett. "Egad, Your Grace, she's a real beauty,
she is." Then, to Elizabeth, "Small wonder she's got you hopping, eh,
m'dear?" This was accompanied by a small, sly grin.

Elizabeth's
silver eyes narrowed as they fell on Ashleigh, but just as she was about to say
something, her father turned abruptly and hailed a passing footman bearing a
tray.

"I
say, my good fellow," said his lordship, "I'll be having one of
those." He moved rapidly toward the footman with one arm reaching toward
the tray.

The
expression on Elizabeth's face changed to one of annoyance. "Father,
really,
must
you?" She turned and followed Lord David, adding,
"Oh, where is Auntie Meg, anyway?"

Brett
glanced at Ashleigh who was watching David Hastings down a glass of amber
liquid in one gulp. "My erstwhile neighbor and future father-in-law,"
he mocked with a grimace of distaste, "present-day scion and crest bearer
of the infamous Hastingses!"

Ashleigh
watched Lord David reach for a second glass of liquor and raise it to his lips
before turning her eyes toward Brett. "I... take it you're not overly fond
of the man."

Brett
gave a bitter laugh. "An understatement, if you've ever made one, my dear,
for what is there to be fond of in a man who spends all his waking hours
drinking himself into a stupor?—unless, of course, he's intercepted by his
daughter or my great-aunt, if she's around. And then, if he manages sobriety
long enough, what is there to be fond of in what's left? For without drink, he's
the dullest nonentity you could imagine, a man singularly without opinions,
passions or convictions of any sort. God, what a waste of human flesh and
blood."

As
they spoke, Ashleigh watched Elizabeth return from where she'd disappeared at
the far end of the room, Lady Margaret by her side. Together, the two women
seemed to swoop down on Lord David with hugely disapproving expressions on
their faces and, a few seconds later, escort him toward a door at the opposite
end of the drawing room.

Brett
followed her glance, then met it as she turned back to face him. "The
reason you've only just now met his lordship is that those two ladies—" he
nodded in the direction of Elizabeth's and Margaret's disappearing skirts
"—haven't allowed him to join this gathering until now. If he'd put in an
appearance any earlier, he'd most likely be under the table somewhere by now—or
sleeping it off in an upstairs chamber. But my fiancée and her godmother
usually forestall such behavior by keeping a pretty tight rein on him—thank God!
I suppose there's something to be said for Margaret's highhandedness at times,
after all."

At
the mention of Margaret's name in conjunction with the Hastingses, Ashleigh's
thoughts flew back to her encounter with Lady Jane Hastings, and she was just
about to comment on this when Brett looked up, past her shoulder, and a wide
grin creased his face.

"Ah,
here you two are!" he exclaimed.

Ashleigh
whirled about to see Megan coming through the doorway through which she'd
disappeared earlier. But it was the tall, dashing figure at her side that made
her gasp and then freeze where she stood.

Brett
caught her reaction and glanced down to find her staring straight ahead as all
the blood drained from her face. "Ashleigh?" he questioned softly.
"Are you all right?"

Ashleigh
stared at the beloved face that had haunted her thoughts and dreams for twelve
long years and wondered if she wasn't dreaming now.
"Patrick?"
she
at last managed to whisper. Then, finding her voice over the lump of emotion
that had formed in her throat, she shouted, "Patrick! Oh, my
God...
Patrick!"

Patrick
St. Clare gazed, bewildered, for a moment at the exquisitely beautiful young
woman standing beside Brett, wondering at the stricken look on her face. Then,
as he heard her speak, he noticed the tiny mole high on her left cheek, and a
shock of recognition rocked him.