Too Great a Temptation (21 page)

A whirl of color danced by Mirabelle, the resplendent satin gowns capturing the flickering candlelight like a rainbow.

She blinked back the sheen and pressed her palm over her quivering belly. She suddenly felt sick. The heat from the room doused her like a torrent, the melted candle wax tickling her nose. The twirling frocks made her dizzy. She was hungry and tired…and apprehensive.

Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea, after all?

“May I have this dance?”

Mirabelle started and stared at the gentleman holding out his hand. He wasn’t dressed like the other gents at the ball, arrayed in black breeches and tinted vests and elegant tailcoats. He looked more like a coachman. Oh, his attire fit him well, tailored to his height and breadth of chest, but it lacked the ornamentation the other dandies seemed to adore. And his mask! Why, it didn’t match the rest of his ensemble at all. It was as though he had picked up any old headdress to put across his face. Even so, there was something familiar about him. Something about his eyes, so cold and lost…

“Thank you,” she said, “but I don’t care to dance.”

Mirabelle backed away, bumped into the statue of some Roman god, almost tipped the statue over, then, flustered, scurried away.

Bloody hell. She had to grab hold of Henry. Soon! Balls were not her forte. She would rather be aboard the
Bonny Meg
amid a hail of cannon blasts than trapped in this peculiar wonderland.

Keeping to the wall to avoid any more mishaps, she was having a devilishly hard time breathing with so much stuffiness in the air and a tight bodice to boot.
Where
was Henry?

Mirabelle scanned the crowd of a hundred or so with an eager eye. But it was hard to pinpoint one woman among so many. And all of them holding masks!

A kerfuffle near the lemonade bowl captured Mirabelle’s attention and she peered between the waltzing couples to see a vexed female feverishly plucking feathers from a distraught lady’s mask.

Henry!

Mirabelle all but vaulted onto the dance floor, quickly weaving through the throng of whirling partners.

She reached Henry without calamity, grabbed her by the wrist, and yanked her away from the simpering female who didn’t have a mask anymore.

“I say, unhand me,” griped Henrietta.

But Mirabelle dragged her all the way to the other side of the ballroom and pushed her behind a fern.

“What the devil is the matter with you?” Henrietta demanded, then, curiously: “Who are you?”

Mirabelle lifted her mask.

“Oh, Belle!” Henrietta gasped, and right away flung herself at the other woman.

With squeals of delight both females hugged and hopped for a while. It ached deep inside, to be with Henry again. She had missed her comrade so much. Tears of joy could not be squashed and Mirabelle sheepishly wiped the moisture from her eyes before Henry took heed.

“What’s the matter, Belle? Are you hurt?”

Henrietta dropped the frayed mask to the polished wood floor and removed her own bejeweled headpiece. She looked just as lovely as Mirabelle remembered her. Stunning red locks. Not the unfashionable flaming red some girls were cursed with, but a dark russet red in hue, like autumn in full glory. Her dark, bay brown eyes shimmered with warmth and mischief and laughter. And her voice had a richness to it that made Mirabelle long for her kindred company. And she had need of a friend now more than ever.

There was such sincerity in Henry’s gaze. Mirabelle sensed she could confide in her chum and not fear censure. But she swallowed her fury and heartache instead. She had to return to her brothers. And she needed her wits intact to do it. If she surrendered to her misery now, she might never get back home.

“I’m all right.” Mirabelle took in a shuddering breath to ease the flurry of emotions in her breast. She needed a moment to gather her unruly thoughts, and pointed to the shabby mask on the floor. “What was
that
all about?”

“Oh, Cat’s a conniving little witch.”

“Cat?”

“Catherine…never mind.” Henrietta waved a hand. “The girl
was
my friend up until a minute ago.”

“What happened?”

“Catherine was suppose to tweak Viscount Ravenswood’s nose and get the man to notice
me
. She wasn’t supposed to set
her
cap for him.” The baron’s daughter huffed. “As if Ravenswood would ever flirt with a mousy little thing like her.”

“Viscount Ravenswood?”

“I told you all about him. Don’t you remember?”

“Vaguely.”

Mirabelle’s indifference triggered yet another gasp from Henrietta, who promptly took her by the arms and spun her about.

“
That
Ravenswood.”

Henrietta pointed over her shoulder, through the ferns, to a dashing gentleman at the far end of the ballroom. A bloody big gentleman, Mirabelle mused, with dark black curls and a sinister aura about him that she didn’t find too appealing. He wore a red silk mask that sensually offset his lush—and she suspected kissable—lips.

Ravenswood was conversing with Baron Ashby—or listening to the elder gent prattle away, was more like it. He didn’t seem the least bit interested in what the baron had to say, though. Instead, he was engrossed with a particular fern—one concealing two mischievous cohorts.

Mirabelle shivered under his piercing gaze. “He seems rather dangerous.”

“He’s blind.”

“Oh, the poor man.”

Henrietta made a noise of disgust. “Blind about me, the blackguard.” She stared at Viscount Ravenswood with steely determination. “I’ve been in love with the fool ever since his brother Peter married my sister Penelope. It’s been eight years and
still
he treats me like a child.”

Mirabelle glanced back at Ravenswood. The dark glare in his eyes didn’t seem all that innocent. “Are you sure he thinks of you as a child?”

“I’m
very
sure.”

It looked as though Mirabelle wasn’t the only one in the world with troubles of the heart. “Then you are still unwed?”

An inelegant snort. “Of course I am. No one but Ravenswood will do.” She sighed then. “Although Mama is convinced I will die a spinster and insists on throwing these troublesome balls to help find me a mate.”

“You’re only twenty.”

Henrietta shrugged. “Mama thinks I’m difficult. This is my third season without a husband and she’s sure I’ll have many more.”

“And what does your father think?”

Although Mirabelle recognized the baron—for Henry had pointed him out at public assemblies like Vauxhall and Ascot’s—she didn’t know the man personally. Or any of the Ashbys for that matter. She and Henry had a clandestine friendship. Oh, Henry had wanted to introduce her to her kin, but Mirabelle had been apprehensive. It was obvious, despite the tutelage of her governess, that she was no aristocrat. And she didn’t want to embarrass her comrade with her common lineage. Lofty lords and ladies always looked down on anyone in trade. And to remark that her father was a “merchant” would send brows skyward.

Henry thought the whole thing rather droll.
Her
parents, lofty. “It was a contradiction in terms,” the girl had always said. But Mirabelle could sense, even with the Ashbys’ eccentric disposition—like naming their youngest offspring Henry—the couple still adhered to propriety. One didn’t want to risk the ignominy of being shunned by the
ton
, not with five daughters to marry off. Well, one daughter now. If memory served, the four eldest Ashby girls were already wed.

“Papa doesn’t think much on the matter of my marital state,” said Henrietta. “He’s quite content to marry off four girls and keep me around for good.”

Mirabelle smiled. “He loves you that much?”

“He likes to be in the company of his only
son
. And while I adore Papa, I’d rather spend the rest of my years with Ravenswood.” Her lips pursed, deep in thought. “I’m going to have to do something scandalous to get Ravenswood’s attention.”

Mirabelle suddenly felt sorry for Viscount Ravenswood.

“Scandalous?” She eyed Henry’s accouterments. “You mean like wearing a
very
revealing gown?”

Henrietta glanced at her apparel and sighed again. “Can you believe it? Rose silk, deep ruffs, a heart-shaped neckline, and still the dratted man won’t
look
at me. He tells me to put on a chemisette; the impudence. I’m not a debutante.”

Mirabelle had a sudden desire to goad her comrade. “It is a bit too charming, shall we say?”

“Don’t you start that, too.” Henrietta looked at her with reproach. “Besides, your dress is just as risqué…I say, isn’t that my dress?”

“Yes, well, I had to sneak into the house and borrow the dress to come and talk with you. I didn’t bring along my dancing clothes, you know? I didn’t know you were having a ball!”

“Oh, that’s right.” Henrietta pulled her back behind the fern. “Why are you here, Belle?”

“I’m stranded,” she said bluntly.

“What do you mean?”

Oh, I was kidnapped by a rogue sailor, who trampled my heart, and now I’m all alone in the streets of London
.

“Tell me, Belle.”

The soft coaxing did the trick. All those cumbersome sentiments Mirabelle had tried to stomp down into her toes raised their loud and pesky heads, and she was rapt with the intense desire to confide her troubles to her friend. “I’m a fool, Henry. I very nearly gave my heart away to a rogue.”

Henrietta perked up. “Ooh, really?”

“Really. I even thought I could share a life with him. But I was wrong. I can’t be with him.”

“Why, Belle?”

Because he doesn’t care about me. He doesn’t want anything to do with me or my brothers or the
Bonny Meg. “I just can’t have him. Trust me, Henry.”

“I do, Belle. Hush. It’s all right.”

Mirabelle took in a steady breath, to quiet the jitters in her belly. “I have to get back home to my brothers, Henry.”

“Say no more.” The girl put up a hand. “I know were Papa keeps a stash of coins hidden from Mama.”

“Thank you.” Mirabelle smiled in appreciation. “I’ll send the money back to you as soon as I get home, I promise.”

“Oh, rot. What’s a few farthings between friends?” Henrietta took her firmly by the hand. “Are you going to be all right, Belle?”

“I think so.” She sniffed. “Henry, I know he’s an undeserving rogue, but still…”

Henrietta offered her a thoughtful look. “Still what, gel?”

“It hurts,” she whispered.

A look of understanding passed between the two women.

“Oh, Belle!” Henrietta gave her a tight hug. “Don’t I know it.”

A
peck on the cheek and Henry was off. “I’ll go and get the blunt.”

“I’ll wait for you out on the terrace.”

Henrietta nodded, secured her mask, and skirted away.

Camouflaged by the fern, Mirabelle spied her comrade wend through the mob of dancers and disappear into the corridor beyond. Once she was gone, Mirabelle moved to the open terrace doors and peeked outside.

She had only the moon and the stars for company, it seemed. A good thing, too, for she wasn’t in the mood to converse with strangers.

Mirabelle moved to the edge of the terrace, intent on the shrubs and garden paths. Her eyes wandered over the ghostly terrain, to the knotty tree she had scaled a short while ago, and on to the twinkling heavens.

It was such a beautiful night, the moon glowing in full brilliancy. A soft breeze kissed her skin in a cool and soothing gesture, stimulating her otherwise bereaved spirit.

She should not have said anything to Henry about Damian. Even the smallest reference to the navigator made her heart quiver with woe, evoked memories she would rather have stifled.

But this was just her penance, she supposed, for letting Damian so close to her heart. She had vowed to keep the bounder at bay. To ignore his charms…his kisses. But she had faltered in that resolve. Now look what had happened. The knave had injured her. It was only a prick. She would get over it. Really, she would. But still, he had hurt her. And it was a miserable thought, knowing she had given Damian clout over her, even a little.

“Good evening.”

Mirabelle whirled around to confront the large figure lurking in the shadows. There was something familiar about the sound of his voice. She screwed up her face in contemplation, but soon quit trying to remember. She wanted to be alone.

“Good evening,” she returned stiffly, hoping to discourage the gent from further conversation. But her cool demeanor didn’t appear to dampen the bloke’s desire for chitchat one little bit.

He stepped out of the shadows and approached.
Now
she recognized him.

“You again?” She didn’t bother to hide her displeasure. “I already told you, I don’t want to dance.”

He placed a hand to his heart. “You wound me, madam.”

She snorted softly. The man might be dressed like a coachman but he was clearly a member of the peerage. His diction was superb. His grace and flirtatious manner polished. He even swaggered like a noble.

She wasn’t comfortable in his presence. He still wore his mask, and she felt quite naked standing beside him without hers. But it would be foolish to secure her mask at this stage, so she simply held the headpiece in her hand and flitted it in the direction of his chest. “I’m sure your heart will mend soon enough. You men have a way about you when it comes to such matters.”

“Not all men heal after a broken heart.”

Mirabelle sensed her own heart pinch at his murmured words. She suddenly wondered if Damian would recover from their affair quickly. Would it take him months to forget her? Or just a few days? And
why
did the thought of being forgotten by the blackguard make the bones in her breast ache so?

The somber subject was set aside in favor of more light banter. “Aha! I see why you do not want to dance, madam.”

Mirabelle stomped her bewildering grief into the bowel of her belly. “And why is that?”

“You have misplaced your dancing shoes.”

She blushed. Carefully, she slipped her booted toes beneath her hemline. “And you, sir, have misplaced your dancing clothes.”

He laughed softly. A deep and husky rumble that unsettled her. “Touché. We are both mismatched, you and I.”

He was funning with her, she knew. But there was something devious in his manner and tone of voice.

“I left my dancing shoes at home—intentionally,” she quipped. “I do not want to dance.”

“Not want to dance?” He took another step toward her. The fine hairs on her arms bristled. “A beautiful miss like yourself?”

Mirabelle squirmed in her spot. He really was making her uneasy.

“Is your heart broken?” Dark and shadowed eyes pinned on her. “Is that why you’re not inclined to dance?”

“No,” she said curtly, and then to maintain her pretense of nobility, huffed, “And it’s very rude of you to ask.”

“My apologies, madam. I am only concerned with your well-being.”

“Rot!”

“You mistrust my sincerity?”

“I have four brothers.” She held up four fingers to prove her point. “I know exactly what men are like, always searching for innocent girls to woo.”

His voice was smooth and unquestionably wicked. “Are you an innocent girl?”

She took in a sharp breath. The impertinence! “
What
are you implying?”

“Well, I’m convinced it is not your brothers who have instructed you in the ways of the heart…but a lover.” Then in a hushed voice, he said, “Unrequited love, is it?”

She gnashed her teeth. “I told you, there is no one.”

“Come now, madam,” he drawled, eyes luminous like a prowling cat’s under the moonlight. “What young woman would come to a ball and not want to dance? Unless she was pining?”

A finger went to her chest. “This woman.”

Mirabelle twirled about and headed for the terrace doors.

“So he does not care for you?” a call resounded after her. “The scoundrel.”

She paused and turned around to glare at him. “He is none of your concern.”

Her maddening companion quirked a half smile. “So there is someone?”

“Oh, you are a persistent devil,” she charged, scowling.

“No, just a curious one.” He knotted his arms across his strapping chest. “Did he leave you?”

“I left him.”

“Bravo, madam!” Soft clapping was heard. “Abandon the knave, as he justly deserves.”

“He’s not a knave!”

Mirabelle started. Now where the devil had that assertion come from? Of course Damian was a knave. He had betrayed her. So why in heaven’s name had she just defended the blackguard?

“Oh?” said the stranger. “He cares for you then?”

He doesn’t give a fig about me
, she thought, but couldn’t quite admit the truth aloud. There was a deafening roar in her ears and a throbbing in her chest, making the words too difficult to enunciate.

Not that her silence dulled her companion’s dogged curiosity. “Well, if he cares for you, madam, he will come after you.”

“He won’t come after me.” She was sure. Damian didn’t care for her, wretched as the truth might be. He didn’t even know where she was!

“We shall see about that, madam.”

Mirabelle stared at the masked figure with scrutiny. She wanted off the topic of Damian, and noted the bandage secured to the man’s palm.

She quirked a questioning brow. “What happened to your hand?”

“It’s nothing.” He glanced at the wound with indifference. “A botched duel, I’m afraid.”

“You lost?”

“A stalemate, actually. But we will have another go at it soon.”

“I have two brothers just like that,” she said in disgust. “Always fighting.”

“It’s a matter of honor.”

“Slaying an opponent over a misunderstanding or slight? Restitution not enough?”

He said softly, darkly, “Sometimes an apology won’t do.”

She shivered. She had had enough of the peculiar man’s company. “Well, sir, I hope you fare better the second time around.” She lifted the side of her dress to skirt away. “Better yet, I hope you come to your senses and forget all about the ridiculous duel.”

But when she glanced back to impart those words of wisdom, she found the stranger was gone.

What an odd gent!

Mirabelle smoothed her wrinkled brow and looked ahead to find Henrietta dashing toward her.

She was thankful to see her comrade and let it be known by the noisy sigh she exhaled. “What took you so long, Henry?”

“Well, I had a devilishly hard time getting past Ravenswood. The rogue trapped me in Papa’s study to scold me about what I did to Cat’s mask.” Henry huffed. “Lud, the man is impossible. He notices everything I
don’t
want him to see and pays no heed to everything I
do
want him to see.”

“Like your gown?”

“Exactly.” Henrietta let out another frustrated burst of air. “Here.” She handed her friend a small velvet sack. “This should be enough to get you back home.”

Mirabelle cradled the hefty bundle. “More than enough. Thank you.”

The girls looked at each other, then hugged.

“I have to go,” whispered Mirabelle, voice choking.

“Must you?” Henrietta broke away from the embrace, her eyes filling with tears. “You’ve only just arrived. Can’t you stay and chat for a little while more?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“But it’s been more than a year since I’ve seen you.”

“I’m sorry, Henry, but my brothers will be worried if I don’t get home soon.”

The girl nodded in reluctant approval. “Oh, very well. If you must.” She squeezed her shoulders. “But promise me you will come back and visit soon.”

Mirabelle wanted to, she really did, but she intended to go back to the
Bonny Meg
and she didn’t know when she might get the chance to journey back to London. And she didn’t want to make a promise she couldn’t keep. Not to Henry.

“I will try, Henry,” she said instead, amid a puddle of tears in her throat. “I have to go back upstairs and change.”

Henrietta nodded and took her by the hand. “I’ll come with you.”

The two girls headed back inside the ballroom.

Mirabelle took only a few steps before rooting to the spot.

He stood across the room; big, beautiful, and dressed in riding breeches. He wore a mask, but such a sexy and towering figure could never blend in among an ordinary crowd. And he didn’t. Voices whispered and fingers pointed as soon as he appeared in the doorway. Not that Mirabelle paid the commotion any heed. Oh no. She was far too busy trying to keep from hooting with joy.

Stormy blue eyes scanned the horde and lighted on her. All other thoughts faded from her head as he marched through the parting mob of dancers—heading straight for her.

Heavens, he had never looked so perfect…so passionate…or so livid. But she didn’t mind his temper just then. He had come for her. And she was too dazzled by the flurry of giddy sentiments stirring in her breast to speak or blink or even breathe.

“Is
he
the one, Belle?”

Somewhere in the recesses of her mind she heard Henry’s voice and nodded.

“Oh, I say, Belle, I don’t know why you think you can’t have him. He seems quite determined to have
you
.”

Damian thundered across the dance floor. Fury filled him.

The shifty little witch! She had left him. Abandoned him in the street like a grimy urchin. He had turned his head, and
poof
, she was gone. Vanished. Lost to him for good.

He shuddered at the morbid memory and struggled to contain the frenzy of dark emotions roiling in his gut.

He was going to shake her. He was going to throttle her. He was going to spank her…He was going to kiss her wildly.

It hit him with the might of a berserk horse, the desperate joy rattling in his chest at the sight of her. Could she look more devastating, more wanton, in that shimmering coral frock? The bodice so low and tight it made his heart pinch in sympathy for her generous breasts, stuffed so snugly. Her glorious gold locks sat in a mound of twisted knots atop her head, her slender neck exposed, so delectable. The warm glow of her cheeks, the bright fire in her sensuous amber eyes, the rosy pink lushness of her lips…

A gloved hand popped in his face. “How good of you to come.”

Impotent passion wracked Damian. He couldn’t get to Belle. A bloody pest was in his way.

“Henrietta Ashby,” the girl clipped out. “I’m delighted to meet you.”

Henrietta “Henry” Ashby? It was then reason intruded. Music shifted in his head. Voices, too. He stared at the offered hand and recognized it as a saving grace, for he’d been about to set off a rumpus by mauling Belle—or something akin to it.

With much restraint, he accepted the gloved fingers and kissed the back of Miss Ashby’s hand.

He then moved over to a bewildered Mirabelle, and with quiet firmness said, “Outside. Now.”

He cupped her elbow and steered her toward the terrace doors.

“What a delightful idea,” Henrietta chimed behind them, loud enough for the guests to hear. “A stroll sounds charming. I shall chaperone.”

In the shadows of the garden, Damian tore off his mask and pressed his lips to Belle’s with a carnal hunger he had never suffered before. The blood hastened through his veins, pounded in his head. He devoured the taste of her, inhaled the rich musk of her, smothered the warmth of her against him. He gripped her with strength and tenderness and wild abandon. Fingers ripped through her hair, groped her lush behind. He couldn’t breathe. He didn’t care. She was filling his soul with hope and joy. He was awash in the promise of her comfort, of her ability to slay the demons in his head.

It was some time later he broke away from the kiss. Belle slumped into his arms with a satisfied sigh. Lips swollen, lids heavy with heady passion, she appeared a sultry wanton. A siren, beckoning him. And he heeded the enchanting call.

With the pad of his thumb, he stroked her puffy lips and kissed her softly. Blood still rushed through his limbs, and he all but gasped for air, but slowly, steadily, the passion subsided, and Damian could think with clarity once more.

And the first thing he noticed was the lone figure perched on a stone bench a little ways off. Henrietta. She was fanning herself with her mask and looking on in apparent fascination…and envy?

“Oh, I say,” she murmured. “I’d give my baby toe to be kissed like that.”

Damian spared her a curious glance before he peered around the rest of the terrain. Deserted. Good. He didn’t want anyone to recognize him and reveal his identity to Belle. It was too soon. Henrietta was no threat. He had never met the girl before…

No. Really, he hadn’t. It was hard to remember the adolescent, even adult, years of his life after so much drink, but he was sure he had not encountered the innocent Miss Ashby before. He doubted very much her father the baron would have allowed it.