Bewitching (48 page)

Joy's face haunted the duke's fevered dreams. Alec could almost feel her touch, the way her fingers combed his hair and tugged it when she became excited. Her finger grazed his ear, circling it with featherlike softness. He could feel her warm breath, feel her mouth nuzzle the back of his ear.

"Scottish," he groaned and turned toward her.

She wheezed.

He froze. His bloodshot eyes flew open.

Two beady brown weaselly eyes stared back at him.

"God Almighty . . . my hair!" He shot upright, grabbing his scalp, picturing in his mind the pink skin on the back of Henson's head. He bolted from the bed like a man crazed, not stopping until he reached the looking glass in his dark dressing room. He fumbled for a flint to light a lamp, his hands shaking from the heat of his fever. He struck the flint and lit the lamp, then leaned close to the mirror, turning his head this way and that.

Although it was tousled from a fevered sleep, his hair appeared to be all there. No bald spots. He picked up a hand mirror and turned, angling it upward so he could see the very back of his head. A second later he sagged in relief against the dresser.

Now more angry than ill, he turned and strode back into the bedchamber, plucked his wife's snoring rodent off his pillows, and crossed to the adjoining door. He opened it, crossed the sitting room, and went into Joy's bedchamber. The plump little weasel lay back in his arms and watched him through sly eyes that slowly moved from his face to his hairline. As if reading the duke's mind, the rodent licked its lips.

"Don't even think about it."

The animal wheezed; then its lips curled in what Alec supposed was a grin. Resisting the urge to drop it, he put the damn weasel in its basket and turned, but he stopped short of leaving.

The room was dim, the drapes drawn over the windows, but the bed draperies were open, hanging loose near the carved bedposts. A flicker of light from a guttering candle twinkled from the lamp at the bedside table and he moved closer. His wife lay sound asleep atop sheets that glowed almost golden in the candlelight. That long curtain of deep brown hair fell to one side and spilled down over the side of the bed. It drew him like silken threads of need that bound him to her, as it always did, as it had the first time he'd ever seen it.

It was odd that he noticed things about her that he could not remember noticing about other women. In his eyes, women were either beautiful or not beautiful. He had never noticed a woman's eyes or nose, the wistful tilt of her lips, a determined chin, the thickness of her brows, the delicate shape of a small ear. Yet he had with Scottish. And it hadn't stopped there. He'd noticed the motion she made with her hands, hands that he had held and rubbed and examined so closely when he had thought they were frostbitten. It leveled him somewhat to realize that he even knew the pattern of the lines on her palms, whereas he could only guess at the color of Juliet Spencer's eyes.

He closed his eyes and found himself longing for those old familiar times before Joy had entered his life. What had happened to the man he used to be? Little more than a few weeks ago everything had been simple, predictable, routine; there were no surprises in his life back then, and no complications. It had been so simple.

Looking back at his sleeping wife, he knew that nothing would ever be simple again, and he wasn't certain how he felt about that. He had to ask himself what he really wanted. He wanted Scottish. Yes, he wanted her, wanted her with a need so strong that many times he had turned away just to prove to himself that he could fight it.

But the fact remained that he was drawn to her as if she had cast a spell that somehow linked them together. He didn't want to admit it. But he knew it. It was there to haunt him every time he felt a sexual need. It wasn't lust, but he wanted it to be, because lust he could control. This elusive thing that bound him to her was something he could not control, because it was not something he could name.

She breathed in the deep, soft pattern of one who was sound asleep. A book, tented across her chest, rose and fell with each whispering breath. He bent forward and picked it up, giving the cover a cursory glance:
The Dastardly Duke.

He knew he should be angry with her, but he wasn't. He shook his head at his own inability to be what he thought he should be, what he had always been—a man who prided himself on his control.

He started to turn away, but stopped and looked down at the book in his hand. He bent over the bed and picked up a small silver bookmark that lay in the tangles of her hair. He marked the page and set the book on the bed table.

His still feverish head began to throb with the pain of an illness that had the audacity to strike the Duke of Belmore. He blew out the lone candle and returned to his own room, where he could wish for a simpler time and regain the strength he needed to control his marriage and the strength he needed to fight his unreasonable need for a small Scottish witch.

***

The evening of the prince regent's ball arrived on a frozen wind. Spindly winter birch branches scraped and scratched like grasping fingers against the eastern wall of Belmore House and a liquid fire of golden light poured down from the windows, spilling over the tree trunks and onto the icy flagstones below.

But in her upstairs dressing room Joy saw only darkness.

Her head was trapped in a hoopskirt of waxed calico over stiff whalebone. "Polly!"

"Sorry, ma'am. One more tug and . . . There!"

The hoop slipped down over her bodice and finally clumped onto the wooden floor. Joy gasped for air while Polly tied the waist ribbons, then glanced down at the hoop. It was very narrow at the sides, presumably to allow one to walk two abreast, and full in the front and back. She picked up the skirt and looked down. "It drags on the floor."

"Here, you need the slippers, ma'am." Polly held out a lovely pair of golden slippers with small squat heels that, like the toes, were crusted with sparkling diamonds and deep emeralds. The maid slid them on Joy's feet, then stood back to judge the effect. "The heels are just the right height." Polly pointed at the cheval mirror.

"I don't want to look until I'm all dressed."

Polly grinned. "Your Grace has been sayin' the like at every fittin'."

"And
Her Grace
hasn't changed her mind, so will you stop Your Gracing me."

"I can't help it, ma'am, this night being so special and all. Look at what you'll be wearing. Someone who's wearin' that fancy court gown should be Your Graced."

"I am looking at what I'm wearing, and I don't see the sense in it." Frowning, Joy poked at the hoop, which bounced like a well-sprung curricle. "What's next?"

"The emerald green satin." Polly unhooked a long full skirt and held it up. "See this? Oh, ma'am, isn't it the loveliest thing you've ever seen?" The rich green color was set off by golden falcons with emerald eyes embroidered on the hem.

Polly came at her and once again Joy saw nothing but green darkness, and no sooner was that skirt in place than another deep green tulle overskirt with a golden lace furbelow at the hem slid over her head. Finally Polly tucked into place a short top skirt of gold-spangled tulle, arranging it so that the golden falcons in the Belmore crest showed in the tuck openings.

Joy looked down at the layers of clothing that formed the English court costume, plucked at them, and muttered, "No wonder they call Englishwomen 'skirts.' "

Polly picked up an emerald green plumed Carberry headdress with emerald-studded combs, paper-thin gold leaves, and golden tassels that dangled like Beezle down the back of Joy's head. She fit the combs into the elaborate piles of her mink brown hair, then lowered her arms.

Joy wobbled, grabbing the back of a chair. "I don't think I can stand up in this thing, let alone dance in it." She felt as if her chin were in her collarbone.

Polly stood back. "What if you held your chin higher, ma'am?"

Joy shoved her chin up with one hand. The muscles in the back of her neck strained. "I doubt even Mrs. Watley could hold her chin up with this on." Her neck felt like soggy bread. She tried to stiffen but managed only to contort her face into a grimace.

Polly giggled.

Joy took a wobbly step and hunched forward. "If I have to wear this thing I surely won't have to worry about anyone calling me Your Grace. No one is that blind." She could feel her disappointment on the rise. Forcing herself to try to stand erect, she took two steps, and had to grip the chair again. She tried three more times under Polly's nervous eyes and finally said, "Let me practice for a few minutes, please. Will you check on Beezle for me?"

"Yes, ma'am."

The moment the door closed, Joy sagged into a chair. The back of the hoop caught against the chair. She sat down, and up went the hoop. Green satin and tulle bounced into her face. She felt a cold draft on her thin silk stockings and shift. She shoved the yards of fabric aside and batted the hoop away, but it bounced back in her face. How did women sit in these things without having the hoop fly upward? She wondered how many ladies had given the world a private view. Again she tried to smash the hoop down but finally gave up. Her neck ached so, even when she was leaning back, that she rested her chin on a hand and stared at the sea of green.

This night was terribly important. She wanted to be the perfect duchess, but she doubted she could walk, let alone waltz. And she so wanted to waltz with Alec. Perhaps she could recapture that magical moment.

With this headpiece, waltzing would be impossible. She could, however, lighten the headpiece in her own way. She bit her lip. Just one wee incantation. One little bit of a spell. Of course if Alec found out he'd be very upset, but she was behind closed doors where it was very private, and those had been his conditions. Also, he had been willing to allow her to use her magic to cure him, and she would have if that had been possible.

But this wasn't impossible. There was also the fact that if she didn't do well tonight he'd be even more upset. When she rationalized it that way—the what-if, against the sure— she had her answer. She'd do what came naturally— witchcraft.

She stood, or wobbled, upright, then shimmied the hoop back down and sat again. She raised her arms in the air, but raising her chin was impossible. Her eyes locked on the carved mahogany legs of her bed. Her line of vision wouldn't reach any higher. Suppose her magic was weak from lack of use?

Since when has your magic been strong?

Don't remind me.

To her this was a dire circumstance, and perhaps her magic would be stronger because it hadn't been drained by overuse lately. She liked that rationale. Flexing her fingers for good measure, she closed her eyes tight and concentrated, really concentrated, on creating an incantation:

Oh, night so dark,

Oh, wind that blows,

Hark! Hark! Hark!

Help me with these furbelows.

Ignore my pelisse,

But hear my plea.

Make this headpiece

As light as can be!

Satisfied with her creation, she chanted the words aloud, then opened her eyes.

"Ahh." Joy sagged back against the chair in relief. She straightened a moment later and walked toward the cheval mirror, her headpiece now as light as air. "My powers are not so rusty after all," she muttered, tilting her head from side to side and watching the plumes bounce.

A few feet from the mirror she raised one hand shoulder-high, then held the other about where Alec's hand would hold hers, then she began to waltz, "One, two, three. One, two, three." Around she turned, swirling as if she were in her husband's arms, twirling and gliding and wishing she could look up into those midnight blue eyes and see his very heart.