Cinderfella (10 page)

At least it
smelled
good. Charmaine hadn't been able to take so much as a bite, this darn corset was tied so tight. All evening she'd breathed as her mother instructed, shallow breaths that caused her exposed cleavage to rise and fall softly. Elmo with the infected toenail was staring down at that cleavage as he prattled on. Ninny.

If the intent of the masked ball was to disguise the appearance of the dancers, it was a dismal failure. A mask covering half of someone's face didn't disguise their identity. It was ridiculously simple to spot the townspeople. Doc Whitfield with his potbelly and canted walk. Eula, with her dark hair in sculpted curls. Delia, smiling and flirting shamelessly. Every unmarried man for miles, doing their best to be charming.

A small mask was a poor disguise, but there were moments when Charmaine felt as if she were actually hiding behind hers, the white creation resplendent with pearls and lace. She smiled and spoke and danced, but behind the mask her thoughts were her own.

This particular song had to be nearing its end. Surely she had been dancing with this dolt for hours. He was already red-faced and huffing, and she wondered if he might not drop to the floor without warning, blessedly dead from exhaustion and his infected toe.

At last, the music ended. Gratefully, Charmaine stepped away and gave a small curtsey to her partner. She would not dance with Elmo March again. If he presented himself she would come up with some excuse.

“May I have this dance?” The voice came from close behind her, a husky whisper near her ear, and she spun around with every intention of begging off. She was hungry, she could barely breathe, she was tired of having her feet stepped on. . . .
 

But no excuse left her parted lips as she stared up at the tall man who was dressed entirely in black but for the stark white shirt beneath his frock coat. He was bareheaded, thick dark brown hair gleaming in the bright lights of the ballroom. The coat was finely cut, and the trousers were tucked into tall boots. His silk necktie was as coal-black as the rest, and was adorned with a very small diamond stickpin. Even his mask was black, a plain, soft leather mask that covered three-quarters of his face.

She hadn't noticed him earlier, which meant he surely hadn't been here. Even in the most crushing crowd, she would never have overlooked such a striking figure.

“Of course.”

Who was he? She studied the small part of his face she could see beneath the mask, a strong and sharp jaw, a finely shaped chin not too prominent or too weak, lips full and perfectly sculpted — not too firm or too soft. She tried to look past the small holes in his mask to his eyes, but there was nothing familiar in what little she could see beyond the shadows of the leather mask.

“I don't believe we were introduced,” she said as he spun her around. At last, a competent dancer. This man moved gracefully, and he hadn't stepped on her toes once. “I'm Charmaine Haley.”

“I know.” Those finely shaped lips almost smiled.

“And you are. . . . ” she pressed.

“A stranger passing through town,” he whispered.

A tremor passed through her body, a deep and surely imperceptible trembling she immediately attributed to hunger and exhaustion and the darn corset.

Charmaine quivered in his arms, a quiver so soft it couldn't be seen — only felt. She was gorgeous, more beautiful than in his wildest fantasy. Her white mask didn't hide much. It wrapped around the upper half of her face, and dripping pearls danced against her pale cheeks as she moved. There was a strand of pearls at her throat, and more tiny pearls sewn into her gown. The lustrous gems suited her.

“The waltz is a decadent and barbaric ritual,” she said sharply, and his eyes snapped up from the pearls at her throat to blue eyes that flashed behind the mask.

“Is it really? And you waltz so well.” He smiled at the surprise on her face. “I always thought the waltz was just a bit of harmless fun.”

“Harmless fun?” Her lips twitched, as if she might smile herself but was trying very hard not to. “Look around you, sir. What do you see?”

Ash glanced quickly across the room. Verna was standing between Elmo and Oswald, and she was staring at him with pursed lips while fanning herself furiously and looking as if she might burst from that too-snug lavender gown. Did she recognize him? Surely not. Stuart Haley stepped into the room and watched with a frown on his face. Dancers passed between them, so that he came in and out of view.

“I see a lot of happy faces, dancers laughing, smiling, enjoying themselves,” he said as he returned his attention to Charmaine.

“They're entirely too excited,” she said primly.

Ash leaned in close, as close as he dared. Charmaine had no idea who he was and he could pretend, for a while, that he was someone else entirely. It was a game, purely an escape. “Are you getting excited, Charmaine Haley?”

There was a sharp intake of breath, but she didn't pull away, as he'd expected she might. “What an improper question that is.”

He laughed softly. She might pretend to be shocked, but there was new color in her cheeks, and fire in the eyes he glimpsed behind the mask. “Improper? What do you care about propriety? You say the waltz is improper, but you're dancing with me. Proper or not, you've been dancing all night, haven't you?”

The music stopped and the dance was stilled, but Ash didn't release his tenuous hold on Charmaine and she didn't back away. They stood in the center of the dance floor, poised for another decadent waltz. Was she breathing as she waited? He didn't think so.

Oswald was making his way across the dance floor. When the music began again, and the dancers began to move, Oswald came to an awkward halt. Unsure. Angry. And then he stepped forward to tap Ash on the shoulder.

“This dance was promised to me,” he said as primly as any old maid.

“Too bad,” Ash whispered.

“But Miss Haley. . . . ” Oswald began. He shut his mouth quickly as Ash turned his head to stare at his lazy stepbrother.

“Go away,” he ordered softly, and Oswald did.

When he looked down at Charmaine, she had a wide grin on her face. It was the kind of smile that might visit a man's dreams for the rest of his life.

“Thank you, sir.”

“For what?”

“I've already endured one dance with that gentleman this evening, and believe me, one was enough.”

“Why's that?”

“He talked about nothing but some boring book he was reading. Why, novels are a terrible influence on young men and women. Romantic nonsense that leads to the physical and spiritual downfall of many.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes, it is. And besides,” her smile widened, “he stepped on my toes four times in one dance.”

He spun Charmaine around, once, twice, again. “Clumsy lout.”

It had been years since he'd danced, but it all came back to him easily. His mother's insistence that every man needed to know how to dance and to recite at least one poem had met some resistance from the sensible John Coleman, but he'd never denied his wife anything. The dancing Ash remembered. The poem was another matter.

“Who are you?” Charmaine asked as they whirled past brightly dressed dancers.

“No one,” he whispered.

 

* * *

 

“I'm going out there to stop this nonsense,” Stuart whispered hoarsely.

“No.” Maureen placed her hand on her husband's arm, and he was immediately still. Charmaine and the man she danced with — had been dancing with for some time now — made quite an arresting picture. Startling black and white amid a sea of color, they moved with grace and harmony.

“People are beginning to talk,” Stuart hissed angrily. “Every time someone goes out there to ask Charmaine to dance, that . . . that man warns them off. And who the hell
is
he, anyway?”

Maureen kept her hand on Stuart's arm and he didn't move away, even though he obviously wanted to storm across the dance floor to his youngest daughter. “You wanted Charmaine to meet someone here tonight, didn't you?”

“Yes,” he conceded softly.

“Look at her, Stuart,” Maureen whispered. “Has there been any other man here tonight who's been able to light up her face like that?”

He hesitated, watching his daughter dance with the tall dark stranger. For the first time tonight, for the first time since her arrival in Salley Creek, she looked truly happy. “No.”

“And have you seen another man here who'd make Charmaine a suitable husband? One of those idiot March brothers, or Doc Whitfield's nephew William from Emporia? Jake Rogers, who's old enough to be Charmaine's father, by the way? Perhaps one of those crude cowboys from the Goodman ranch. Why, did you see what that one young man —”

“I get your point,” Stuart grumbled.

“Good.” Maureen smiled brightly as Stuart turned his face to hers. “Now, on to other matters. I'm positively starving. Would you kindly escort me to the dining room for a bite of supper?”

“Again? You just ate an hour ago.”

“I've been dreadfully hungry lately,” she said as she led Stuart into the dining room. “Throwing a party is hard work.”

“Evidently,” he grumbled as they left the dance floor.

 

It was amazing. No matter what she said he didn't seem to mind. And he was actually listening! Sometimes he agreed with her, and sometimes he didn't, but she didn't mind a little argument. In fact, she loved a good one.

And they hadn't left the dance floor since she'd turned around and found him standing there. He moved well, this stranger who refused to give her his name, with power and a simple grace. She felt oddly safe in his arms.

“I imagine that you, sir, are simply agreeing in order to please me.”

“And why would I do that?”

“Let's be honest for a moment. Men are predictably single-minded where women are concerned. You're quite charming, and I'm sure you're very aware of that fact and have used it to your advantage many times in the past. You've no doubt been successful with ladies who are not educated as to their rights.”

He didn't seem at all shocked or offended. Amazing. Of course, how was she to be sure with that mask covering so much of his face?

“And what rights are those, exactly?”

Charmaine smiled, and he grinned back. “The right to make one's own decisions. To plan one's life and follow that plan with the same diligence any man would.”

“I think you've made the mistaken assumption that men always get what they want and women never do.”

“So, it's a
mistaken
assumption, is it?”

“Most definitely.”

“Then explain why men are free to work where and however they choose. Any profession, any place on earth. They control the money, they own the property, they make
all
the decisions, and the poor lowly female is expected to comply with the wishes of her husband or her father as if she had no will of her own. Why, women are no better than slaves in most households.”

In most instances she would bring up the subject of marital continence here, but the very idea of having that discussion with this man made her blush. She could feel the heat rising to her cheeks, just thinking about it.

“And here I've been living all my life under the
mistaken
assumption that women want to be taken care of.”

“Ha!” she countered, glad to send her thoughts in another direction. “Not all women are looking for a man to take care of them. What a preposterous notion.”

“You don't need anyone to take care of you, do you, Charmaine Haley?” he asked softly.

“I most certainly do not.”

“Then let's just dance.”

The next dance was particularly fast. The music was lively, the dancers who crowded the floor livelier. Charmaine and her stranger reeled and twisted, turned and hopped until she was breathless. Literally.

She stopped moving, and her partner stilled with her. The music played on.

“Are you all right?” he asked, leaning down to place his face close to hers. “You're flushed.”

“I need to sit down,” she said. What she really needed was a deep breath of fresh air, and that wasn't going to happen until she got out of this darn corset. “And something cool to drink would be nice.”

He was leading her toward the dining room. Charmaine looked up to find Verna Coleman and her two boys blocking the pathway to the punch and the chairs that lined the dining room walls. They weren't smiling.

Before she could bemoan the necessity of facing that particular family, the stranger spun her about and slipped through the dancers to the open patio doors.

The fresh cool air was heaven, after being in that crowded room all night. Charmaine closed her eyes and took a deep breath — well, as deep a breath as she could manage. It was wonderful — and then she heard Verna Coleman's bitter voice.

“I think they went out this door.”

“This way,” she whispered, grabbing the stranger's hand and pulling him into the darkness away from the patio. They passed through the garden, around a sharp bend in the well-tended path so that they would be out of sight. The music faded, the voices became distant and then died, and finally Charmaine slowed her step. She didn't release the stranger's hand until she stepped onto the gazebo at the edge of the garden.

She sank onto the bench and closed her eyes. Blessed quiet. Cool air. If only she could shed the tormenting corset, all would be right with the world.

The stranger sat beside her. Close, so close his arm brushed hers. “Are you all right?”

“Yes.” She nodded, not knowing if he could see her in the darkness. The moon shone on half his face, on that leather mask and dark hair. “I just couldn't breathe,” she whispered. The lowered voice was appropriate here in the darkness.

He raised his hand to touch her cheek, there below the mask. “You're warm.”