Jo Goodman (24 page)

"Lovely," Grey said. "Sam's hard work has done you justice."

Berkeley said nothing. She had not been warmed by his appreciative study. She had only suffered it.

Grey frowned. Berkeley's radiance did not extend to her eyes. She looked pained, not pleased. "What is it?" he asked.

"I don't think I can do this," she whispered raggedly. "I thought I could, but I can't. I'm sorry." At her sides her fingers clenched. She wanted to look anywhere but at him. She forced herself not to look away. "I'm sorry I gave you the impression that I could. I'm not so worldly that I can find it a compliment when a man looks at me the way you just did. The thought of the others... downstairs... I simply can't..." Berkeley's voice trailed off as she ran out of steam.

"If another man looks at you the way I just did," Grey said slowly, "I'll kill him."

Nervous laughter bubbled in Berkeley's throat. She hiccuped. Her hand flew to her mouth, her eyes wide above it.

"Get your gloves, Berkeley." Grey's tone did not encourage refusal.

She found herself turning and picking up the long white gloves from where they lay on the dining table. The papers and inkwell and pens had long since been removed; the letters remained unwritten. She slipped the first glove on her right arm, adjusted it above her elbow, then raised her left arm to do the same.

"What the devil?" Grey started forward even as Berkeley was retracting her arm and attempting to hide it behind her back. He held out his hand. "Give me your wrist." Berkeley offered her arm reluctantly. Grey took her wrist and raised it, lifting it out to the side so he could see the soft inside of her elbow and upper arm. There had been an attempt to hide the bruises with powder, but it was not as effective as Berkeley might have wished. "This is what's wrong with short sleeves," Grey said.

Berkeley nodded. There was no recrimination in her eyes. "The gloves will cover some of it."

"Not enough." He dropped her wrist. "I did that to you this morning, didn't I?" He recalled grabbing her tightly and keeping her close the entire way from Sydney Town to Portsmouth Square. He had forced her to keep up with him. Had he even realized she had been limping then? Would it have mattered if he had? Now his fingerprints marred her delicate skin like a brutish brand. "Why didn't you tell me?" he asked. "You started to."

She looked away, unaccountably shy. Berkeley ducked her head and shrugged her beautiful shoulders. "You didn't do it intentionally."

That wasn't entirely true, Grey remembered. He had been furious with her. He'd meant to hurt her, or at least show her the hard edge of his anger. What he hadn't meant to do was leave marks. "Did you think I would feel bad about this?" he asked. "Were you trying to protect me? Look at me, Berkeley. Were you trying to protect me?"

She stared at him. "Something like that."

For a moment a muscle worked in Grey's cheek. "Don't assume you know what I feel and don't try to shield me from my own blunders."

"All right," she said softly. "Shall I find something else to wear?"

"God, yes."

Trying not to show her smile, Berkeley hurried into the bedroom. "Do you think the red velvet will do?" she called back to him.

"No. What about the blue-beaded gown? The one Ivory gave you."

Berkeley pulled it from the armoire. She had never even tried it on. There was something about it that unsettled her each time she picked it up. It had been thrust to the back of her wardrobe. Trust Grey to remember it. "I don't think it will fit."

"It will fit," he said with assurance. "Put it on." He consulted his pocket watch. "You have three minutes."

Berkeley wiggled out of her gown and tossed it on the bed. She stripped out of two petticoats that had added fullness to the last gown but which were unnecessary for this one. Stepping into the gown, she pulled it up to her shoulders. The sleeves were long and tapered. They flared at the shoulders and were cut narrowly around her wrists. The bodice was heart-shaped and decorated with hundreds of tiny glass beads that shimmered like sapphires when she moved. Berkeley carefully smoothed the silk across her midriff and made a quarter turn to each side in front of the cheval glass. The gown was not as revealing as the green satin, yet she was infinitely more uncomfortable in it.

"Do you need help with the back?" Grey asked from the doorway.

Berkeley was grateful for the interruption. She knew she required a diversion. She had to steel herself. Ivory DuPree's gown was tugging on her senses.

Chapter 7

Berkeley faltered at the top of the stairs. Her fingers dug into Grey's arm as she was seized by a wave of light-headedness and stomach-churning anxiety.

Beneath his sleeve, Grey could make out the crescent shape of Berkeley's nails. He winced as she pressed harder. "You'll leave bruises," he whispered. "What will my guests think?"

She gave him a quick sidelong glance. "I'm sorry." It was an effort to uncurl her nearly bloodless fingers from his forearm.

Grey laid a hand over hers before she removed herself from his support entirely. "I was teasing, Berkeley. Are you all right?"

She only nodded. Her throat felt as if it were stuffed with cotton. It was difficult to draw a breath deep enough to fill her lungs.

"Courage," Grey said. "You're going to be the belle of the ball."

Berkeley expected him to begin the descent down the curving stairs. When he didn't move she cast him another glance and glimpsed an expression of pure puzzlement on his face. "Are you all right?" she asked.

He was, Grey thought. And he wasn't. He had never experienced a moment from the past with such overwhelming clarity. He knew without any doubt that he had done this before. The staircase. The woman. The people waiting for them.
You're going to be the belle of the ball.
Those had been his words. Everything was the same, yet not the same at all.

Too quickly the moment passed. The freshness of the experience vanished with it. He repeated the words to himself but there was no recapturing it. His certainty of having gone through these motions before faded as well, yet there was the beginning of a headache as muscles corded at his nape, reminding him this was not his imagination.

Grey resisted the urge to rub the back of his neck. He patted Berkeley's hand lightly. To all appearances he was comforting her. The reality was a little different than that. "Shall we?"

The noisy throng of guests quieted as Grey Janeway and his hostess appeared at the curve of the grand staircase. Grey had greeted guests when the doors opened, but this was the first opportunity for them to acknowledge his accomplishment en masse. The initial light applause swelled to thunder. Empty glasses on the bar actually inched forward with the strength of the vibration. Grey inclined his head, accepting the accolades in an aristocratic manner that was bred in the bone. Some of the rowdier guests hooted gleefully at the airs they thought he affected. Grey chuckled deeply and smiled at their reminder that he had no special claim on good breeding and inherited wealth. He had scrapped and scrabbled like everyone else in the hall. He'd been less fortunate than some, luckier than most. No one among the two hundred present tonight thought he deserved anything less than what he had earned.

But to a man they were wondering what Grey Janeway had done to deserve the woman on his arm.

Grey held up one hand to silence the crowd. "Ladies." Grey made a point to single them out and give each one a moment's attention. "Gentlemen." In some corners of the hall this distinction was greeted by a low rumble of laughter. "It is my very great pleasure to introduce you to the Phoenix's hostess, Miss Berkeley Shaw. Miss Shaw, my friends."

Berkeley's beaded gown flashed as she was turned toward Grey. He lifted the hand that was lying over his forearm and brought it to his lips. Surprise held Berkeley still. She was unaware of the collective groan that was offered up by most of Grey's male guests as her unavailability was confirmed.

"Can you smile at least?" Grey asked over her hand. His lips brushed her skin as he spoke. His eyes were focused on hers. "They shouldn't be left with the impression that you're terrified."

Her smile was reflexive. "But I
am
terrified."

"Good." Grey was encouraging her smile, not her state of mind. He lowered her hand, placed it on his arm again, and turned to the crowd. Applause swelled again as they began their descent. Grey scanned the faces lifted in their direction while he tilted his head toward Berkeley. His faint grin was still in place. "You will have them quite literally in the palm of your hand," he whispered. "Let's see what you can do with it."

The first hour passed in a blur of faces that Berkeley could barely distinguish and names she would not remember. She knew she fixed her smile and extended her hand and made socially appropriate comments, but it was done by rote. The real effort she made went unnoticed by everyone, including the man who rarely left her side. Grey could not know, nor could Berkeley adequately explain, the sensations that were making her skin crawl and her heart beat like a trip-hammer.

She was mounting all her defenses to sustain the pretense of normality while terror defined the only emotion she felt.

Berkeley smiled warmly at Samuel Brannan. He was a large, blustering sort of man, the kind who brought attention to himself even when he traveled without six bodyguards. He pumped Berkeley's hand before he seated himself across the table from her. His protectors formed a phalanx on either side and curious onlookers squeezed in where they could.

Grey stood just behind the table, in clear view of Sam but not close enough to Berkeley to be accused of giving her any signals.

"I don't know what you have in mind, Grey," Brannan said. "I don't exactly need an excuse to take a beautiful woman's hand."

"Perhaps she needs an excuse to take yours," someone in the pressing crowd called.

Brannan laughed good-naturedly. "There's the truth of it." He placed his hand in the middle of the narrow table. "Well, Miss Shaw? Even if you don't tell me anything out of the ordinary, I'll still leave this table a satisfied man."

Berkeley turned Sam Brannan's large palm over in hers. She held his eyes steadily with hers. "I hope I can do more than merely satisfy you," she said huskily.

Behind her, Grey's dark brows drew together. He had never heard Berkeley's voice fall to quite that suggestive pitch before. If he'd had to make a wager on it, he would have said it wasn't possible. He glanced around at the men and women watching her. Her comment hadn't gone unnoticed and wasn't going to pass unremarked. Sam Brannan's complexion, he saw, had turned a ruddy hue beneath his large side whiskers. He was still game, though, looking infinitely more honored than offended.

Berkeley had no idea that she had displeased Grey or elicited any comment from the crowd of onlookers. She stroked Sam Brannan's palm several times, tracing the curve of his mounts with her fingertips. Berkeley spoke as if she and Sam were alone in the great hall. "You have always been a powerful man," she said quietly. "Your strength comes from your conviction and your faith. You are a leader among men even when you do not position yourself that way. You take a stand for yourself, and others simply follow whether you ask it of them or not."

Sam Brannan was smiling broadly. "If that don't beat all," he said. "You tell her to say that, Grey?"

"I don't put words in her mouth," Grey said. "And if I did, those wouldn't be the ones I'd want her to tell you."

Sam chuckled. "Just so," he said. "Go on, Miss Shaw. I can stand to hear more."

Berkeley continued for a few minutes in the same vein, relating the traits she sensed in his character. Finally she said, "Do you have a question for me, Mr. Brannan?"

He didn't respond immediately, but gave her query full consideration. "I believe I do," he said, stroking his beard. "I'm engaged in a new struggle, and though I feel the rightness of it, I have my doubts that it can succeed. What do you give for my chances?"

Berkeley leaned closer. "The answer to that doesn't rest in your palm," she told him. "But in your heart and head. Your Vigilance Committee may have a good intent, but it exists outside the law. It can't hope to operate within the structures of justice when there are no trials for the accused. Good intentions do not necessarily lead to good decisions. You and your committee will drive the Ducks out but not without claiming some innocents. You will be successful, Mr. Brannan. The cost will be your peace of mind."