Mariel (34 page)

That happiness had disappeared. Ian tried to pretend everything would be fine if the doctor gave her bad news, but she could not share his optimism. Although she had regained much of her former independence, nothing would be exactly as it had been.

Telling Phipps to have a pleasant evening, she went out of her room along the narrow corridor. Her full skirt belling out from the narrow waist of the gown brushed the small tables set beneath the gaslights. She placed her hand on the banister and walked slowly down the stairs along its curve. The musky scent of Ian's cologne reached out to embrace her.

She smiled as she held out her hand to him. If she gave no sign of her distress, she might be able to convince herself of her ability to deal with this evening. His eyes moved along her in a heated appraisal she did not have to see.

Ian smiled. Every man at the ball tonight would envy him this vision on his arm. One look at the dress she wore told him her uncle must have brought this gift from 7 Rue de la Paix in Paris. Lord Foxbridge must have known someone to give him cachet to Paris's most selective designer. Only the House of Worth could have created such a luxurious gown.

The ashes-of-roses crepe de chine was embroidered with sequins along the shirred nun's-veiling panel in the front of the open skirt. As she moved, the gaslights glittered off the iridescent flowers cascading in a soft shower of petals from her shoulders to the hem. It whispered softly as she walked.

When Mariel felt his warm lips through the fine mesh of her gloves, she closed her eyes in unspoken delight. She followed her fingers as he drew her into his arms. His mouth caressed hers lightly as they both fought the desire she refused to acknowledge. With his hands at her waist, her arms rose along the silk of his tuxedo coat to his broad shoulders.

Softly, she said, “This is very different from what you wear in Foxbridge.”

He laughed as her fingers roamed along his high stock collar and found the onyx studs closing his shirt above his white satin waistcoat. “I am very different in Foxbridge. There I am Reverend Beckwith-Carter. Tonight I am only Ian escorting the most beautiful woman in the world to my mother's soiree.”

“Ian—”

“Don't say it, my love. I know how anxious you feel. Simply smile, and every man there will be eager to do your bidding.”

“Stay close to me.”

He laughed. “I don't think you could convince me to do otherwise. It is already fashionably late. Shall we leave?”

During the long carriage ride to the house in the fashionable suburb of Kensington, Mariel was silent. Any attempt he made to speak to her was met with monosyllables or a brief nod. Feeling her distress, he put his arm around her shoulders and drew her trembling form closer to him.

Too soon for her, the carriage stopped. She clutched tighter to Ian's arm as they slowly climbed the stairs to the door of his family's house. She smelled the many gaslights burning to light their way. The confused mumble of mingled voices swept out to encompass them.

“This is the last step.”

“Thank you.”

“Honey, relax,” he urged as he greeted the liveried doorman. “This is my mother's house. Some of my family will be here tonight. They will not be able to resist you, if you give them a chance to know you.”

She dampened her dry lips as she walked by his side. The smooth floor under her feet was cool through her thin slippers. Marble. She smiled involuntarily as she discovered, as if for the first time, how much she could discern without her eyes. The melodic strains of a waltz came from the left. She gripped convulsively onto Ian's arm as he turned her in that direction.

He moved away from her slightly as he said, “Mother, I would like you to meet Lady Mariel Wythe. Mariel, my mother Cynthia Beckwith-Carter.”

“So formal?” came a cheerful laugh. “How lovely to meet you, my dear. I am so glad you were able to join us this evening. I trust you had a pleasant journey to London.”

The scent of expensive perfume surrounded Mariel. That and the swish of a heavy silk gown brought a picture instantly into her mind. Ian's bright eyes in a feminine face, somewhat older, but no less charming. The image made her feel instantly at ease.

“It was a lovely trip,” she answered with a smile. “My daughter has not stopped talking of all our adventures since we arrived at Paddington. I thank you for inviting me on such short notice to your party.”

“Nonsense, my dear. This is Ian's home, although he insists on staying in his own house on his few visits to London. My son's friends have always been welcome here. You must come back to have luncheon with me when we can have a chance to chat without all these others about.” She chuckled again as she added, “And without Ian about to warn his mother to watch herself and not say the wrong thing. Does he do that to you also?”

“All the time.” Mariel giggled as Ian took her hand. “See, he has that exasperated expression on his face because I have said the wrong thing already.”

Mrs. Beckwith-Carter started and glanced at her son in shock, seeing that the young woman was correct. Disconcerted, she did not want to blurt out the thought in her head. She had been sure her son had written he was escorting Lady Mariel to London for her to see an ophthalmologist.

“She knows me too well,” Ian said quickly to ease his mother's astonishment.

“Why don't you take Lady Mariel into the ballroom and get her something cool to drink? Here comes your father's cousin Godwin. He is a terrible boor, so hurry. You know you want to evade him.”

Ian bent forward and kissed her cheek. “Mother, you will never change.” With a gentle tug on Mariel's fingers, he added, “A glass of champagne?”

“That sounds lovely. Thank you again, Mrs. Beckwith-Carter.”

“Tell him to bring you back soon, my dear. Soon, Ian!”

Her joyous laugh followed them as they descended the pair of steps into a lower level of the entry foyer. The ballroom spread out before them. Ian regarded it with pride. This was a lovely house. Except for the two years when he hated everything, he had loved his visits here from their country home.

Vivid shades of golden velvet and silk glistened in the light from the trio of Waterford crystal chandeliers. The flames of gas soared toward the ceiling and its mural of a Grecian feast, complete with goat-footed pans and floating deities. To one side, nearly hidden by the crowd of guests, the orchestra played on a raised platform decorated with bunting. Opposite, awaited the tables where the buffet would be served at midnight.

He adjusted the bow tie at the collar of his tuxedo. As he was about to lead Mariel toward the punch bowl, he heard his name called. “Ian!” came the enthusiastic female voice, which he recognized all too easily.

Mariel was nearly rocked off her feet as someone pushed her rudely aside and away from Ian. She put out her hand to steady herself and touched slippery satin. “Oh, excuse me!” she gasped, feeling the heat of a blush climbing her cheeks.

“No problem, my dear young lady,” came a laughing voice. Her fingers were raised to lips topped by a full mustache. The bristles stroked her hand through her glove as he kissed it. “Colonel Arnold Hoppe, Retired, at your service. You are—?”

“Mariel Wythe,” she said quietly. She felt adrift without knowing exactly where Ian was. She smelled his cologne nearby, but did not know if it was only a residual scent. In the blur of voices around her, she could not discern his easily. If she called to him, she could make a fool of herself. Taking a deep breath, she remembered her resolution to act normally tonight. In a steadier voice, she added, “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Colonel.”

She could hear his smile in his words. His voice was exactly as she imagined a retired colonel's to be. Rich with aristocracy, snobbish with the presumption that the British were the finest, most civilized people on the globe. “Wythe did you say? You must be Wilford's niece. Where is that chap now? Last time I spoke to him was when I was garrisoned in Cape Town.”

“Uncle Wilford is on his way home,” she said, pleased to meet someone who did not react with loathing to the Wythe name. “He was in America last. Some place called Chicago. He is taking a steamship from New York to Liverpool. We expect him home within the month. He wrote that he can't wait to tell me about the United States. As always, he was fascinated by the idiosyncracies he found.”

“That's Wilford. He would be fascinated if he met his end being eaten by cannibals. I always recreate him in my mind as I saw him in the interior, with his notebook in hand, his pith helmet awry, chasing some poor native to gain information for that book he has yet to write.” He chuckled. “Is that why he is coming home? To write that long awaited tome of ‘fascinating' information?”

Hedging, she answered, “I believe that is one of the reasons.” The man had not mentioned anything about her accident, so she did not want to say the real reason her uncle was ceasing his lifelong travels around the world.

Just the previous week they had received a wire from her uncle. He had received, from the British consulate, the letter Miss Phipps had dashed off to him as soon as they had been sure Mariel would live. Only the difficulty of making reservations, and long layovers, kept him from getting home as quickly as he wanted, to be with his beloved niece.

Colonel Hoppe held out his arm and asked, “May I, my lady?”

“Excuse me?” She could not understand what he meant. Desperately she turned to seek Ian. He must have moved away, for she could discern no sign to let her know of his presence.

“Allow me to escort you into the ballroom.”

“I promised to dance first with Reverend Beckwith-Carter.”

He picked up her hand and placed it securely on his arm. The wool of his coat was prickly beneath her fingers. “He is busy talking to Portia Muir. I am sure they have much to discuss since the last time they saw each other, seeing as how they once were rumored to be ready to announce their betrothal. By the time they finish chatting, I will have returned you here. A single dance with an old friend of the family, Lady Mariel?”

Before she could answer, he had swept her into the crowded room. She squeezed into herself, afraid of bumping into something or someone. Her full skirts brushed others, but the colonel steered her through the press of people with the elan of one leading an expedition through the jungle. She recognized the dance floor by the pliant texture of wood beneath her feet. The music swelled over her.

The colonel turned her into his arms and began to waltz her unevenly, but enthusiastically, across the floor. All the time he gossiped about people she had never met and places she had never been. She discovered that a simple sound to let him know she was listening proved sufficient for her share of the conversation.

Her thoughts were caught up in the words he had said as he drew her through the crowd. Portia Muir. She could not recall Ian ever mentioning that name. He knew so many of the secrets of her past, but had failed to tell her he had been prepared to marry this London lady with the exotic name. An aching sense of betrayal brought a flush to her face. Not only had he not bothered to tell her about this important bit of his past, but he had left her alone, helpless, in this strange house as soon as this Portia came to reclaim his attention.

She bit her lip as she whirled to the gay beat of the music. Too long ago, she had known the sweetness of Ian's skin against hers as he taught her of paradise. He was urging her to share that bliss with him again, but that might change if he renewed his relationship with Portia Muir. Had he loved this other woman in the same way and whispered identical promises in the warmth of sated love?

Portia. The name brought to mind raven locks and snapping black eyes. For the first time, Mariel feared she had misread Ian. Perhaps he pitied her and brought her to London only to help as a good clergyman should. If he could convince her to warm him in the night, he would not pass by the opportunity while he dreamed of this Portia.

Suddenly her dismal thoughts were interrupted. The colonel released her. “Excuse me a moment, my lady. I see someone I must speak with immediately. I will be right back.”

“Colonel Hoppe, please, I can't—” She interrupted herself as she heard his footsteps vanish among the dancers. In horror, she stood in the middle of the dance floor. Where she was in relation to the rest of the room, she could not guess.

One thing she knew. She could not wait here as the others moved past her. Trying to retrace their steps, she guessed the entrance foyer was somewhere to her left. The music now came from her right. Summoning all her confidence, she took a step in that direction. When she did not impact against one of the dancers, she recalled the number of times she had been dancing and her partner had swirled her around someone crossing the floor out of pattern with the dance.

“Excuse me,” she murmured when she bumped into someone at the edge of the dance floor. With sudden inspiration, she asked, “Can you direct me to the cloak room?” In most houses of this class, that small room would be off the foyer.

A woman with hard, tight corsets sniffed. “Straight ahead and to your left. You would be wise, young lady, to drink less, so early in the evening. Then perhaps you would not be colliding with people.”

“Yes, ma'am,” she replied meekly. The heaviness of the woman's perfume and her stilted words identified her as a dowager, assured of her own opinions.

Mariel tried to maintain a straight course, but it was impossible. She held her fan in front of her to warn her of obstructions. The folly of her vanity in refusing to bring her cane taunted her when she needed it so desperately. To miss people and furniture, she had to stray from her path, but tried to return to it, keeping the music always at her back. When she met something she could not get around, she realized she had lost her way.

Her hands ran along the obstruction, wrinkling the silk hanging there. In one direction, she discovered a wooden pilaster carved in vertical grooves. The same waited in the opposite direction. She scowled. This was clearly a wall. She had no choice but to turn about and try to find Ian.