Rakehell's Widow (10 page)

“Damned sorry affair, that duel.”

“Yes.”

“Still, it’s past now, and I’m pleased to see you back in circulation, my dear, and looking as magnificent as ever.”

“You are too kind, sir.”

“Nonsense, you’re the best-looking woman here, and
that includes your pretty little sister. Will you make an old
man very proud by taking some refreshment with him?”
He offered her his arm.

She wanted to refuse, for she saw that Jillian and Piers
had reemerged, having only gone for some iced
champagne, but to have refused the General would have
been the height of rudeness and Alabeth could no more
have hurt his feelings than she could have flown. Smiling,
she slipped her hand over his arm and they proceeded
toward the refreshment room. Her dismay deepened a little
when she saw Jillian put her glass on a table and smile at
Piers, stepping with him onto the floor to dance once
again. Really, it was too bad of them both—Piers no
longer being blameless—for they both knew that it was in
advisable for a young lady at her first ball to spend so
much time exclusively with the same partner.

Jillian deliberately avoided catching Alabeth’s eyes, but
Piers showed no concern, coolly inclining his head, which
made Alabeth all the more angry with him.

In the refreshment room the general inquired which dish
Alabeth would like to sample, and she surveyed the white-
clothed tables lining the side of the room. Each one was laid out with succulent delicacies, from pies and tarts to cold viands, from salads and cheese to magnificent hothouse peaches, and there were ices so cold and firm that they were surely a miracle on such a hot night. Under
normal circumstances, she would have liked a sample of nearly everything, but such was her anger with Jillian and
Piers that she had little appetite, settling for one of the
delicious ices. The general was attentive and charming, and
in spite of her feelings, she found herself enjoying his
rather old-fashioned company.

Jillian continued to do her best to avoid her sister’s dis
approving eye, and was by now causing quite a stir among
the other guests as she danced for a third time with Piers.
Alabeth felt very low indeed, remembering only too clearly
how the Earl had frowned upon Jillian becoming
acquainted with gentlemen like Piers. What
would
he say
had he been here now?

Glancing around, she saw that there were raised fans
concealing whispering lips, and quizzing glasses directed at
Jillian, who danced on, seeming quite oblivious to the
faux pas
of which she was guilty. Alabeth knew that something
would have to be done, or her foolish sister would have no
reputation left, and this at the very first London ball she
had attended.

The dance came to an end at last, and Alabeth moved resolutely forward to speak to Jillian, but fate was deter
mined to thwart her plans, for there was a loud drumroll
and the master of ceremonies announced that the moment had arrived: the Count was to play for them. A great stir of
anticipation ran through the gathering and everyone pressed
forward to be as close to the pianoforte as possible.

Jillian’s gasp of excitement was almost audible to Ala
beth, who watched as she hurried forward, her peach-
colored skirts rustling. Jillian was determined to be as close
as possible to this man she idolized, even though she only knew of him from what she had heard and read. Charles
Allister watched her progress with an even more gloomy
expression on his normally cheerful face. Remaining where
he was, he leaned against a column and looked as if he
were praying that the Count would at least fall off his
stool, or maybe play a thousand wrong notes.

Alabeth moved slowly to the entrance of the refreshment
room, her heart beating more swiftly, although she could
not have said exactly why. Something made her refrain
from joining the rest of the audience. Her hand rested against the gilded carving of the doorjamb as she gazed
across the heads of the gathering at the pianoforte. An ex
pectant hush fell over everyone, and she could see the
eager, almost unbearable anticipation on Jillian’s face,
and then at last the Count appeared from the side entrance
of the ballroom, a tall, slender figure in dark blue, stepping up lightly toward the dais.

Alabeth’s heart almost stopped, and her trembling
fingers crept hesitantly to touch the ruby necklace at her throat. Seeing him was like looking upon a ghost
…
the
ghost of Robert, Lord Manvers….

He was tall and, like Robert, managed to look at once
highly fashionable and elegant, and yet gave an air of indifference to his appearance. His face was finely boned,
and he could indeed have almost been described as beauti
ful, and yet there was something extremely virile and arresting about him, from the flash of his passionate blue eyes to the slight curve of his knowing lips. Everything about him reminded her of Robert; the same golden hair
and blue eyes, the same graceful movements, and the same
romantic aura which hinted so subtly at the controlled fire
lying just beneath the surface. She gazed at him, mixed
emotions sweeping over her as painful memories were
stirred. But he wasn’t Robert, she told herself, he was
Count Adam Zaleski, the exiled Polish nobleman who was
now the darling of Paris and who was all set at this one splendid occasion to become London’s darling too.

The hush was so intense as he took his seat at the piano
forte that truly a pin could have been heard to drop, and
all eyes were directed at the slender man whose pale fingers
were poised above the keys. The first soft notes stole out
over the audience and immediately they were held spell
bound by an enchanting touch which was full of poetry,
fire, and soul. His playing was so delicate and sensuous
that with a single note he could express a whole range of nuances, and the expression on his face was one of deep
concentration: he was oblivious to his audience, so com
pletely was he lost in the music. The pianoforte came to a
strange life of its own, so intense and magnificent that it
sent shivers of delight through the audience, and like
everyone else there, Alabeth could not take her eyes from
him.

Jillian, who had perhaps awaited this moment with more eagerness than anyone else, was transfixed by his mastery.
She could only gaze in wonderment, wishing that such
glorious music could flow from her fingers too. Charles watched for a while, but then suddenly turned and walked away, his steps inaudible above the musical eloquence of
the man at the pianoforte.

Quite suddenly, it seemed, the Count had finished and had begun to rise from the stool. For a breathless moment the bewitched silence continued, and then there was rap
turous applause as everyone showed their complete appreciation of his genius. He smiled a little, his blue eyes sweep
ing over the delighted faces before him. London was his, and he had conquered it with music.

Alabeth alone did not applaud; she was still shocked into immobility by the strong resemblance he bore to
Robert, but at last she tore her eyes away and turned a little
to find herself staring straight at Piers Castleton, who had
been watching her for some time. He knew what she was thinking; he had known all along, and that was why he had
said she would perhaps have been better off remaining at Charterleigh.

For the first time she became aware of the curious
glances of several other people, for they too had noted the Pole’s resemblance to the late Lord Manvers, and she took
a hold of herself then, not wishing to convey her innermost
thoughts to the world at large. Holding her head up, she turned back into the refreshment room, but her heart was thundering still and her hand trembled as she sipped her glass of iced champagne.

Several minutes passed, filled with the sound of excited
conversation from the ballroom as everyone strove to be presented to the Count, but then the orchestra struck up
yet another cotillion and gradually the ball returned to
something approaching normality. People began to drift
back into the refreshment room and Alabeth began to feel
a little more mistress of herself—until she heard Octavia hailing her and turned to see her advancing on the Count’s
arm.

“Alabeth, my dear,” said Octavia, smiling and yet
looking a little uncomfortable as she had obviously noted earlier how like Robert he was, “the Count wishes to be
presented to you.”

“To me?” Alabeth’s green eyes widened, fleeing
momentarily to his face. How warm and speculative his
glance was.

Octavia’s fan wafted busily to and fro. “Count Adam
Zaleski, may I introduce you to Lady Alabeth Manvers. Alabeth, Count Zaleski.” Octavia was obviously disconcerted by the situation, the undertones of which may have escaped the Count but certainly had not escaped a great many others, who were wondering what effect he was having upon Lord Manvers’ beautiful widow.

His eyes were dark and burning as he bowed to her, taking her hand and raising it to his lips. “
Enchanté,
madame
,” he murmured.

She sank into a curtsy. “Sir.”

“Lady Alabeth, will you honor me by being my first dancing partner here in England?” His voice was soft and
his English excellent, although spoken with a heavy Polish
accent.

“I think, sir, that the honor will be mine,” she replied.

“Oh, no,” he murmured, his fingers firm around her. “Never yours, my lady, only mine, I promise you that.”

She was in something of a daze as she walked with him into the ballroom, conscious of the envious gaze of many of the ladies, who would have given their eyeteeth to be in
her place now. The dance was slow and stately, but it
provided him with many opportunities to speak to her, and
he did not waste one of them. She was flattered by his
obvious admiration, and was not a little attracted to him,
but perhaps that was because of the ghost she saw gazing
from his ardent eyes. There was something very compelling
about him, a continual suggestion of a passionate desire
held just in check by a highly civilized veneer. He was possessed of all the fire and emotion of his nation, and yet imbued with the elegant refinement of the French, and the
mixture was very potent indeed. She was too aware not
only of how dangerously attractive he was, but also of how very sure he was of himself. He had undoubtedly made countless conquests, and the desire in his glance promised
that he fully intended to conquer her too.

The dance ended, but he continued to hold her hand, drawing her a little nearer than necessary. “My lady, I
hope that we will meet again…soon.”

She drew her hand away. “No doubt we will, sir.”

“I must have your promise, for nothing less will do.”

“Please, sir.” She glanced around in some embarrassment, conscious of the interest they were attracting as they
stood alone in the center of the floor.

“You will dance with me again?” he asked.

“I could not be so selfish, sir, for there are a great many ladies who desire very much to dance with you.”

His lazy smile struck right through her, an echo from the past. “Then I must be content, my lady,” he said softly,
“for at least I have been fortunate enough to meet
England’s most beautiful lady.”

“Are you always this gallant and attentive, sir?”

“Only when beauty commands, and it has commanded
me from the moment I saw you standing in that doorway while I played.” He glanced at the wedding ring on her gloved finger. “Is Lord Manvers a loving husband, my
lady? Does he possess your heart as well as your hand?”

“My husband is dead,” she whispered, suddenly unable
to bear being so close to him anymore. Gathering her
skirts, she turned and walked away, her train rustling
through the scattered sand on the floor and the many
black beads on her shawl sparkling beneath the chande
liers.

She retreated hastily from the ballroom, conscious of
how much he had unsettled her. A great number of people
watched her flight and there was a ripple of murmurs as
the speculative whispers began. Was history about to
repeat itself? Was the Earl of Wallborough’s elder
daughter about to submit to the embrace of a man who
was the very image of her dead husband?

Her cheeks hot, she hurried up the steps and reached the
relative safety of the vestibule, but it was outside she
wished to be, outside in the cool night air where she could compose herself, unseen by anyone. She remembered the library then, for it had French windows opening onto the terrace and the gardens, and without hesitation she hurried toward it now.

The rear of the house was quiet, well away from the ball
room, and it was with relief that she opened the gold-and-
white door and stepped into the moonlit room beyond.
The silver light streaming in through the tall windows lay in pale shafts over the rich crimsons and purples of the
Persian carpet, and the hundreds of volumes on the shelves
lining the walls muffled all sound as she crossed to the win
dows, but as her fingers closed over the handle, a voice
startled her, making her whirl about to search the
shadows.