Susan Spencer Paul - [Enchanter 01] (7 page)

Niclas nodded at a passing acquaintance who had nodded at him first.

“It won’t matter. She’ll dance with me, and not merely because her aunt desires it. There’s another reason.” He looked at his cousin. “I have to get close enough to assure myself that she’s not an anomaly.”

“An anomaly?” Malachi repeated blankly. “Miss Linley?”

They both turned to watch as the music came to an end and the dancers moved off the floor.

“I can’t feel her,” Niclas said quietly. “Or, rather, I couldn’t feel her this morning, when I had my audience with her and Lady Eunice.”

Malachi was, for once, stunned speechless. He stared at Niclas as if he suddenly didn’t know him.

“There was nothing,” Niclas went on, his gaze moving slowly about the room, seeking out particular faces from his past. Certain individuals would be easier for him to converse with than others, and would aid him in making a better impression on Lady Eunice. “No emotion at all. I guessed what her emotions were because of her outward manner, yet I could
feel
nothing.”

The first waltz was announced, and new sets of partners started to materialize on the dance floor.

Malachi continued to look dumbfounded. “But that’s impossible. She’s not even remotely related to the Seymours.”

Niclas looked at him sharply. “Are you certain, Malachi? Because if she is, it might alter my attempt to lift the curse. Can you be absolutely, completely certain she isn’t of magic blood?”

“I have always known before. It’s part of being
Dewin Mawr
to have a perception of our kind. But . . . perhaps”

“What?”

Malachi gave a shake of his blond head. “I shall have to think upon it.”

“Aye, you think upon it,” Niclas said. “And let me know what you discover. In the meantime, I’m going to claim the waltz that was promised to me, and see whether I was merely mistaken about Miss Linley earlier. By the way,” he added before he left his cousin’s side, nodding toward a beautiful woman standing not far away with another gentleman. “Lady Cosgrove has been lusting after you in a most fervent manner for the past several minutes. She must like pirates.”

She
was
lovely, Niclas thought as he neared the group of ladies clustered at the far end of the room. Entirely lovely, and far too young to be relegated to the shelf. And yet there she sat, with her soft brown hair hidden beneath a horrid silk turban and her delightfully curved figure covered by an equally awful, out-of-fashion gown of pale blue. Not that blue didn’t suit her; her eyes were blue, and looked perfectly well against her other features. But that particular garment looked as if it had come out of her great-aunt’s closet, suitable for a very mature woman but not in the least for someone so young and attractive.

For the life of him, Niclas couldn’t understand how such a beauty had, at the age of five and twenty, managed
to escape marriage. If she’d been a man, he would have admired her ability to avoid the parson’s mousetrap, but it was an oddity for an attractive, well-bred young woman to have staved off wedded bliss. Her family could easily have forced her to accept a husband. That they’d not done so said a good deal about either the level of her Linley obstinacy or her inability to lure the attention of a suitable match. Since the latter was impossible, he assumed it must be the former, and steeled himself accordingly for their coming confrontation.

She was aware of his approach, he saw. Indeed, both she and Lady Eunice, sitting beside her, had been watching his progress from the moment he’d left Malachi, as had the other women they were sitting with and nearly every other person in the room. But Niclas had no care for them, or for the various acquaintances who hailed him as he made his way. He looked steadily at Miss Linley, fixed his thoughts on her and what he wished to accomplish, and didn’t let the various emotions flying at him from all directions distract his purpose.

Niclas came to a stop directly in front of Lady Eunice and made his most formal bow. It was less stiff than the one he’d made earlier in the day, and yet, he thought with a touch of aggravation, it was far from the fluid gesture that had once been second nature to him.

“My lady,” he said in solemn greeting before making an identical bow to her niece. “Miss Linley. I hope I find you well this evening.”

“Very well, indeed, Mister Seymour,” her ladyship replied. “Your looks are much improved.”

“Thank you,” he said, and cast a glance at Miss Linley, taking brief note of the color that had risen in her
cheeks. “I have come to collect the dance that was promised to me.”

“I fear my niece is proving the truth of our Linley stubbornness this evening, sir,” said her ladyship, and Niclas felt a curious amusement emanating from her. Clearly, she didn’t believe him capable of overcoming Miss Linley’s objections, and he understood very well the test that was being laid before him. “She refuses to dance. With anyone. Not even Lord Graymar was able to prevail upon her to change her mind.”

“I fear my aunt makes me sound cruel, sir,” Miss Linley said, and he could see from her expression that she was deeply embarrassed, “but, as I told you earlier, I no longer dance. I am thankful, however, for the compliment. It was most kind of you.”

Behind Niclas, the music began to play. He reached for her gloved hand.

“I hope you’ll continue to feel that way, Miss Linley, after we’ve danced.”

Her eyes widened. “Mister Seymour—”

He pulled her to her feet, ignoring the gasps of a few of the matrons and spinsters surrounding her. Lady Eunice, on the other hand, uttered a soft, delighted laugh. Niclas set an arm about Miss Linley’s waist to gently, but firmly, move her toward the dance floor.

“Mister Seymour, I fear you don’t understand—”

“Certainly I do,” he said. “You don’t wish to dance. But we shall, nonetheless.”

The floor was filled with couples already whirling in time to the music. The waltz had not been a popular dance three years ago, and Niclas had performed it perhaps a
dozen times. He had no idea how long it might have been for Miss Linley, but he supposed the skill would come back to them quickly enough.

She struggled briefly as he took her in his arms, but said nothing. She didn’t need to. Her expression told him almost as much as her emotions would, had he been able to feel them.

They moved stiffly at first, nearly bumping into several other couples. Julia Linley didn’t make matters any easier, as she apparently had turned into a slender but unyielding tree. He all but carried her about the floor in time to the music. Fortunately, she was a petite, small-boned female, and exceedingly light.

She was as close to him now as she was ever likely to be, and yet he could still feel nothing emanating from her. Perhaps, he thought, he hadn’t yet made her angry enough.

“I hate that turban.” The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them.

She reacted just as any lady would, with full insult.

“I’m terribly sorry, sir,” she replied in a short, tight tone. “If I’d had any idea that you felt so strongly, I would have made certain to wear something more appealing to your tastes.”

What a foolish way to go about making a good impression. Niclas didn’t know how to redeem himself. “What I meant to say,” he began, making an attempt, “is that you shouldn’t wear one at all. You haven’t a speck of gray in your hair to hide.”

That only served to make her angrier.

“Mister Seymour”—her tone was icy now—“I under
stand that you’ve not been in polite society for some time, but even that is no excuse for such boorish conversation.”

He couldn’t feel her. That was all there was to it. She was in his arms, she was clearly very angry, but the only emotions he could feel were those coming from the crowd of people surrounding them.

It was impossible, yet it was so. He glanced about until he saw Malachi standing on the edge of the dance floor, watching them. His cousin lifted an eyebrow in question. Niclas gave a minute shake of his head and saw Malachi’s forehead furrow with uncharacteristic concern.

“You’re quite right,” he said, turning his thoughts back to Miss Linley. “I’m not much used to society any longer, and my manners are atrocious. I apologize.”

She was silent for a long moment, as she gazed fixedly over his shoulder, but at last she said, “You are forgiven,” then added, in a more reasoned tone, “I’m sure it is rather strange for you to be in company again. It was terribly wrong of my aunt to insist that you attend this evening. I’m sorry for the way she behaved this morning. It’s her habit, I fear, to command everyone to her will.”

She had rather remarkable features, he discovered as he inspected her face at this close distance. The fineness of her bones, the elegance of her cheeks and nose and high, arching brows bespoke her gentle . . . birth and gave him pause. There were those among his kind who possessed such delicate features. Like Malachi, they were generally said to have inherited elvish blood.

“There’s no need to apologize, Miss Linley. I’m used to my cousin’s dictatorial behavior. I believe it comes with being the head of families such as ours.”

“I must confess,” she replied, “that there are moments
when Lord Graymar quite reminds me of my aunt.” She smiled. “I do not mean that unkindly.”

He almost laughed. “I know you did not. But I promise that the earl shall never hear of the comparison from my lips.” He hesitated a moment before asking, as casually as he could, “The Linleys are an old family, are they not?”

“Very old, I’m afraid,” she said, with such an odd expression that he wished he could know what she was feeling. “My aunt would tell you that we are among the oldest families in Europe, with one of the purest bloodlines. She’s fond of speaking about our family history.”

“And you aren’t?” he asked.

“No, not really,” she said. “It can be rather exhausting to belong to such a family. There are so many things one must do, and many more that one mustn’t, lest the family name be disgraced. But I needn’t tell you any of that, for you know very well what I mean. The Seymour name is ancient, is it not?”

“Unfortunately, yes,” he said. “I believe we must be kindred spirits in that regard, Miss Linley.”

Again he caught a flash of that odd, sad expression before it was covered over with a smile.

“As both our families are so antiquated,” he said, “I can’t help but wonder if we’re in any way related.”

“I’ve never heard of any connection,” she replied as he spun her into a turn.

“Perhaps there’s some tie through another family, to which we’re both related?” he asked. “Are there any The-riots in your family line? Or Llandrusts?”

Her brow furrowed in thought. “I don’t believe so. Are you related to the Theriots, Mister Seymour?” she asked with unfeigned interest. She sounded excited by
the possibility. “They’re rather infamous, almost like Gypsies, are they not?”

Almost, he thought, and regretted having brought the subject up. That particular branch among the Families was given to gambling and thievery, and excelled at both. Why in heaven’s name had he mentioned them, rather than one of the other, far more respectable family names? And why wasn’t she insulted that he should even suggest a relationship, rather than appearing fascinated?

“Distantly,” he replied, and decided that it would be best to let Malachi pursue the question of any relationship between them. “You dance beautifully, Miss Linley, for a lady who no longer dances.”

He realized, as he said the merely polite words, that they were true. They were dancing. Together. Miss Linley was no longer rigid in his arms, and they were moving with ease, dancing as gracefully as any of the other couples on the floor.

And there was something even more astonishing—something that he had only just realized. Not only was he not feeling her emotions, but the emotions of all those around him had dimmed, as well, until they were nearly covered by the loudness of the music.

They had been conversing so easily because of this unexpected miracle, and because they’d been conversing so easily, he hadn’t noticed it until the music had nearly come to an end. And then, before he could really turn the knowledge over in his mind, they had come to a stop and Miss Linley had stepped out of his arms.

Immediately, the swell of emotions began to fly at him as they had been doing before the dance started. Without
thinking, he reached out to pull her back into his . . . arms and the din lessened again.

“God above,” he muttered, taken aback by this new development. Julia Linley certainly was a surprising young woman.

“Mister Seymour?”

Niclas let her . . . go then took her back into his arms again, then let her go. Each had the same result as before.

“I believe,” she said, putting out a hand to stop him as he tried to take her into his arms again, “that the music has ended, Mister Seymour.”

Niclas came to his senses, to discover that they were standing alone on the dance floor, surrounding by many interested onlookers. He didn’t need to see their expressions more closely to feel how amused, and bewildered, they were. A few were gloating because Niclas was making such a fool of himself. Some, probably women, were glad to see Miss Linley embarrassed. A few kindhearted souls felt sympathy.

“Forgive me,” he began, his heart sinking. This certainly wasn’t the way to convince Lady Eunice that he should be trusted with the care of her niece. “I—”

She smiled and set her hand upon his arm, and, somehow, she had them walking off the floor in so natural a manner that their onlookers rapidly lost interest.

“It’s quite all right, sir,” she assured him. “I would have enjoyed another dance, as well, but I can’t think they’ll play another waltz for some time. Ah, you see?” she said as the musicians struck up the tune for a reel.

The press of emotions wasn’t as muted as before, but she only had her hand upon his arm, and it was gloved. He wondered how closely they would have to touch or
embrace in order to make all foreign emotions disappear completely.

The visions that filled his vulnerable brain were both vivid and much too stimulating. Niclas forcibly pushed them aside and said, “Miss Linley, may I ask you to do me a great favor?”