The Perfect Waltz (10 page)

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

 
 
 
 
LADY THORN POUNCED ON GILES AND SEBASTIAN. “TWO YOUNG gentlemen! How delightful! So difficult to balance the numbers, you know—I don’t know why people should imagine only females would enjoy the dear count’s music!” She beamed at them in a proprietorial manner as she steered them into the large salon. “I shall scatter you about. Break up the clumps of females. Giles, dear boy, how does your mother do these days? An age since I saw her last! Such a shame she did not come to London this season! Sit there, if you please.” She thrust Giles into the center of a group of ladies.

Lady Elinore Whitelaw was one of them, Sebastian saw, dressed in unrelieved gray twill. “Lady Thorn, I would prefer to sit there with—”

“Nonsense! You can rejoin Giles after the concert. The ladies will not eat you, and waste a man I will not! Besides, every man in the room wishes to sit where I am going to seat you. The poor dears will be furious. I do so enjoy putting the cat among the pigeons!” Lady Thorn towed Sebastian deftly through the dense feminine throng. “Are you enjoying your visit to London, Mr. Reyne? Excellent! Ah, here we are. Now you sit here and be good!” she exhorted as if he were five years old, and she disappeared in search of another hapless gentleman to be strategically seated.

Sebastian found himself seated in the middle of what seemed to be a family party. Largely female and mostly young—the girls had formed a tight, chattering circle. He could not see their faces. He could not imagine why anyone else would envy him his seat. He glanced over to where Giles was seated. Dashed bad luck, he thought. He would have much preferred to sit next to Lady Elinore, and Giles would be delighted to sit in the midst of this party of bright young lasses.

On the other side of the girlish clump sat an elegantly dressed old gentleman. Sebastian nodded to him over the knot of female heads. Sir Oswald Merridew, Miss Merridew’s great uncle. Why would he be here? He felt a cold thread of apprehension slide down his spine.

“Mr. Reyne, how nice to see you again,” a voice said at his elbow. A soft voice. One that had visited him in dreams. It was suddenly clear why every man in the room would envy him his seat. His pulse suddenly pounding, Sebastian leaped to his feet.

Their eyes met, and he was in instant danger of drowning. He averted his gaze, trying to think of something polite and innocuous to say. All he could think of was the last time they’d met, and the kiss. He could not refer to that incident. He was blocking it from his mind.

“I did not think you would be here tonight,” he blurted.

She looked surprised. “Oh, but we never miss a concert. My twin has a passion for all kinds of music. Mr. Bemerton could have told you that.” She blushed.

He was going to kill Giles. He couldn’t think of another thing to say. In desperation, he reverted to his usual comment for ladies, “You look charming tonight, Miss Merridew.”

And then he looked at her dress. She wore a pale jonquil dress, with a tiny row of soft, gauzy ruffles framing the very low neckline, caressing the gentle rise of her breasts. Standing above her, it seemed as if there was nowhere else he could look. Sebastian swallowed. He must not think of her breasts. He was courting Lady Elinore Whitelaw, a sensible lady who did not even seem to have breasts. That was the sort of lady he could cope with.

Recalling that he was the owner of several fabric mills, Sebastian attempted to view Miss Merridew with a professional eye, concentrating on the material of her gown rather than the enticing body within it. The fabric was imported, he noted disapprovingly: the finest oriental silk, so fine it clung lovingly to every curve of her slender young body.

His cravat was suddenly too tight. He persisted in the inventory of her clothing: her fine white-on-white embroidered shawl was from Kashmir and not Norwich, her reticule made from matching silk. He ought to speak to her about supporting local industry.

He fixed his eye on the tiny confection of silk and net and feathers she wore on her head but could think of nothing to say.

With a warm, glowing smile, she rose and stepped closer, so close that with the slightest movement, their bodies could touch. His mind blank, Sebastian stood as straight as a flagpole, hardly breathing. She swayed toward him. He abruptly stepped back and crashed into a chair in the row behind.

By the time he’d caught the chair and straightened it, with apologies to those around him, she was there again, so close he could smell the scent of her skin. He breathed in deeply.

“Mr. Reyne.” She gave him her hand. He took it and stared down at her, completely unable to think of a thing to say.

“How do you do?” he croaked eventually.

She smiled again, an absolute dazzler, and said in a low, intimate voice. “I am very well, thank you.”

A silence stretched between them. Her smile grew, and all he could do was stare at her mouth and tell himself not to move, or he would disgrace himself. Her glance shifted with some amusement to the front of his shirt and as he followed it, he realized he’d imprisoned her hand against his chest. How had it got there? Sebastian wondered. He dropped it like a hot coal and stepped back again, managing not to kick over the chairs behind him.

“You remember Mrs. Jenner, don’t you?”

Ah yes, the chaperone who’d glared at him the other night. With some relief, Sebastian turned away from that mesmerizing smile. He bowed and murmured something polite. The chaperone shook his hand with two limp fingers and pursed her lips in a forbidding manner. She seemed to have eaten something sour at dinner.

“And this is my twin sister, Miss Faith Merridew.”

Seeing the twins side by side, Sebastian still could not understand why people had such trouble differentiating them. There were strong similarities, but Miss Faith didn’t hold a candle to her sister in looks. Miss Hope had an inner fire, a glow that her sister lacked.

Not that beauty interested him in the least. Character was everything.

“And this is our beloved great-uncle, Sir Oswald Merridew.”

“Sir Oswald.”

“How d’ye do, my boy. Glad to see another man in the place. Fond of music, are you? Can’t say I am, though the ladies apparently can’t get enough of this Hungarian feller. And as for fiddle music—dashed caterwaulin’ in my book. Still, my gels were mad to come—they adore music—and I can’t deny the pretty creatures anything.” He beamed fondly at his “gels,” one of whom included an improbable redhead well past her middle years.

“Have you met my—our very dear friend, Lady Augusta Montigua del Fuego?”

Lady Augusta was the plump older lady with the coiffure of bright red curls who he’d seen at the ball the other evening. Tonight she was gowned in a stunning dress of purple and gold satin, cut very low across a magnificent bosom. “Mr. Reyne. We have not met before. I certainly would have remembered you.” She eyed Sebastian up and down with brazen feminine approval and gave him such a mischievous look he was torn between being shocked by her forwardness and amused by her blatancy. He could not help but smile.

“My lords, ladies, and gentlemen . . .” Lady Thorn tinkled a small silver bell for their attention and swept her gaze around the room with beady imperative. Those still standing and chatting hurriedly found their seats.

There was a small scuffle as Mrs. Jenner tried to get Miss Hope to change places with her, but Lady Thorn glared at her with a such a sweetly fierce expression, she subsided. Sebastian glanced at the chaperone. She looked bilious.

She probably wanted to be seated closer to the door in case she felt worse and had to leave, he thought. Miss Hope was near the end of the row of chairs, and Sebastian was seated beside her. He ought to offer to exchange places with the chaperone, but Lady Thorn would be sure to object to any further delay.

A hush fell.

He should have changed places, Sebastian realized belatedly, and not for the sake of the chaperone. The chairs had been placed so closely that he could smell Miss Hope’s perfume. And from the corner of his eye, he could see the gentle rise and fall of her chest as she breathed. He would not hear a note of the concert, he was sure. A good thing he didn’t much care for music.

But he would not have much to discuss with Lady Elinore tomorrow. He glanced back to where Giles was seated, right beside Lady Elinore. A good fellow, Giles, looking out for his friend’s interests.

“Count Felix Vladimir Rimavska.”

A slenderly built man of medium height strode out onto the low stage as if he owned it, a violin tucked under his arm. Dressed in a magnificent Turkey red jacket of vaguely military style, with epaulets and gold frogging down the front, he wore tight white breeches and highly polished black boots. He was darkly good-looking, with a pale, tragic face and unreadable slavic eyes. His hair was black and overlong and windswept, and it fell over his broad, pale forehead in wild curls. He somehow managed to combine a military look with a flavor of gypsy. He swaggered to the front of the stage and stood there in silence, smoldering with silent passion.

Sebastian loathed him on sight.

The feminine section of the audience sighed and clapped excitedly. Count Felix Vladimir Rimavska flung them a sulky look. Instantly, a breathless silence fell. He raised the violin to his chin.

The wool of his jacket, Sebastian decided, was of inferior quality. Nor would that red dye last well. At the first good shower, the dye would probably run, staining those tight white breeches a streaky pink. The thought was immensely satisfying.

Count Felix Vladimir Rimavska threw his head back, closed his eyes, and played. His violin sobbed, soared, and wept with emotion. Sebastian might know little about music, but he didn’t need to be told: the bastard was good, dammit! All around him, ladies sighed and almost swooned, their bodies moving slightly to the throbbing rise and fall of the music.

Sebastian could not bear to watch the popinjay onstage, tossing his wild pomaded curls about as angelic music soared from his violin. He averted his gaze and found himself staring, mesmerized, at the soft ruffles framing the delicate skin of Miss Hope’s chest. The ruffles rose and fell. That gown was far too low in front. Her chaperone ought to do something about it, he thought, and then suddenly realizing where he was staring, he turned his gaze abruptly back to the stage.

The count moved about as he played, his narrow hips thrust forward in a way that made Sebastian long to punch him.

Sebastian closed his eyes, but then all he could do was smell Miss Hope’s perfume. Vanilla, rose, and woman. Their shoulders almost touched. He fancied he could almost feel the warmth of her skin. She sighed deeply. And all he could think of was breasts framed in ruffles. Or framed in nothing at all. Or framed in his hands.

Which was a disgrace. He opened his eyes, stretched out his legs, crossed them at the ankles, and stared at his shoes. It was the safest thing to do.

Blasted Continental fiddle music. It did things to people’s emotions. He glanced again at the count, hoping that irritation with the man would replace the inconvenient arousal of his baser self.

Resigned, Sebastian folded his arms, stared at his shoes, and set himself to endure an evening of hell. Or forbidden heaven.

 
Hope sighed as the piece finished. She hadn’t really expected to enjoy herself tonight: music was Faith’s passion, not hers. And since most of the people who wanted to see this dashing Hungarian were female, Hope hadn’t at all expected to see Mr. Reyne. But not only had he come, he had been seated next to her.

His friend Mr. Bemerton sat on the far side of the room with Lady Elinore Whitelaw. Perhaps Mrs. Jenner was wrong; perhaps it was Mr. Bemerton who was pursuing Lady Elinore, not Mr. Reyne. Or perhaps it was a ruse to scotch some of the gossip.

Were both of them interested in Lady Elinore? Was that why Mr. Reyne was cross? Hope examined the lady in question from a distance. From outward appearances, she seemed hardly the kind to have two good-looking men vying for her favors. She had a reputation as an eccentric, and judging from tonight’s outfit, she did look distinctly dowdy. Actually . . .

Hope frowned. She had met Lady Elinore once or twice before, but she hadn’t made much of an impression at the time. She’d seemed very quiet and disapproving of Hope, so Hope had more or less dismissed her, but tonight, looking at Lady Elinore’s severe gray dress, all-enveloping gray shawl, and her hair scraped back and mostly covered by a plain, unflattering cap, Hope was strongly reminded of the way Grandpapa had forced them to dress.

As if to be female was a crime . . .

The violinist stamped his foot, and Hope jumped guiltily, but it wasn’t a device to recall her wandering attention; he was beginning a dramatic gypsy song with lots of flourishing and stamping. He strode about the small stage, his violin throbbing with life and drama. The man was certainly handsome, Hope thought. Those wild, boyish curls and that sulky, beautiful mouth would have half the ladies of London at his feet. He was a figure straight out of one of Lord Byron’s more fanciful poems.

He didn’t move her in the least.

The count stamped again, like a cossack, she supposed. She glanced around the room. Everyone seemed entranced. Ladies sat forward in their chairs, hands clutched rapturously to bosoms, sighing with delight as the count played and stamped and tossed his long black curls. There was something a little stagey about him, about the way he presented himself. And something more than a little vulgar about the tightness of those white breeches. She supposed that went with being a performer. Certainly he could play. Not that she was much of a judge of music; she left all that to her sister.

She glanced at Faith and smiled. Her shy sister sat bolt upright, gripping her reticule tightly, staring at the Hungarian with wide eyes, her mouth half open as if enchanted. Count Felix Vladimir Rimavska wasn’t just good, she realized; he must be absolutely brilliant. Faith could be quite critical of inferior performers and had a tendency to admire anyone who played well, but she’d never seen her sister look at any musician with quite that degree of admiration, almost reverence.