The Wrong Woman (10 page)

The idea of being a pirate in a painting so amused Miles that he moved to stand in front of his counterpart. He assumed the same pose and expression as near as he could. The picture he thus presented sent Miss Masters into peals of laughter.

“Marvelous! It is a perfect copy!”

Miles was laughing now, too.

“Just like the Corsair,” Miss Masters half-mumbled this as her face assumed a dreaming aspect, apparently she did not mean for him to hear.

“The Corsair?”

“Hmm?” He had startled her out of whatever reverie she had drifted into. “Oh, the Corsair is one of Lord Byron's poetic creations. Quite a pirate. You and the portrait seemed to be the very picture of that gentleman.”

“I hope that is a good thing?” Miles probed, moving back to stand beside her.

She made a noise of assent and nodded, but refused to elaborate. For a moment more, they gazed at the painting, each lost in thought. Then Miss Masters spoke again though she did not look at him.

“Thank you again for your assistance with my nerves the other evening.”

“You are welcome. It was easy and it cost me nothing.”

“On the contrary, I think it cost you a great deal. It cannot have done you much credit with your friends to be seen with society's greatest laughingstock.”

Miles felt her words like a blow. He breathed quickly to lessen the tightening that had formed around his heart at what he heard in her voice. In the meantime, he tried to laugh off her worries. “Yes, it cost me a great deal...” She looked up at him. “But only in trying so hard to hold in my laughter at their astonished faces!” She smiled at him but did not laugh as he had hoped.

“Yes, but I am sure your friends do not expect you to be escorting me around along with my sister.”

“Hang their expectations!” Miles exclaimed with more vehemence than he had intended. Miss Masters looked curious, so he tried to explain. “For all of my life I have been living up to their expectations of me.” He paused, realizing the truth of his hasty words. “Sometimes I feel I have had quite enough of it all.”

Miss Masters looked away again as she spoke. “Still, escorting Dizzy Izzy around town is perhaps a step too far.”

Miles didn't know how to respond. He had never heard her speak that nickname. On her lips it sounded bitter.

“Do you think that I am indifferent to my nickname, Lord Revere?” She looked up at him again.

“But you never seem to mind it...” He looked down into her face.

“Because I must not mind it.” The words tumbled out quickly and with great feeling. “It is not quite proper for a lady to go steaming up to her foes and yell at them. So I laugh and pretend I don't care.” She paused and gave a rueful smile. “It has gotten easier over the years.”

Miles remained silent. He looked into her eyes and remembered that flash of sunlight that had crossed them earlier. Blue. Her eyes were a brilliant blue even now as she looked at him in the dimming light. Suddenly, he knew what he must say. It was so simple. And he should have said it long ago.

“I am sorry,” he paused, for the first time in a long time admitting the truth. He dared to look her right in the eye. “Truly.”

He watched the small movements of her eyes and face. It seemed as if Miss Masters was evaluating his apology, deciding whether or not to accept it. Miles stood waiting, anxious for what she would say. He very much wished for her to believe him. The silence grew until he thought he must disturb it somehow.

And then she smiled. His heart soared with unfamiliar feelings: relief, surprise. He caught his breath. Her smile deepened and his eyes fell to her lips. Miles felt himself sway forward, some force drawing him to her. He had an overwhelming urge to press his lips to hers, to take her in his arms and kiss her until their breath had gone.

One moment more and he might have done so. But Miss Masters blinked quickly and turned her head toward the painting of the pirate. Miles took a deep breath. What was happening to him? He must do something to distract from his racing heart and quickened breath.

“It is getting late, Miss Masters. I should return you to your home.” Miles gestured toward the door.

“Oh, yes. We have surely overstayed our welcome here.” She showed no idea of what had just passed between them. Had she felt it, too?

“Burnley knows we will come and go as we please.”

And he did. The butler saw them to the door, thanking them for their visit and hoping to see them again. Miles assured the smiling man that they would most surely return another day.

The ride home was quiet as both passengers thought of the afternoon. Miles was surprised at how much time they had spent, and how content Miss Masters had seemed simply to explore the great treasures around her. She had not pressured him to entertain her. Indeed, she had done most of the entertaining by telling stories of what she saw. Miles realized that he had actually enjoyed himself. Even after the rough start, they got along well together. He tried to put out of his mind the disturbing idea that he had been about to kiss her.

As he escorted Miss Masters to the door of Aunt Hetty's house, Miles remembered something.

“Miss Masters, I should have asked before, but might I request the honor of escorting you and your sister to the Duchess of Revelstoke's ball on Thursday evening?”

“You may have that honor, sir.”

“What time shall I bring the carriage around?”

“Oh, you will have to meet us there, I'm afraid.” Miss Masters looked apologetic. “It is the one social event Aunt Hetty never misses and she insists on going in her own carriage, in case she finds the party terribly dull and wants to leave.”

“Ah,” Miles nodded sagely. “I see. Then I shall await you there.”

“We will be pleased to see you, Lord Revere.” She paused and almost turned away before saying, “Thank you for a wonderful afternoon.” Miss Masters bowed her head to him in a friendly gesture of gratitude.

“You are welcome, Miss Masters. I am very glad that you enjoyed it.” Miles bowed deeply and watched her walk into the house.

It was only as he drove away that he remembered to regret the absence of Miss Catherine.

Chapter 11

Tonight is the night I have been waiting and planning for. Tonight
.
Everything is ready.
A few hours and Thomas Davenport would have revenge on the bastard who had taken his inheritance and then laughed at him.

It was too easy. Thomas smiled to himself and shook his head. He waited across the street from the Duchess of Revelstoke's house, watching as all of the glittering ladies and gentlemen arrived in their carriages. Of course, they were too busy to notice him lingering on the walkway and waiting for his quarry.

“There.” It had finally arrived.

“There, sir?” The rough voice next to him seemed too loud, even with the noise of the revels across the street.

“Yes,” Davenport hissed, “that carriage right there.” For three quarters of an hour, he and his companion had been watching the entrance, waiting for this particular carriage to arrive.

“Look carefully,” he scolded his companion. The man pushed his head forward and squinted into the light from the doorway. “Do you see them?”

“The three ladies that just arrived?”

“Yes, the old one, the young one, and the fat one.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good, know them well. There is the woman you are to take, by whatever means you have to. Look for a discreet way, but do what you must. Remember, I do not want her harmed… not yet.” Thomas chuckled.

“Yes, sir,” the man grumbled.

Davenport turned away and walked down the street, away from the party. He did not care, of course, that he had not been invited. He had much to do. In just a few hours he would finally have Miles Shepherd, Baron of Revere in his grasp.

* * * * *

Miles arrived early to the ball. He did not want to disappoint Miss Catherine by being late. And so he stood now at the bottom of the grand staircase, milling around with the husbands forced by their wives to arrive early. The thought crossed his mind that getting married meant even more of this uncomfortable waiting. It was not an appealing thought.

In contradiction to normal town rules, people arrived as early as possible to the Duchess of Revelstoke's seasonal ball. She assured early attendance by selecting a pet for each evening who she would put forward and introduce to all the best men and women. For the ladies, this recognition could mean the difference between snaring a good husband or leaving town without a match. For the gentlemen, it meant the season's best opportunity to promote himself as a good match or an able statesman, depending on his aims.

The Duchess loved to show off her wealth and her person – both still in good condition considering her advancing age. Her ballroom had been expressly built with this aim, and she used it to great advantage. The house was designed so that one climbed the front stairs and then descended a grand staircase into the ballroom itself. One whole end of the room was taken up with this entrance. The rumor was that the Duchess had built it so that she might rival the Queen, forcing all of her guests to raise their heads as she descended.

Women loved to be looked at, Miles knew from long experience. He had to laugh at many of the women preening down the stairs this evening. It was the only attention some of them, poor girls, would receive all night long.

As it grew later and later, Miles waited rather impatiently at the bottom of the staircase, wondering when the Misses Masters would appear. While he knew that Aunt Hetty was not terribly concerned with putting her nieces forward, she would also be conscious of slighting the Duchess. Aunt Hetty had been around long enough to know how the system worked. For that matter, so had Isobel Masters.

Isobel Masters. For days now Miles had been puzzling over his reaction to her on their outing. What had drawn him to her? He had finally concluded that it had been the emotion she'd evoked with her story of the boys. She hadn't known what she was doing and he had reacted in an overly emotional way. That was all.

But he
had
meant his apology. He would try again tonight to make up a small part of all that he'd put her through in these past years. Miles thought he would ask her to dance.

Yes. And maybe he could ask Jack to dance with her as well.
Where is Jack anyway?
The rascal had disappeared as soon as they'd arrived.

Miles glanced over the ballroom to see if Jack was anywhere to be seen. The room was very large and filled with every imaginable type of sensual delight.

Great sconces of candles hung everywhere and cast a golden glow over the room. A slight smoke from the candles softened the room further and made all of the pale skin glow as if lightly browned by the sun. Even the cool marble seemed to warm from the heat of so many bodies. The entire ballroom seemed made of softness and curves this evening.

In the warmth, the lull of conversation, accompanied by the low notes of the orchestra at the opposite end of the room, seemed almost soothing.

Which is a lucky thing
, Miles thought.

Here he was again, for the second time this week, feeling nervous about something that had been routine in his life. When had he ever been excited about one of these gatherings? He could not remember. Now here he was, unable to keep still and he had not even seen the ladies yet this evening!
Really, Miles
, he scolded himself,
be more careful with your emotions or someone is liable to notice.

“Miss Harriet Masters, Miss Isobel Masters, and Miss Catherine Masters,” trumpeted the footman.

Miles was the only one at the ball who heralded their arrival. None of the other guests even turned towards the entrance. So he grinned twice as big to make up for it. There was Aunt Hetty, looking handsome in a well-cut blue gown and multicolored turban. And there was Miss Catherine, beautiful, blonde-haired, bubbly Miss Catherine who was smiling at the entire ballroom, even if they were not smiling back. She looked sweet in her white gown with a blue ribbon tied around it and her curls falling over her shoulders. She was the very picture of female beauty, like one of the statues Miles had so admired in the great hall. Miles was happy to see her enjoying her first grand entrance.

But the smile quickly dropped from his face when his gaze turned on Isobel Masters.
Beautiful
. His breath caught in his throat as he looked at a woman he’d never seen before, at least not like this.

One perfect, brown ringlet of hair fell over her shoulder and drew his attention where he knew it should not be. He swallowed the lump that had formed in his throat as he dragged his gaze away from it. Her face glowed. The candlelight made her skin look warm and supple. He wanted to touch her. And run the folds of her enticing red dress through his fingers. This woman was a contrast in every way with the girl who stood next to her.

And she is beautiful.

The thought occurred to him before he could question it, before he knew what he was thinking. But once it was there, Miles acknowledged the truth of it. Tonight Isobel Masters made a voluptuous and beautiful statue there at the top of the stairs.

And then she started to move. Every muscle of his body went rigid.

Her skirt clung to her round hips and thighs in a way that made him think of things inappropriate for a ballroom. And that single ringlet bouncing softly between her breasts. He wanted to touch her. Instead, he clenched his fists at his sides.

Miles had to remind himself to breathe. He filled his lungs as if he had been underwater for too long. As he let out the air, he looked up into Isobel's face. She was smiling down at him with the same broad and confiding smile he had seen at the great hall. For the first time he noticed a dimple in her right cheek. He wanted to kiss it.

At the back of his mind was a small voice reminding Miles that he was courting the other sister. Isobel was the wrong woman. He should be looking at Miss Catherine. But his eyes refused to move in that direction.