Chapter Twenty-Four

Morvoren

The ball passed in a whirl of different dances and heady scents. All the younger guests bounded about the dance floor with seemingly endless enthusiasm, and some of the older ones, too. Morvoren found herself partnered by a different young man for every dance, returning in between dances to rejoin Lady Ormonde and Mrs. Fairfield who seemed determined to keep a close eye on their three girls.

To her relief, Kit turned out to be quite right. Not everyone was step-perfect with the dances, so it didn't matter if she occasionally went wrong. In fact, misstepping turned out to be the cause of great hilarity amongst the dancers.

Time ticked on. She managed to glimpse Kit from time to time, but never close enough to speak to. When supper was announced some time after midnight, the young man she'd had the last dance with led her through and took a seat beside her at the supper table.

Archibald Hatherleigh's skin boasted plentiful pimples, but his kind-hearted face radiated pride that it was he who could lead her into supper.

The light dinner at Ormonde felt a long time ago, so, what with all the dancing, Morvoren was feeling quite hungry by midnight, but she'd not expected such a spread. Platters of cold chicken and ham lay out on the long table beside whole poached salmon and glazed vegetables. There were salads and fruits fresh from Denby's hot houses, pies, trifles in individual dishes, biscuits, and cake, as well as an array of different cheeses and a tureen of pale soup. If only she weren't wearing these infernal stays, she could have done justice to such a banquet.

Her young escort, although a bit tongue-tied to begin with, soon relaxed after a couple of glasses of wine and at Morvoren's prompting recounted his life story. Although her interest in him as a suitor, which, by the look of adoration on his face he fancied himself as, was less than nil, she listened with interest to tales of his schooldays at Eton and the "japes" he seemed so proud of.

"Of course, when I was a senior boy, I had a fag of my own to run my errands, which was worth it after so long being one myself. It meant I could wield some power over the younger boys and go out into town whenever I wanted."

A fag? Oh, of course. She'd once read somewhere that the older boys at Eton all had younger boys as servants. Was that where Kit had been schooled? Was it anything like the Eton of the twenty-first century? She hoped not, for the sake of modern schoolboys. An awful lot of birching seemed to have gone on in Mr. Hatherleigh's day, some of it done by the older boys themselves. It all sounded a bit Lord of the Flies.

Despite her curiosity, it was hard to concentrate properly on his stories of days spent foxhunting, as part way through the meal she spotted Kit at the far end of the long dining table, bearing company to Lady Elizabeth Carlyon, the huge feather adorning her hairdo bobbing well above the table and interfering with the servants. She'd have made a good figurehead on a ship.

Narrowing her eyes, Morvoren took a better look at her. It was easy to see why Kit's uncle had seduced her, if he truly had. Beneath the veneer of pouchy middle age lurked the bone structure of a beautiful woman, a little faded around the edges by time, but nevertheless, still something worth staring at. Kit was laughing at something she'd said, so perhaps she was a wit as well.

After supper, Morvoren kept a weather eye on Jasper, who bestirred himself to seek her out and request the dance he'd earlier set his heart on. Then, to her consternation, he straightaway requested a second dance. Ysella had expressly warned her that she wasn't to dance with any young man more than once, but hadn't given her any advice as to what to do if a request for this came her way. So Morvoren, who had a gap in her dance card, had no defenses prepared when he asked.

And he was no young man but someone old enough to have been her father. His acquisitive eyes gave her the definite creeps as they roved over her body throughout the dance, and she'd never been gladder that none of the dances involved being taken in his arms. That would have been too awful for words. There was something to be said for the ban on dancing the waltz.

After that second dance, Morvoren finally managed to get a moment with Ysella, in between dances, who seemed agog with excitement. "Lord Flint has danced with you twice!" she gasped, drawing Morvoren into one of the curtained alcoves. "And you know what that means!"

Morvoren didn't. Kit and Ysella had neglected to inform her of every little nicety of dancing etiquette, or rather, of their possible consequences. Over by the refreshments the marquess himself was watching Morvoren over a glass of punch, his father by his side. She had the uneasy feeling they were talking about her, probably as though she were a brood mare they were considering purchasing.

"That I shouldn't have?" she asked. "You did tell me to only dance once with any man, but I couldn't think of an excuse the second time he asked me, and I had no other name on my card. What was I supposed to do? Doesn't he know the rules?"

"Why," Ysella exclaimed in a loud hiss that probably carried to the far side of the dance floor and set nearby heads turning. "Of course he does. Don't you know what it means?"

Double glass doors within the alcove opened onto a wide, flagstone terrace dotted with empty chairs and tables, the lights from the ballroom spilling through the windows the only thing illuminating it now the lanterns had gone out. Morvoren pulled Ysella through the doors to where they couldn't be overheard. "What does it mean?"

"If a gentleman should dance more than once with you, then you're as good as engaged." She frowned. "Although I had wanted you for Kit, I do think a marquess who will become a duke before too long is probably a better match, if a good match is what you would like. Mama would certainly think so, if it were for me. Even if he is so old… and fat."

Morvoren's eyes widened. "But I don't want to be a marquess's wife, whatever one of those is called, nor a duchess."

"I'm sure he must intend to propose to you," Ysella went on, unfazed by Morvoren's heartfelt declaration. "Or he would not have asked you to dance twice, as he did. The marquess is very proper, and he knows full well what dancing with you twice means, and that people here tonight will have remarked on it. He'll assume you know it as well, and that in accepting, you've virtually agreed to be his." Her brow furrowed. "Perhaps Mama would say that you have let yourself get into something of a pickle."

Morvoren scowled at her. "Well, I don't want to marry him at all. And if I'd known dancing with him twice would lead to this, then I'd have refused him on the spot. And if he asks me to marry him, which seems highly unlikely on the acquaintance of just two dances, then I shall turn him down. When I marry, it will be for love, and even if I'd known the marquess more than a few hours, I doubt very much that I could ever love him."

Ysella's face lit up. "Oh, I hoped you'd say that. In fact, I might have guessed you would, dear Morvoren. You are such an original, which is no doubt why the marquess is so attracted to you. All the young men have been clamoring to dance with you. I've been watching."

"And you," Morvoren said, her mood lightening a little now she was out of the marquess's line of vision. "You've been quite a success as well." The light shining from the ballroom windows showed Ysella blushing. "Has anyone asked to dance twice with you?"

She fanned herself looking coy.

Even out here the air remained warm, despite the hour. In the east, the sky was turning pink so it must surely be getting on for dawn. An overpowering longing for her bed swept over Morvoren and she sank down on one of the chairs.

Ysella sat beside her. "Several young gentlemen did ask, but luckily the dance they were after was already taken. I'm not such a ninny as to allow any of them to get the upper hand." She tilted her head to one side. "Not that I mean you're a ninny. You just didn't know. You need to learn the ways of politely refusing, such as claiming to be too faint or tired to dance, perhaps mentioning that your foot is too sore because the last gentleman you danced with trod on it so many times. That sort of thing."

She giggled. "There are so many ways a girl can say no without actually saying the word when an outright refusal is tantamount to saying you will not dance at all, with anyone. And wouldn't that be a shame when dancing is such delightful fun?"

Nice to be told now, after the fact. Another wave of tiredness drenched Morvoren. "I think I shall remain out here in the quiet and cool for a while," she said. "It's so hot in the ballroom and I'm feeling exhausted by all that dancing." she patted Ysella's hand. "You can safely leave me sitting here, as I can see you're desperate to get back inside to your young admirers."

Ysella threw a longing glance over her shoulder at the open doors, through which the sound of joyful music still cascaded, clearly torn. "Well, I'm not sure you should be out here on your own, but it would be worse if you were with a gentleman, so perhaps I shall go back inside. You should have some peace to rest out here. No one else comes outside, usually, at this time of the morning. Don't go to sleep, will you?" She giggled. "I'll come and find you when they serve breakfast. It can't be long now."

Morvoren shook her head. "Don't worry. I won't fall asleep. But my feet are truly sore, although I trod on more feet than trod on mine, and my legs are aching. And on top of that, I need this cooler air to refresh me. You go back inside, Ysella. I'm used to being on my own where I come from. I'll be fine."

With only one slightly guilty backward glance, Ysella slipped back through the open glass doors leaving Morvoren to her own company.

Oh, the bliss of the cooler air across her skin, of the scent of roses from the gardens below the terrace and the muting of the incessant dance music. She must be feeble indeed if she couldn't dance the night away like an eighteen-year-old. Perhaps twenty-three was over the hill.

Despite her promise not to fall asleep, she put her arms on the table and rested her head on them. She just needed to close her eyes for a few minutes.

The clearing of a throat disturbed her reverie. Blinking in confusion, she pushed herself upright and stared at the figure before her. Jasper, Marquess of Flint, stood on the opposite side of the table. Even in her sleepy state, Morvoren recognized the look of lust in his eyes. Uh oh.

*

Kit

The ball draggedpast after that glorious first dance with Morvoren, and Kit deeply regretted having claimed it so early. By doing so he'd precluded himself from requesting a second dance without raising the eyebrows of all the stately mamas gathered in the seats about the perimeter of the ballroom. The mamas who wanted him for their own insipid daughters.

If only he were bold enough to laugh in their faces and write his name down for every dance on her card, so no other man could partner her. But he couldn't. No matter how much his heart ached for her, he couldn't subject her to the dangers of the life he lived. And besides which, he'd now decided to return to Cornwall in just a few hours time, so it would be unfair and ungentlemanly to let her think him interested. Even if his heart cried out to do so.

He'd aimed at least to seek Morvoren out to lead her into supper, but his plans were thwarted by his mother's request that he should escort Lady Elizabeth in while she herself went in on the arm of Lady Elizabeth's despicable brother, Jasper.

Then, after supper, to Kit's utter horror, Jasper begged two dances one after another from Morvoren, who accepted with a polite smile on her face as though she were encouraging his suit. Was the girl mad, or out to snare herself a duke's heir? In the eyes of most girls, a prospective duke must be a far better catch than a lowly viscount, but he'd not thought her that calculating.

Damn and blast it. Jasper had just returned from London where he'd been on the search for a new young bride to give him his longed for son. Did he think Morvoren, with her healthy glow and strong build, would fit the bill? Her beauty would be the icing on the cake for a man like that. After marrying for money to bolster his father's ailing estate the first time, it seemed Jasper was out to please himself this time around. And it looked as though Morvoren had set her cap at him.

He glared at her from afar as she whirled around in Jasper's hold, her face alight with a pleasure that twisted his heart.

Unable to tear his eyes away, he brooded, a heavy frown settling on his brow. Did he have the right to be this angry? He hadn't, after all, declared his intentions in any way, so she would not feel bound to him. In fact, he'd done his best to steer well clear of showing any preference for her this week, treating her much as he treated his sister. She still puzzled him, and he'd been telling himself, repeatedly as though to convince himself, that his fascination for her was just his need to untangle her mystery.

But he'd been a fool. Right from the moment he'd pulled her from the water he'd felt something drawing him to her. Wasn't that the reason he'd offered her the hospitality of Ormonde? And yet he'd kept her at arm's length as long as he could, telling himself that with his dangerous double-life he couldn't afford to become embroiled in a love affair. Only that minx Ysella insisting that he should help teach their guest to dance had brought down the barriers he'd erected between them.

She was such fun, so full of laughter, but so sensible in many ways. Good for Ysella, despite the affair of the riding astride, which, in all honesty, he could quite understand. And even his mother had come around to liking her, a difficult obstacle for any girl to overcome.

He shook his head. He'd missed his chance now though. A marquess had turned her head. If only Denby had not invited them to this ball…

He went into the card room and played a few hands of five card loo, losing moderately but breaking even in the end.

It was some time before he emerged into the ballroom again.

A promenade around the exterior with his eyes on the dance floor did not reveal Morvoren anywhere. Ysella was dancing with a young army officer, his mother was sitting chattering to his aunt, and his cousin Fitzwilliam was leading a rosy-cheeked young lady over to the refreshments. So where had Morvoren got to?

Automatically he sought out Jasper, who had been noticeably absent from his favorite haunt of the gaming room, but did not find him. A prickle of misgiving slid down his back. Had Flint sequestered Morvoren somewhere private, as so often happened at balls? If so, was it a meeting by mutual consent? He nearly didn't continue with his search, and would not have, had he not felt that misgiving grow.

He strode onto the dance floor where Ysella and the officer were standing still while another couple danced, and leaned in close to her ear. "Where is Morvoren?"

She peeked up at him. "Outside. I left her resting on the terrace. She's quite safe. No one else is there."

He flashed an angry glare at her. "You should know better than to have abandoned her alone outside. How long ago did you do that?"

Ysella had the grace to look guilty. "Barely a quarter of an hour, Kit. She said she would be all right on her own, and Mr. Hartnell had the next dance with me. I'm sure she's fine."

"I'll deal with you later, young lady," Kit snapped. "And if you're not careful this will be the last ball you ever go to."

Leaving Ysella open-mouthed, he forged his way with long strides across the dance floor and found the open doors onto the terrace. The sun was rising in the east but the tall trees that grew around one end of the terrace had left a pool of deep shadow. For a moment Kit struggled to accustom his eyes to the lack of light.

Then he saw her.

She was standing in a corner beside a table and chairs and she was not alone. A man towered over her and she had her back pressed up against the hard stone of the terrace balustrade. The man had one hand on her shoulder and the other about her waist. The man was Jasper.

Had he come upon an arranged rendezvous between two people intent on love? Upon a young woman determined to make the catch of the year? For a moment, Kit stood rooted to the spot, unable to move as he stared at the tableau before him. And then Morvoren's hand reached up and slapped Jasper across the face, her voice ringing out across the cool air. "Leave me alone."

Kit was across the terrace in a trice. He seized Jasper's shoulder and swung him around before he could think about what he was doing. His right hand balled into a fist as he drew it back and planted it on Jasper's nose.

Jasper staggered back, releasing his hold on Morvoren, his hand going to where dark blood ran down his upper lip. His handsome, overblown face contorted in a sneer. "I'd call you out for that, you pup, were it not for the sake of my father."

Was the man a coward? Kit's blood boiled and he longed for the excuse to take Jasper on in a fight. Swords, not pistols. He was an accomplished swordsman himself and much preferred the cut and thrust of a good blade to the random behavior of a musket ball. But no, Jasper, the craven, no doubt remembering that he had no male heir as yet, was dabbing at his nose with his handkerchief and retreating hurriedly.

Kit turned back to where Morvoren still stood, leaning against the balustrade, her mouth a perfect o of surprise. She closed it as he turned, and a shaky smile lit her face. "I've never had a man do that for me before," she said.

Absurd woman. Kit swallowed. "Any gentleman would have done the same," he managed, then, to cover his own confusion about the way she was looking at him, "Did he… hurt you?"

She shook her head. "I may have a bruise where he grabbed my shoulder, but I have to say that I was about to knee him hard somewhere that would have hurt him far more than the blow you planted on his nose." She chuckled. "I've met worse predators than him where I come from."

So maybe her smile hadn't been so shaky.

Kit felt himself return her smile. "You are a conundrum, Morvoren," he said before he could stop himself. "I never know how to take you. Here you stand, moments after being almost dishonored, for I'm certain that was what Jasper had in mind out here alone with you, and yet you laugh as though nothing untoward has happened."

She moved away from the balustrade to the nearby table and chairs, but instead of taking a seat, she put her hands on the table and hoisted herself onto it in a most unladylike way, legs a little apart and slippered feet dangling, the early morning sunshine catching her eyes. "I am a product of my upbringing. And where I come from, ladies know how to look after themselves." She dimpled. "And we all ride astride."

"A veritable amazon."

She nodded, gazing up into his eyes. "You could say that, although we don't forsake all men as those legendary women did."

Was she laughing at him? Could she hear his heart thundering? The sound of it filled his ears, so surely, she could. How could she make him feel this way with just a few offhand words? Or were they? He longed to reach out to her, to take her in his arms and kiss those lips and maybe do more than that. But he couldn't, or he'd be as bad as Jasper, from whom he'd just rescued her. A sudden awareness swept over him of how alone on the terrace they were and of the pressing need to go back inside before someone caught them in a position that might look compromising. That definitely would be compromising.

He swallowed, unwilling to break the spell that had descended with the freshness of the new morning. One short step would bring him close enough to kiss her…

No, they had to go back inside. Breakfast would be served shortly. His mother would notice Morvoren's absence, and worse, his as well. Ysella needed watching lest she did something silly.

He gazed down into Morvoren's eyes, so like the color of the sapphire in her necklace, every part of him longing to take her in his arms and fighting with the knowledge that he mustn't.

Morvoren had no such reservations. She reached out and caught hold of the lapels of his coat. For a moment, he stood staring down at her hands, longing rising through his body in a wave of heat, and his desire pushing at his tight breeches.

Then, with a forceful tug, she pulled him forward that step he'd been so afraid to take. He was up against the table, standing improperly between her legs. His mouth went paper dry and the restriction in his breeches increased.

Her lips, so plump and kissable, parted slightly and the tip of her tongue darted around them. His knees went weak, his breeches became tighter still, and sweat prickled down his back and across his forehead. Why was he reacting like a green boy? Yes, he'd felt lust before, many times, and this was definitely lust, but it was also something else. A yearning for her to be his in every possible way.

She tugged on his lapels again, and he let his head bow forward as her mouth moved up to meet his.

Her lips were velvety soft on his, slightly apart, her tongue teasingly tickling. He gave in. He'd have had to have been a monk not to. He opened his mouth against hers and their tongues met, dancing over one another in a way he could only have dreamed of.

God! Kissing a girl for the first time had never been like this. Not even the very first girl he'd kissed when he'd still been at school. Nor the first bit o' muslin he'd been to at Oxford. Girls like that didn't want to kiss at all, just to get down to the act being paid for. He'd kissed a good few girls since—none of them young ladies of the ton, of course—but none had kissed him back like this. As though they wanted him and only him in every single way.

He didn't want this to end. His arms went around Morvoren pressing her close, her hands left his lapels and her fingers ran through his hair, pressing his face to hers, as though she wanted him to melt into her body. Oh, for this to never end, and for him not to have to forget her and go back to Cornwall in a scant few hours.