Chapter 3

Chapter Three

T he petite redhead fluttered her eyelashes at him. "Yet here I am. I'm sorry, have we met? I am a maid in my lady's costume; please don't tell, as I am using her ticket. My name is Ninette."

Harman didn't believe that story more than any others he knew about this woman. He turned to keep Alara in sight. "Why?" He hadn't time to be more polite, and he didn't owe it anyway. So-called Ninette had never been his guest, and the last time he'd seen her had been, to put it mildly, a mess. "Never mind why. I advise you to leave."

"I'm very good at staying out of sight." The twinkle in her eye gave that the lie, as well as the way her feet moved restlessly to the music, as if longing to dance. "I'm here to right a wrong."

"To me?"

"Mercy Bennett, of course not. No one's ever wronged you, you're as upright as a plank."

He didn't want to hear that tonight. Actually, he never wanted to hear that. "What can I do for you... Ninette?"

"Put more feeling in the name. It's ever so much more fun."

"You look more like a naughty queen, which you know perfectly well. Shall I call you Your Majesty?"

"I do like the sound of it. Truly, sir, I only greet you because you saw me. I am not here to visit with you."

Welcome news, but too late; he'd already turned Alara loose. There she was, joining a group of young ladies near the stage. He relaxed a moment, then saw the young ladies glancing about, clearly plotting to accept invitations to dance. Men drew near them like waves in the ocean.

"I wish I were here to visit." The tiny woman's eyes traveled over Harman's black linen and lace with appreciation. "The costume suits you, though I'm not sure I believe you as a?—"

Her words chopped themselves off.

Turning to see what she saw, Harman's own blood turned cold, making his limbs too heavy to move for a second.

It was Waresham. His no-longer friend. Far worse than a rake, Harman knew him to be a villain, and violent; he suspected the man of worse.

The tiny woman's face did not blanch, but her eyes grew hard.

"Well," she said in a cold, calm voice, "that complicates matters."

It would be too pathetic to stare after Lord Harman after he abandoned her in the middle of the assembly floor.

The sights and sounds all around threatened to wash over her and bear her down. Alara thought she might drown.

Then: no.

Alara did not wish to accept the whims of fate. She had one night to investigate the society she'd so long dreamed about.

This was the one place in London where she might literally meet anyone at all, from a street juggler to the Prince Regent. She would not miss the chance.

She might lack genius; she might lack red hair , she told herself bitterly. But she trusted herself to ask good questions, and here she could ask anyone anything.

"I beg your pardon," she said, as brazen as she could be, tapping her fan against the shoulder of a tall young man in a judge's robes. Surely they were not earned. His old-fashioned white wig flapped as he whipped round; then he grinned.

She said, "I'd like to meet the men here who are not married."

"My lady," he said, eyes sweeping up and down her gown, "I'd be a fool to help you."

Despite the ache in her chest, where the shattered dreams hurt most, Alara laughed. "How can I persuade you?"

"Are you serious?"

"Quite."

"Well, then." He made a show of tapping a finger against his jaw. His smile was welcoming, where Harman had none. Only a grim expression. As if seeing her again were something awful!

Alara had never concerned herself much with pride, but she found she wasn't devoid of it.

The stupid dreams she'd spun about that boy. She'd like to blame her mother. Had she been part of London society, she would have seen years ago what a horrid man he'd become. She wouldn't have longed for him, or built up in her imagination that he might hand her a future.

Then, shoving her bitter thoughts down where no one would see, she blamed only herself.

Life was a series of passages, and she was no longer that little girl in the country. She had to choose between living a life in an Ottoman palace, likely in purdah, where new interests would be difficult to come by; or living a life in Britain, owned by some man who, as Lord Harman clearly demonstrated, could become cold and distant with time.

Neither appealed.

But the night had barely begun.

The judge disappeared. If he intended to help, he had a peculiar way of showing it. Alara would have to make decisions for herself.

Wasn't that what tonight was all about?

"I have a prior engagement," she told a wide man asking for the next quadrille , a man dressed, oddly enough, as a Turk. Or at least what he imagined a Turk to be; he might as well be dressed in curtains, for all his clothing resembled the fashions her father had brought home from the Sultan's court.

Even a quarter century later those silks were scintillating, beautifully made, with wide fur lapels that extended all around. This man wore what looked like a dressing gown. Likely it was. She dismissed him from her list of people to meet.

It might not be fair to Lord Harman, but as angry as she was with herself, she was angrier with him. Angry that he wasn't the sweet boy she remembered. Angry that he didn't care.

Or only cared enough to send her disapproving glances over the head of another woman.

If he hated her gown, he could ride his disapproval to hell. Yes, it was daring; but there were many ladies here showing far more skin. Alara was covered all the way up to her throat and down to her wrists. And he didn't know her well enough to disapprove of anything else about her.

The petite figure who had seized his attention wore a confection of lace and ruffles that scandalously recalled the executed French queen. Lord Harman paid her close attention. All Alara could see of him was his hat.

She said yes to the next expensive-looking Spanish explorer who asked her to dance.

"I must go," Harman muttered. Some fellow who fancied himself a Spaniard was leading Alara out onto the dance floor. She blazed like a lantern, barely containing her flame.

"I'm going to need your help."

"For what?" This so-called Ninette had far more skills to get into mischief and out again without his help. He might not be sure of everything about her, but he knew that.

"I'm here to return something I borrowed, and I can't cross paths with Waresham." She was deadly serious now. "Not without killing him, and I can't kill him tonight."

Her blood-chilling calm was the thing that convinced him she meant what she said.

Her eyes, following Waresham through the dancers, convinced him more as she added, "Though maybe I should."

Harman shook off the chill. "What did you borrow?"

She drew closer, resting a hand on his waistcoat and smiling flirtatiously up at him. He felt a finger dip into his pocket. "Just a ring," she said, as if it meant less than a few grains of salt. "It belongs to the sad young lady there, do you see her?"

Only her eyes flicked in that direction, but Harman saw who she meant. The girl looked forlorn, standing on the sidelines in a plain blue gown, her domino mask her only real acknowledgement of the festivities.

"She's had a sorry time of it. Please return the ring with apologies. I should keep my distance. Don't let Waresham get that ring. She's miserable now, but if he realizes it's important to her, he'll destroy what's left of her life."

" Ninette ," Harman said with the last of his patience, "I would like to oblige you, but I have problems of my own. An old friend is in the clutches of a rake who is even now trying to stare down her dress, and she does not have your aplomb for such situations."

His little interruptor looked unerringly across the room at Alara, her lace gown sweeping arcs around her as she danced.

When had she learned to dance like that? She moved like water, like inevitable air.

"You have excellent taste." Ninette looked up at him again. "And you're a good man. I know I can count on you."

He shook his head to explain that she couldn't, but it was too late; she'd already disappeared into the crush.

"You'll dance?" Lord Zachary appeared again as Harman shoved his way back through the crowd. "I mean in the reel; some people are waltzing, even without music." A flash of brightly colored skirts erupted within a circle of clapping, whooping revelers, and Zach winced. "Christ, there goes my grandmother."

Apparently Zach hadn't seen the tiny redhead they both knew. Harman cursed his luck. Why burden him with this damnable ring? Why tonight?

The dancers preparing for the reel faced each other in two lines, loud whoops nearly drowning out the music.

A bewildering army of women had joined the dance. A few wore Greek-inspired, diaphanous gowns that recalled the Revolution; Harman wondered if they'd seen the erstwhile Ninette. One woman wore massive red shoes that contrasted horribly with her green dress; one wore a low-cut gown and a hat topped with a vast bouquet of feathers. A number wore daring gowns as Alara did, though with carnival masks added; and one woman wore the garb of one of Queen Elizabeth's knights. Sir Walter Raleigh, unless he missed his guess.

Alara lined up to dance as well, smiled at the Spaniard facing her; when they drew together and marched in a circle, his hand dropped to her rear, and she returned it to her waist, expression never faltering.

Harman felt a first-in-his-life urge to flatten the man.

Her aplomb didn't fool him. Alara had always been calm, still was. That didn't mean she wasn't shaken.

This was the wrong place for her, and the wrong way to see her again.

Next she danced with the white-haired lady beside her who was clearly having almost as much fun as Zach's grandmother.

While the ladies matched arms, in a chassé forward and back, Harman spun the Spaniard by his shoulders, twirling him paces away and leaving him facing the wall.

Harman took his place.

It pierced something in him, the way Alara's smile faltered when she saw him there instead of the Spaniard.

"What are you doing here?" He couldn't help how blunt it sounded.

"Dancing," she pointed out, as if his question was stupid given the obvious facts.

True, it was.

He took her hand, black glove in black glove. Even through his rough gauntlet, her hand was warm, alive. It stirred him more even than the sight of her in that gown.

"Where have you been? What are you doing? Why are you wearing that dress? "

"Must I answer your questions all at once? Or may I breathe in between?"

"Truly," he said, unable to focus on anything besides her figure, "what is that you're wearing?"

"A dress. As you just said." She blinked. "I have no imagination at all. I never imagined you'd grow so tall, or so foolish."

They stepped towards each other. Then apart. Again he felt that pull, that hollow feeling as the space between them increased.

He wanted to pull her closer; instead he spoke fast and urgent, pitched for only her to hear. "Thank God you lack imagination. I'd hate for you to imagine what every man in this room is thinking, seeing you in that."

"It's a very clever dress," said Alara, light and careless as if they were simply conversing through the dance. Harman had an urge to throw her over his shoulder and carry her off. "It's Heathcoat's lace."

"Who is Heathcoat? Why are you wearing his lace? Is he here?" Harman peered through the surrounding watchers; it seemed like every one was a man staring at Alara.

She parted from him again, waited for the other two dancers in their set to promenade through, then rejoined him with something like pity in her eyes.

"Mr. Heathcoat is the man who devised the machine that makes this lace. I'm surprised you don't know him. I suppose Loughborough does not need a minister in Parliament?"

Harman was grateful for the mask; it should hide some of his flush. They'd been young, but she'd still known his parents' plans for their oldest son and heir. Assumed, the way everyone else did, that he'd follow them.

Well, his parents still assumed that.

Alara went on. "It's surprisingly sturdy lace. One can cut it anywhere, and it will not unravel."

The vision of someone cutting her out of that lace gown was too much.

"You're through," said Harman, sweeping his arm against her waist and ushering her out of the dance.

"Lord Harman! How terribly rude!" Making apologetic faces over her shoulder toward the rest of her set, left dancing alone, Alara shoved his arm away far more fiercely than she had the wandering Spaniard's.

"Miss Trace." The closer he leaned, the more of her scent he smelled. It was oil of roses, decadent, freshly beautiful, suiting her more than he could have imagined; and below that, he caught something luxurious, dark, and mysterious. Rich. Like the heart of a dark tree. He had to work to remember what he was going to say. "You must go home."

He ought to have known. She'd never meekly followed orders, and she still didn't. As she drew herself to her full height, the swell of her bosom stretched the front of the black lace, making Harman hold his breath. "Sir, I am aware that you enjoy entertainments like this every day. I, however, do not. I have very little time to make some momentous decisions, in which you play no part. So please excuse me."

She pulled away from him, and he immediately missed her warmth.

"I'm sorry." Why couldn't they have met by that little stream where he used to build bridges for her? "Sorry I cannot claim more of your time. I never expected—" He looked around. The place was like a battlefield full of enemies. "You don't have a husband?" he blurted out, unable to think of a more clever way to put it under such pressure.

"No."

Why couldn't he read her look when she said that? He used to be able to. They used to know each other very well, and now he felt like a stranger, but she didn't.

A flash of blue crossed his path ahead, and he saw the sad girl moving, the one to whom the ring now in his pocket belonged.

He searched the crowd. There was no sign of Ninette; but she was so short, she might be difficult to see among the revelers.

When he looked back at Alara, he saw that she'd watched him study every woman here but her. She looked, above all else, unimpressed.

Trying to recover his pirate swagger, he murmured, "I'm sorry, Miss Trace, that this is our reunion. But there are dangerous people here, even if you were not wearing—" He wouldn't look down. "—that. I'm shocked at Sir Theodore's judgment, and must urge you to leave at once. I will engage you a cab, if you have no carriage."

"Oh, you will? You'll engage me a cab? Are you sure?"