Chapter 5

Chapter Five

T here was too much happening at this party, none of it fun.

Harman stalked through the crowd, looking for the girl in blue, for Ninette, and definitely for Waresham; though the last only to avoid him.

Why had it felt like a blow to the ribs, Alara saying she wouldn't return? Hadn't he thought for years she was already gone?

But she wasn't. She was here, and warmer than any dream, soft in his arms, for his kiss. She'd pulled him to her instantly, without a word; that kiss had been just as inevitable.

She couldn't sail off to Ottoman lands, or anywhere, after a kiss like that. He could still feel it in his bones.

He should have sought her out years ago. He would have but for?—

But for the reports from his parents.

Something snapped into place inside him, and then, something else broke.

Why would his parents have told him so many times Alara was intended for someone else? He'd been a boy when last they met. Hadn't they seen how he looked at her? How he felt?

They must have realized things he'd been too young to realize for himself.

And instead of helping him realize his dreams, they'd led him to put those dreams away. To believe she couldn't be his. He could only think of one reason they'd do that, and it wasn't pleasant.

Now she was here, close enough to touch; he'd had her in his arms. Already they felt empty without her. He felt hollow, as if half of himself had been torn away.

Had been torn away long ago and just returned to him, only for a moment.

It was apparent he had very little time to woo Alara and repair the feelings between them. If she felt them. If he could.

He wasn't a boy anymore. He didn't assume he had all the answers. Not alone.

"Miss Trace."

She turned, obviously annoyed, and earned him hoots from the little crowd of men hanging on her every word. Not that words could be heard in this cacophony; Harman suspected the men cared more about staring. One was a fellow Harman knew, wearing a judge's robes and shooing him away like a buzzing fly.

But Alara gave him a chilly answer. "Lord Harman."

"I wonder if I could beg your assistance."

The catcalls from their audience were immediate. "G'wan with you!"

"You had a chance, gov'nor. Push off."

"Truthfully, Harman, you're being a wet blanket."

His look stifled that last, from the faux judge. "Later, Shale. I must speak with Miss Trace."

"I doubt you do," she said, dismissing him with a turn of her back.

Well. He might never be a politician, but if he couldn't plead his case in public now, he'd always regret not trying.

"Miss Trace, I have some pressing matters in which your assistance would be invaluable. I understand you are here to enjoy yourself, and I promise to return you to the revelry afterwards, if only you will give me a little more of your precious time."

She gave him a suspicious look out of one eye. It made him want to kiss her again. "You're very tall, sir. You can manage on your own."

He couldn't help his smile. Softly he asked her, "Are you sure?"

That turned her toward him as surely as if he'd used his hands. Her mouth dropped open a little, reminding him of its luscious sweetness.

She didn't need to answer. Those words belonged to the two of them. She remembered, as well as he did.

"Very well, Lord Harman," she said, her voice quiet too. "I will help, if I can."

"Honestly," objected the judge, over the groans of his compatriots. "This is a party, Harman. What can you possibly need to do?"

Convince Alara to marry me.

More than his future, his calling, even more than his own name, that much was clear. He'd wanted her all his life; he still did.

They were no longer children, and while that made the world more complicated, it also made for real possibility.

"Let me show you Argyll Hall," he said, to more hoots from the vulgar men he was depriving of Alara's company.

She could have said thank you, I've seen it. Instead, she put her hand in his.

Still so sweetly giving. The way she'd always been.

As soon as there was enough distance that at least the men behind them wouldn't hear, he said, "Miss Trace. I'm sorry."

This time her smile was genuine, though brief. "No need, sir. Apparently, you have a secret need to be very rude. A leopard can't change his spots."

She made him smile too. He couldn't help it, though it wouldn't serve to keep the men away. "Apparently. You must know what a shock it was to see you again."

"I can't see why." She waved her free hand; he kept the other firmly tucked in the crook of his elbow. "Here I am."

"I've never seen you in London before."

"Yes, I know." She said it lightly, but he felt like it pained her a little. "I assume you have been occupied elsewhere."

Her occupied elsewhere hinted at redheads and brunettes.

"In truth, I haven't." What had he done with the last decade of his life? Time at Oxford, and Edinburgh. A stint in Ireland his father had said would prepare him to better serve a united Britain. He'd seen appalling poverty; heard a lecture on Newton's methods that he'd remember for the rest of his life; and met Catholics studying with Protestants, something no one in London ever mentioned at all.

Then he remembered the journey where he'd most wished Alara were there to ask questions. "I did meet the most extraordinary man of science; Humphry Davy is his name, or I should say Sir Humphry, as he is now a knight. He and his colleagues in Bristol have done astonishing things. He can harness lightning in a box, and by forcing it through a vessel of salts, separate them into their most elemental constituents."

She stopped, so he stopped too. "Not really! Imagine! Controlling the power of lightning!"

His grin was boyish now, as if they were back on the banks of the stream. "It does amaze. He is a most amusing fellow. You must meet him. He tells terrible jokes—" not suitable for a lady's ears, Harman recalled to himself, but pressed on, "—and entertains parties all night with tales from One Thousand and One Nights. Do you know it? I should not presume, a lady may not wish to read such things, but Sir Humphrey owned M. Galland's volumes and I lost myself in them."

Alara wondered if she might injure her neck, this evening kept spinning her round so hard.

The Lord Harman who led her away from her last group of admirers (and truly, Mr. Shale was very interesting) was very much her John, the same boy she'd known as a child in the form of a large, grinning man. Curious; kind; sharing.

Where had he been all evening?

Alara was not a fool. Her mother's diatribes against roast beef and rain had trained her in some skepticism, not just toward what people said, but what they did. Her mother didn't care for England, yet chose to live there; her feeling for her husband was manifest.

John had some reason to act like this, both earlier and now; and he still seemed to watch the faces of the crowd, for what reason she couldn't fathom.

Still, it was impossible to simply abandon him. He had all the electric interest of their childhood, drawing her into his orbit the way a piece of amber, when rubbed, would attract a wisp of straw.

"I am quite familiar with the Thousand and One Nights," she said, trying not to laugh. "My mother loves to remind me it was translated into Turkish from Arabic first."

"Not really!" He had that open astonishment on his face, open pleasure, that she remembered from years ago. "You must meet Sir Humphry. He is at the Royal Institute now. No, actually he is in France, receiving a medal from Bonaparte himself."

Now he had astonished her. "Imagine!" She couldn't. Though her journey would be much farther, she would not sail into hostile lands. She was too timid for that.

They moved on, side by side, their steps naturally matching in length because Lord Harman adjusted his long stride to hers as they contemplated, together, the very wide world and all that was amazing in it.

"Well," Alara finally said, "I see why you have been far too busy to call upon me."

That sobered him. "I would have. I should have. I thought—I was given the impression that you had sailed long ago."

Oh. That made everything inside her feel lighter. He'd thought she'd gone. No wonder he had never been to see her.

And yet.

"I knew you were here," she told him softly, not wanting to admit it, the words escaping before she could think them through.

"Damn." There were volumes in his curse. Of course she could not have called upon him; not in the eyes of society, and certainly not in the eyes of her mother. "I should have cornered Sir Theodore. Asked after you. He is so seldom in the offices of Parliament now he has retired."

"I wish I had sent you a note." That was as brazen as she could manage to be, and now Alara wondered why she hadn't done just that.

Because she was braver when he was near was the honest answer, though it pained her to realize.

After all, wasn't it too late?

She wasn't sure what gave her that impression, as she'd come explicitly with the idea of finding a British husband all in one night.

So why did that now feel so impossible?

His massive presence, his kiss, made marriage far more tangible. It would be something real; and if it were to be with him, she stood in a fair way to lose far more than a house.

She was still drawn to him, while he busied himself chasing redheads. And if they were married under British law, what could she do about it then?

The prospect was even more daunting than that of marrying a stranger.

A young man approached, handsome as a Greek statue. His blond hair flopped over one eye; he pushed it away. "My grandmother," he announced, "is very drunk."

"Good God, Zachary," Lord Harman muttered beside her. "You can see there's a lady present."

"Apologies, my lady." The fellow shrugged and gave her a wry grin, oblivious to the wild party growing louder around them.

The little orchestra tooted a new round of noise, and all around her people piped up singing, "On Christmas night, all Christians sing..."

Lord Zachary leaned closer. "Don't let us stop you if you wish to sing too. It's some people's favorite part of the night."

"I don't know the song, I'm afraid."

To the young man's climbing eyebrows, Harman snapped, "She is not Christian, idiot."

"Never say so! How fascinating. Do say more."

To her, Lord Harman said, "Ignore him. He's an oaf and has no skill with women except to draw them."

"Gad. Apologies again," Lord Zachary admitted immediately with a short bow. "I do spend too much time with... varying sorts of women, and have become far too informal."

"Nightbirds?" Lord Harman said, unnecessarily harshly, Alara thought.

"Friends," Lord Zachary answered without hesitation, giving him a questioning look.

Lord Harman didn't look interested in giving his friend more chances to explain. "Miss Trace," he said instead, "we must find somewhere quieter to speak. It is very important."

The way he said important made her blood pound in her veins.

Lord Zachary just looked suspicious. "See here, Harman. The lady is clearly gentle; I won't let you?—"

"I am far more inclined to protect the young lady than you will ever know," the pirate cut him off, sending her pulse racing. How she wanted that to be true. "Never fear for her safety; if I harm her, call me out."

"I will." His light eyes looked serious as he bowed again, this time more deeply, to Alara. "Lord Zachary Vane, at your service. I have a residence at number seventeen, Leicester Square; never hesitate to call upon my service."

"Thank you, sir." She wanted to be gracious, as he was; but really she just wanted him gone.

Her John had grown up to be dangerous in many ways, but she'd gladly risk following him for one true, uninterrupted, conversation.