The Vengeful Husband (The Husband Hunters 2)

Two days later, she had finally rebelled against her bore¬dom and her loneliness. She had purchased a mask and had donned that magical green evening dress. She had felt trans¬formed, excitingly different and feminine. In those days she hadn't owned contact lenses, and since her spectacles com¬bined with her long mane of hair had seemed to give her the dowdy look of an earnest swot she had taken them off, choosing to embrace myopia instead. She had had a cold too, so she had generously dosed herself up with a cold remedy. Unfortunately she hadn't read the warning on the packaging not to take any alcohol with the medication...

When she had seen the vast palazzo ablaze with golden light she had almost lost her nerve, but a crush of important guests had arrived at the same time, forcing her to move ahead of them and pass over her invitation. She had climbed the vast sweeping staircase of gilded brass and marble. By the time she'd entered the superb mirrored ball¬room, filled with exquisitely dressed crowds of beautiful people awash with glittering jewels, her nerve had been failing fast. At any minute she had feared exposure as a gatecrasher, sneaking in where she had no right to be.

After hovering, trying desperately hard not to look con¬spicuous in her solitary state, she had slowly edged her path round to the fluttering curtains on the far side of the huge room and slid through them to find herself out on a big stone balcony. One secure step removed from the festivi¬ties, she had watched the glamorous guests mingle and dance—or at least she had watched them as closely as her shortsightedness allowed.

When an unmasked male figure in a white jacket had strolled out onto the balcony with a tray bearing a single glass, to address her in Italian, she'd quite naturally as¬sumed he was a waiter.

'Grazie,' she said, striving to appear as if she was just taking the air after a dance or two, and draining the glass with appropriate thirsty fervour.

But he spoke again.

'I don't speak Italian—'

"That was Spanish,' he imparted gently in English. 'I thought you might be Spanish. That dress worn with such vibrant colouring as yours is dramatic'

In the lingering silence of her disinterested shrug, he re¬marked, 'You appear to be alone.' Not easily disconcerted, he lounged lazily back against the stone balustrade, the tray abandoned.

'I wa’/ she pointed out thinly. 'And I like being alone.'

He inclined his dark head back, his features a complete blur at that distance, only his pale jacket clearly visible to her in the darkness as he stared at her. In a bolshy mood, she stared back, nose in the air, head imperiously high. All of a sudden she was sick to death of being pushed around by people and forced to fulfil their expectations. Her solo trip to Venice had been her first true rebellion, and so far she could not comfort herself with the belief that she had done much with the opportunity.

'You're prickly.'

'No, that was rude,' Darcy contradicted ruefully, 'Out¬right, bloody rudeness.'

'Is that an apology?' he enquired.

'No, I believe I was clarifying my point. And haven't you got any more drinks to ferry around?' she prompted hopefully.

He stilled, wide shoulders tautening, and then unexpect¬edly he laughed, a shiveringly sensual sound that sent a curious ripple down her taut spine. 'Not at present.'

His easy humour shamed her into a blush. ‘I’m not in a very good mood.'

'I will change that.'

'Not could, but will,' she noted out loud. 'You're very sure of yourself.'

'Aren't you?'

In that instant, her own sheer lack of self-confidence flailed her with shamed bitterness, and she threw her head back with desperate pride and a tiny smile of wry amuse¬ment. 'Always,' she murmured steadily then. 'Always.'

He moved forward, and as an arrow of light from the great chandeliers in the ballroom fell on him she saw an indistinct image of the hard, bitingly attractive angles of his strong bone structure, the gleam of his thick black hair, the brilliance of his dark eyes. And her heart skipped a startled beat.

'Dance with me,' he urged softly.

And Darcy laughed with undeniable appreciation. Only she could gatecrash a high society ball and end up being chatted up by one of the waiters. 'Aren't you scared that someone will see you and you'll lose your job?'

'Not if we remain out here...'

'Just one dance and then I'll leave.'

"The entertainment doesn't meet with your approval?' he probed as he slid her into his arms, his entire approach so subtle, so smooth that she was surprised to find herself there, and then flattered by the sensation of being held as if she were fashioned of the most fragile and delicate spun glass.

'It's suffocatingly formal, and tonight I feel like some¬thing different,' she mused with perfect truth. 'Indeed, to¬night I feel just a little wild...'