Tarnished Amongst the Ton

‘It is, as you very well know.’

A tall Pierrott in a skintight costume presented himself in front of Sara. ‘Fair damsel, may I have the honour?’

‘Lay one wrong finger on her and I’ll tear your arm off,’ Ashe said pleasantly as his sister took the man’s proffered hand. Her partner shot him a startled glance and hastened on to the floor to join a set on the far side.

‘May I?’ The marquess offered his hand to Phyllida.

‘Thank you.’

‘Deserted, abandoned,’ Ashe said with a heavy sigh.

‘You will manage to console yourself, I have no doubt,’ Phyllida said sweetly as his father bore her off. She made herself catch his eye and almost gasped. Despite the mock-dramatic tone of his words his expression was not amused, but intense, almost hot. Phyllida followed her partner, feeling as if she had been rescued from a blaze.

Lord Eldonstone was an excellent and amusing partner. Gradually she found herself caught up in the dancing and the atmosphere, swept from one partner to another, relaxing with the anonymity, even though she recognised several familiar faces behind the disguises and was certain she was recognised in turn.

She tried to keep an eye on Sara, but every time she caught a glimpse of her she was behaving just as she ought, dancing in an elegant manner and not romping like some of the young ladies regrettably felt free enough to do. It was hard to miss the Herriards—even in the midst of such vivid and extraordinary costumes and all the jewellery of the haut ton they stood out with an exotic glitter. And so did she, she realised as yet another gentleman sought her hand for the dance and she overheard envious whispers from women admiring her costume and gemstones.

And it was bliss to be dancing after so long denying herself the experience. Her feet were beginning to ache, but she did not care. And now it was the waltz, the forbidden dance, the one she had never done in public. The broad-shouldered Cavalier with the chestnut curls of his wig falling over the velvet of his coat bowed before her. ‘Madam, I am honoured that—’

‘There you are.’ Ashe appeared by her side with a charming smile and more than a whiff of brimstone about him, she could have sworn. His sudden appearance certainly made the other man stiffen. ‘Thank you for entertaining my partner, sir, but I must claim her now.’

‘But—’ The other man eyed Ashe’s smile and apparently decided on a strategic retreat. ‘My pleasure, sir. Ma’am.’

‘That was rude,’ Phyllida chided as Ashe took her in his arms.

‘It was necessary. Did you see the size of his feet?’

So he was in the mood to jest, was he? It was certainly a relief not to be dealing with his sensual intensity. ‘And yours are smaller? And can you waltz? The last time we spoke you had only been having lessons.’

‘Simple.’ She glanced up at him and realised she was not safe after all. His eyes glinted behind the mask and the smile on his lips was pure sensuality. ‘I hold you in my arms and we move together. Rhythmically.’

He was not talking about dancing. Phyllida set her smile into one of bland innocence and pretended not to understand him. ‘Excellent. The orchestra is very good, don’t you think?’

‘When you speak I hear only your voice,’ Ashe murmured and swung her into the dance. ‘When I breathe I smell only your scent. When I look at a woman I see only you. Do you still believe I am reluctant to marry you?’

‘Ashe.’ He did not mean it, could not, but the dark honey of his voice, the heat of him so close, the circling strength of his arms, made the passion in the words a physical thing, invading her body, lifting her spirit, bringing tears to her eyes.

They danced as if alone. In silence, in harmony. Phyllida’s eyes were closed as though she could trap this moment, hold it, keep it for when she left him and the pretence that they were a couple would be ended for ever.

‘Phyllida.’

She blinked and opened her eyes. The music had ceased, couples were chatting as they waited for the orchestra to organise themselves for the next tune of the set. She should chat too, make light social conversation, even flirt a little. But she could not. I love him, she thought and swallowed back the tears. I love him and I could have him. Would it be so wrong of me?

‘Phyllida?’ he said again, his voice questioning. ‘Am I such a bad dancer?’

‘No.’ She could have him, but only if she told him the truth, that she might not be able to make love, not fully. Might not be able to give him children.

She found her courage and her voice and laughed. ‘You are excellent. But I have longed to waltz and that was magical. Such a beautiful melody, was it not?’

‘Beautiful,’ he agreed, but his eyes told her it was not the music he was speaking of.

Suddenly shy, Phyllida blinked and looked around. ‘What a crush!’ On the far side of the room a flash of gold and amber caught her eye. Sara, leaving the ballroom. But the ladies’ retiring room was at the other end. ‘Ashe, I may be being foolish, but I think Sara just left the room and I can think of no good reason why she should go through that door.’

He turned, frowning, but the glimpse of gilded silk had vanished. ‘Are you sure?’ But he was already striding off the floor.

Phyllida followed and caught his arm. ‘Slowly, do not draw attention.’ The

y reached the door, solidly closed. ‘Stand in front and face the room, let me go first, then follow in a minute. The last thing we need is any kind of fuss.’