"It's all right, really," Cat said, holding up a hand to halt Amelia's chatter. "The meal was fine. Perhaps the sun and the heat was a little too much."
"Well, I'm just thankful that you have recovered in time for Lord Claremont's ball this evening."
Cat blinked. Too late, she realized her error, but perhaps she could suffer a relapse. "Aunt, I just don't know whether I feel well enough..."
"Oh, but you simply must go," Amelia said, chattering on about the social event of the year.
Cat, too, had once looked forward to an occasion, which now could only be bittersweet. How could she face the guest of honor knowing what they had done together had no more meaning to him than any of his other dalliances? How could she say goodbye to the man she loved yet again?
But Cat was loathe to disappoint the woman who had taken her in, without regard to her situation, and she was not one to hide herself away, like a coward. So it wasn't long before Amelia was fussing over their preparations and making sure she was dressed with the utmost care.
The sea-green tulle of Cat's new gown was a little darker than was strictly fashionable, but the color matched her eyes, and Amelia crowed in approval. Although the square neckline was cut low, Cat refused the jewelry that her aunt pressed upon her, wearing only a pair of pearl earrings and leaving her throat and arms bare.
On a whim, Cat had the maid wind through her hair a chain of tiny shells she had collected in her travels. Wrapping a shimmering blue-green shawl around her shoulders, she joined Amelia, her spirits lifted some small measure by the prospect of a fancy ball, if not by all those in attendance.
While the Molesworth carriage rambled up the lane to the great house, Ransom was beginning to regret his easy acceptance of Lord Claremont's hospitality. He had been bored stiff by his genial host, and tonight promised to be more of the same as he was introduced to guest after guest, including an alarming number of unmarried ladies and their mamas. The reason he had quit this existence came back to him in a rush as he stood by, uttering inanities: he detested such functions.
With an impatience he had not felt in years, he longed for Catherine's arrival. And the possibility that she might not appear or wish to see him set his teeth on edge.
"Your grace, do say you will be dancing this evening," said an enormous woman in a white turban, whose name he could not recall. "All the young ladies are so looking forward to a dance with you." She practically simpered, fluttering a handkerchief so powerfully scented as to offend his nostrils.
"Yes, your grace, do take a turn around the floor," Lord Claremont urged, obviously basking in the attention afforded his visitor.
"Your grace." A servant at his elbow produced the requested glass and Ransom nodded in gratitude. Excusing himself, he ducked into one of the receiving rooms, then strolled through the rest of the house, sipping his drink in an effort to ease the tension that gripped him.
Wandering into the dining hall, where a late supper would be served, Ransom hailed a servant for another drink and drained the glass before turning his attention to the ballroom. His gaze swept the crowd and the entrance for Catherine, an odd sense of anticipation catching him unawares. He could only liken it to his feeling upon sighting another ship, when the expectation of battle and the challenge of capturing a vessel lay before him.
His lips curved as he imagining capturing this prize: the lovely Catherine, once again wild with passion beneath him. But since the object of his desire wasn't in view, Ransom had to be content with his imaginings.
Where was she?
Irritated at his impatience, Ransom sought out a partner for the waltz, choosing a young girl of not more than sixteen whose porcelain hair framed a pale, heart-shaped face that neared perfection. Her conversational ability, however, was limited to monosyllables.
His next partner was more mature, a sophisticated woman with rouged cheeks and a twinkle in her eye. But he disliked the bold way she licked her lips, and her innuendos were so lacking in wit with that they left him cold. After refusing a not-so-subtle invitation to her bedroom, he decided that if Catherine did not arrive soon, he would grab a bottle and duck into the gardens, seeking his own company.
"Who are you looking for?" his third partner asked as they swept across the floor. When he raised his eyebrow in response, she was not chastened. "You seem more intent on the doorway than on your steps, though you dance very well."
"Thank you," Ransom said, dryly.
"You needn't name her, your grace," the young lady said. "Gossip has it that you have been seeing a lot of Catherine Amberly."
"I never respond to gossip," Ransom said, with a quelling look.
But Miss Westland failed to be quelled. In fact, she nodded toward the entrance. "And there she is!"
Ransom's eyes flicked, emotionless, over Catherine just as the dance ended. Although his first impulse was to rush to her side and question her tardiness, he resisted the temptation. As the strains of the waltz faded away, he returned his partner to her companions, a look of icy disdain his only response to her knowing smile.
Retreating from the ballroom, he got another drink and moved to a vantage point where he could see Catherine without drawing attention to himself. And a warmth that could not be attributed to the liquor coursed through him at the sight.
She resembled a sea siren, her iridescent cloak the color of the ocean and shells woven through her hair. Not a piece of jewelry adorned her throat or arms, and the effect was one of extreme sensuality, as though she were naked but for the frothing waves of blue-green.
How could he have thought the white-haired china doll beautiful? Catherine glowed with life from the top of her shining golden hair to her slim fingertips, making her more attractive than any woman he had ever seen, here or throughout the world.
"Ah, there you are, your grace."
Ransom's scrutiny was interrupted, and he frowned as he whirled upon the man who spoke. He had been introduced to Mr. Grayson earlier, and now the man presumed upon that brief acquaintance to present him to a dowager who claimed they were in some way related.
She appeared to be slightly deaf, for she ignored his demurs and listed an interminable number of kinsmen, searching for the connection. Finally, exasperated beyond endurance, Ransom agreed that his mother's brother - who had died in infancy - might have married the lady's cousin. By the time he escaped, however, the object of his interest was no where to be seen.
***
Her second glass of champagne in hand, Cat slipped off to the portrait gallery and rued having accompanied Amelia to the ball. Their carriage had broken down on the way, an ill omen that had tempted her to walk back home.
But Amelia had insisted they would make a grand entrance and that anticipation never hurt anyone. Yet Cat had arrived only to see Ransom dancing with Cordelia.
The two had made a striking couple, and Cat knew that the auburn-haired beauty was intelligent and witty, a favorite with any man who valued more than a pretty face. Perhaps she would succeed where Cat had failed, winning the captain's heart.
Cat shook her head, dismissing the unwelcome jealousy. She knew that Cordelia would be looking for her, wondering why she had not hurried to greet her friend. But she did not trust herself to speak, haunted as she was by the memory of Ransom leaning over her, his chest bare, his eyes warm with desire, his mouth tasting of strawberries and wine.
What a fool she had been for succumbing to his seductions, she thought, her fingers tightening around the glass. She took another swallow, hoping to dull the pain.
Caught up in her misery, Cat did not spare a thought for the other revelers. In fact, she had thought herself alone and tensed when she heard footsteps behind her.
"Miss Amberly! Hello!"
Cat turned to see a thin, blond-haired stranger hurrying along the gallery toward her. "I have been looking for you. How nice to find you, at last," he said.
Cat nodded slightly, though it was not customary for a stranger to approach without a proper introduction.
"Oh, I beg your pardon," he said. "My name is Richard Blakely. I believe we have a mutual acquaintance."
"Do we, sir?"
"Yes, I think you know the duke quite well," Blakely said, pausing long enough to add an extra layer of meaning to the words. I've known him a long time. And I usually find that his friends... interest me greatly."
"Do you?" Cat asked. "Well, I certainly can't claim to be a friend."
"No? Then I have been misinformed. Forgive me," he said, bowing slightly. "Please, sit down." He motioned to a small gilt and brocade sofa, one of many that lined the walls.
Curious, Cat complied. Another gentlewoman might have hesitated to join a stranger in a deserted gallery, but Cat was confident in her ability to protect herself. She gave no thought to how it would look, and she certainly had no idea that Ransom was searching for her.
He was stalking the rooms, his jaw clenched. Where the deuce had she gone? Inwardly raging, he wondered why he was losing his temper over a simple female. Calm, cool, and controlled, he prided himself on ignoring trivial matters, and the whereabouts of a woman, no matter who she was, qualified as trivial.
Turning, he nearly collided with an officious servant who presented him with another drink. "Your grace, if you are looking for Miss Amberly, I saw her heading for the portrait gallery... with a gentleman."
Ransom raised a brow at the fellow's tone, effectively dismissing him, and scowled as the man disappeared into the crowd.
What the devil?
With a puzzled frown, Ransom turned toward the portrait gallery, instinctively watching his back as he entered the dimly lit corridor. At first, he saw no one. A few steps gave him a better vantage point, however, and he soon spied her.
Out of sight of the other guests in the quiet of the shadowed gallery, the seemingly innocent Miss Amberly was seated cozily beside Richard Blakely, Devlin's favorite sycophant.
Ransom felt as if someone had kicked him in the chest, and only great force of will kept him from staggering backward at the blow. Straightening, he kept rigid command of himself as he watched Catherine Amberly sip champagne and report to her master's right hand man.
Ransom burned the image of the two of them into his brain in an effort to dull his desire for her. Even now, he felt it, and he could only admire Devlin's choice, for no other female had so piqued his interest and aroused his appetites, all while seeming an innocent.
The instincts Ransom had come to rely on had played him false this time, for he'd become as enthralled as some damp-palmed schoolboy, panting to steal up a maiden's skirts in the grass. His pride stung at the thought that he should look so foolish, especially to Devlin, whose laughter was probably shaking the entire Indies.
It was time to attend to that devil, Ransom thought, his mouth twisting into a grimace. Revenge had never held much attraction, but Devlin's games had become too much.
What had been the plan, to make Catherine his mistress? She had refused that suggestion, but would she acquiesce now that he was leaving? Or perhaps that was not the goal, and Devlin had hoped...
Ransom shook his head. Surely, even Devlin could not think to ensnare him into marriage. And yet the entire business - the supposedly gently-bred girl who allowed certain liberties and the aunt who conveniently ignored convention - might have been arranged with that in mind.
With a low laugh that would have chilled Cat to the bone, Ransom looked down at his glass and loosened his violent grip on the fine crystal. The sharp pain in his chest eased to a low throb while he concentrated on how to locate his nemesis.
Lately, Devlin traveled from one hiding hole to the next, covering his tracks with expert care. But Ransom had an idea how to discover where he was skulking. First, however, he had another reckoning ahead.
Smiling grimly, he turned on his heel and slipped into the shadows to wait.
***
Cat had nearly finished her champagne before she realized that something was not quite right. She was already a little light-headed from the sparkling wine, but she was alert enough to become suspicious of her smooth-spoken companion as he inched closer to her.
At first, Cat gave the man little thought. He seemed harmless enough with his small talk about the ball and the island. She made appropriate replies, while her mind wandered to Ransom. And Cordelia. As he droned on, she stared fixedly ahead, sipping champagne and unwilling to make the effort to rid herself of his company.
Even when he turned the conversation to Ransom, Cat paid little heed, for the duke was the topic on everyone's lips. She answered politely, if rather distractedly, as he posed innocuous questions until something in his tone of voice suddenly made her attend him.
Then Cat turned and really
looked
at Mr. Blakely him for the first time, and she did not like what she saw. His head was tilted slightly to the side, his lips curved into an odd smile, and there was something about his eyes...
He reminded her of nothing so much as a weasel, and her own eyes narrowed as she wondered if the resemblance extended to his character, for this was no chance encounter. Mr. Blakely had sought her out for a purpose.
He continued chatting, as though oblivious to her scrutiny, but somehow Cat did not think him unaware. She imagined, with an eerie certainty, that not much escaped him, and she began to concentrate on his words.
"...Of course, those of us who know the duke are well aware that you have captured his most tender feelings," the man said. "Can nuptials be too far in the future?"
"I'm afraid you are mistaken, Mr. Blakely," Cat answered. "His grace holds me in no more regard than any other acquaintance. Or perhaps you do not know the duke as well as you profess?"
Her companion's lips thinned in response, but he bowed his head as if in apology. "You are too modest," he murmured. "Ah, well."