Her skirt swirled with the hoop and felt wonderfully elegant—there might be something to this garment after all, if one wasn't sitting down—and she laughed, gliding over to the mirror, where she stopped with a gasp.
"Oh, my goodness." She stared, awestruck by the woman who stared back at her. "I look like a duchess. A real duchess."
"Yes, you do," came Alec's deep voice.
Joy's heart skipped a beat. She turned to face her husband. He stood in the connecting doorway, looking like the title he so proudly bore. He was dressed in a tailcoat and knee breeches of
dark green velvet that almost looked black, and the points of a gold-embroidered waistcoat extended downward exactly two inches, as superb taste demanded. Shimmering in the perfect folds of his stark white cravat was an emerald and gold stickpin.
Her gaze returned to his face. "How long have you been there?"
"Only since your oh-my-goodness."
Thank heaven.
"Why?" He closed the distance.
She stared at the wee sparkling stones on the toes of her slippers and tried to look as if she hadn't cast a spell in years.
He lifted her chin with a knuckle. "There's no need for modesty, Scottish. I've seen you in much less."
Not recently, she thought, his illness having kept them apart. In fact this was the first she'd seen him since he'd recovered. She knew he'd been avoiding her. But now he stood barely a foot away. He still held her chin atop a strong knuckle. She searched his face, looking for a sign of his thoughts. He stared at her mouth again and she almost sighed, but held her breath instead. She could feel his gaze as surely as if it could stroke her flushed cheeks. Uncomfortable, she stepped back, holding out her skirts. His look started at the headpiece and moved downward, so slowly it seemed she stood still for eternal minutes during his perusal.
She held her breath. For the first time in her life she did feel beautiful—fairy-tale beautiful. Remember, she told herself, he thinks you are beautiful. And the excitement of the night, of her first ball, of the promise in his look, made her blood race through her veins. It made her feel alive and giddy and . . . well, just magical, as if they should walk with a trail of stars in their wake. She smiled. "So you approve, then?"
"No."
Her smile died. She closed her eyes against the sharp jab of disappointment that pierced her chest.
"You need these."
She willed her eyes open. Though the view was misty she saw that he held out a velvet box embossed with the Belmore crest. The mist cleared, and she cocked her head and studied the box. It was green with gold embossing. He snapped open the lid, revealing emeralds so deep and pure and clear a green that they appeared to have been conjured up by the perfect spell. "The Belmore emeralds," he said.
She took a step toward them, unable to believe they were real and fascinated by the way they were designed. Every gold setting formed the outline of the ducal crest, and each clasp was an intricate figure of a falcon—the Belmore crest. There were earbobs composed of three square-cut emeralds set in the intricate gold crest pattern, a brooch shaped like the crest, three bracelets, a necklace, and a set of combs.
"Everyone will surely know I'm the Duchess of Belmore."
"Of course. The Belmore emeralds were designed for the fifth duchess and were thought to rival some of the crown jewels. I believe Henry the Eighth tried to purchase them from the tenth duke. But the settings are unmistakable and the stones are as much a part of Belmore as the crest."
Still no sense of humor, she thought, but enough pride for all the English. She laughed inside, but her smile was small and bittersweet.
"Turn around and face the mirror."
She turned and watched him in the mirror. He placed the heavy necklace around her neck and clasped it. The gold was cold and hard against her skin. He handed her the earbobs and she put them on and stared in wonder at the woman who looked back at her. She put a hand to her lips and did something a duchess would never do. She giggled.
"Scottish."
Summoning up some proper seriousness, she composed herself, trying to look suitably arrogant, then met his eyes in the mirror.
"Turn back around."
She did, expecting him to put the bracelets on over her gloves.
A second later she was in his arms, his lips parting hers and his tongue burrowing into her mouth with that dark, desperate passion he hid so well from the rest of the world. He tried so hard to control that passion . . . and she delighted in making him lose his control of it.
"Oh!" Polly's voice sounded from somewhere far away.
Alec gave a small groan and broke off the kiss. Joy wanted to groan herself. Their gazes locked and the moment swelled between them. He started to reach for her but stopped himself, then shifted his gaze to the doorway where Polly still stood. Joy turned.
"Beg pardon, Your Grace." Polly curtsied and backed out of the room.
"Wait!" Alec held up a hand, then picked up the jewel case and held it out to the maid. "Here. See to your mistress." He crossed the room in long strides and paused at the door. "The coach will be waiting.
I'll be downstairs." He left without a backward glance.
Chapter 22
"The Duke and Duchess of Belmore!"
The royal servant's imperious voice echoed in the formal hall like a battle cry in the
Highlands
. On the arm of her husband, Joy followed a footman up one side of the double staircase of Carlton House. The distant hum of voices and music drifted down from above, but she barely noticed, for her eyes were too busy taking in the room, which was all crystal and golden light. Candles glimmered in a majestic dance of flames on the massive chandeliers that hung from the heaven-high ceiling. Walls of mirrors flanked the stairs and captured the light, reflecting it like white moonlight on the glassy
sea. She saw gold— everything was gilded or sparkling. It was as if they'd entered the
palace
of
Midas
.
Their own reflections shone in the mirrors. She couldn't tear her gaze away. That was her looking back from that mirror, covered in satin and jewels and sparkling from her toes to the top of her head. But best of all she was on the arm of Alec, her Alec.
Her hand rested atop his forearm, and she could feel his muscles tense. She glanced up at him, noticing the taut jaw, the wee spark of tension in his dark eyes, and with Scots determination she whispered, "I'll try to make you proud."
He seemed stunned by her comment, and something that looked like guilt flickered across his face, but her husband had nothing to feel guilty about, unless it was his marriage to her. Her throat tightened in reaction, but she refused to give in. She cast him a glance and saw that nothing in his stance suggested that he felt guilty or ashamed. He looked as proud as ever.
She summoned a small shred of confidence from somewhere under all that satin and tulle and thin skin, and a second later they ascended the last two marble stairs that led to an enormous room filled with a sea of elegant and suddenly curious faces.
Tonight she wasn't Joyous Fiona MacQuarrie, the Scottish witch. Tonight she was the Duchess of Belmore, on the arm of her proud duke.
She felt Alec's warm hand cover hers. "You look beautiful, Scottish."
It was as if he knew the exact words she needed to hear. A slow smile spread like warm honey across her face, and her confidence became real. "I remember. You told me."
"When?"
She stopped cold and cursed her loose tongue. "Uh, just now."
He frowned at her, then shook his head and guided her down the hallway.
She stuck her duchess chin up another inch or so and squared her small shoulders, her skirts gliding around her, waving and floating with each step she took. Her mental clock ticked, making her nervous and excited and feeling as if it would take years—aeons maybe—for them to enter the ballroom. She peered upward, above the heads of the crowd, catching the glittering light that spread from the open ballroom doors at the end of the wide corridor. Music grew louder, truer, and sweet, and it was only the thought that a duchess probably didn't sway her head to the music that kept her from her natural inclination to do so.
The crowd thickened as they approached, closing in and making her even more aware of how many people would be there to see her if she failed Alec. For the briefest of moments she understood his apprehension. There were hundreds of people here.
"What are you doing?" Alec looked down at her.
"Counting."
"What?"
"Forty-seven . . . jewels on the rug. See them sparkling? Forty-eight . . . ”
"They fell off the women's shoes and clothing. Happens at every ball, but especially a royal ball. The servants who clean up reap the rewards." He held her elbow and steered her through a tight group. He leaned down. "Any particular reason why you felt it necessary to count them?"
"Because then I don't have to look at all those staring eyes." Her whisper reeked of apprehension.
"You had best become used to it. You're the Duchess of Belmore. As such, you shall attract attention."
"Fifty-four . . . When do I meet the prince?"
"We'll be summoned in a while. This isn't a formal presentation." He looked down at her. "Scottish."
"Sixty . . . Aye?"
"No hocus-pocus."
She cast a look of dismay at the carpet. "I lost count."
His fingers tightened on her arm. "No changing the subject. No levitating. No dancing statues. No spinning clocks. And above all, no spitting of toads. No magic. Those eyes that make you so uneasy will be very alert, looking for anything to find fault with, anything about which they can create a scandal. Every eye in the place will at some time tonight be on you. Promise me—no magic."
"Tonight I am the Duchess of Belmore, your wife. Nothing more," she said firmly. A small part of her was getting tired of being reminded not to use witchcraft.
"Fine. I'll be nearby."
She watched him a second, not sure if that statement was for comfort or a warning. They continued walking down the hallway toward the ballroom where a staring crowd stood in the doorway, many of the women whispering behind fans. She looked away, glancing into each room she passed for a glimpse of what was inside, seeking comfort from the furnishings because they didn't have curious eyes.
Time then seemed to change speeds, and she saw the glimmer of ballroom light. She had time for only one quick breath before they stepped through wide doors into the ballroom.
In her most fanciful imaginings she would have never thought to see such a sight. Feathery plumes of every imaginable color—crimson, fuchsia, royal blue, canary yellow—bobbed above the waves of society people and aristocrats whose headpieces were so tall and so bejeweled that she wondered at the strength of the Englishwoman's neck. From the tops of their heads to the jewels on their toes the women of the ton were a most impressive sight of ornamental humanity. They sparkled, they glowed, they glittered as if it had snowed diamonds.
"The Duke and Duchess of Belmore!"
Her heart stopped. A second later they stepped into the swelling crowd and an ocean of eager and speculative eyes turned toward them.
"Take a deep breath or you'll faint." Alec slid his arm out of her grip and casually wrapped it around her waist, holding her under the pretext of guiding her through the crowded room.