Cates, Kimberly (26 page)

She'd glimpsed it in his hooded eyes, sensed it in the rare brush of his fingers against her, noticed it in the lines carved more prominently about his resolute mouth. She'd wanted so much to go to him, ask what was wrong. But she knew him too well to harbor the slightest hope that he might tell her.

Her moroccan heel caught on the slight train of her gown, and only Barton's steady arm kept her from landing in a heap on the floor.

"It's been so long since I've worn dancing slippers," she confided, shaking the billows of fabric loose. "Perhaps I should be relieved that the captain isn't here to see me embarrass myself!"

"Not for a moment, miss!" Barton protested. "I feel sorry for the captain, and I know he regrets missing the chance to escort the loveliest lady in Ireland into the party."

Pale and strained as he was from all that had happened, the young man was so earnest, trying so very hard to please her, that Rhiannon forced a smile. Even so, she doubted she could hide the sinking feeling in her stomach. The loveliest lady? A pleasing fantasy, that. But pure nonsense nonetheless. Two of the young military wives, lively May Weston and merry Sylvie Fordyce, had surprised Rhiannon by charging into the captain's quarters armed with bundles full of rice powder and hair combs, and all the other incomprehensible equipment necessary to turn a woman into a fashion plate.

Laughing with unabashed delight, the two friends had claimed they were thoroughly sick of each other's company, and that the arrival of any young lady of genteel birth was a treat beyond measure. That if Rhiannon would allow them to help with her toilette for the ball, they would be quite overcome with pleasure.

Their offer had nearly undone Rhiannon, her eyes burning, an unexpected lump forming in her throat. It had been so very long since any woman had offered her friendship. And she'd lost herself in the delightful feminine chaos of what Sylvie called mighty preparations.

All afternoon the women and their two maids had fussed and curled, pinned and plaited. But in the end, even two such renowned military belles couldn't transform Rhiannon into the kind of flawless, elegant beauty Lion would find attractive. The gown—pale green satin, kissed with roses and wisps of lace—already bore the marks of her ineptitude, skirts crumpled by Moll, Cook's six-year-old daughter. The gap-toothed mite had been most grievously offended when Milton mowed her down while chasing an imaginary rabbit. Rhiannon had scooped up the weeping babe, kissing her scraped elbow better, then made a sneak attack on the madhouse of a kitchen to purloin a bit of sugar rock for Moll to suck on.

From the child's point of view, their adventure had been a glorious success, but somehow Rhiannon was certain Lion would not find it so.

She sighed. What was the matter with her? She'd long since given up wishing to be something she wasn't. Even back at Primrose Cottage, she'd seen her own flaws clearly enough, accepted the fact that she would never be beautiful, at least not in the common way, that she would never be elegant or sophisticated.

But at Primrose she'd had her papa's adoration. His assurance that she had her own far more valuable gifts, even if elegance and sophistication were not among them. But Papa had failed to understand that every woman, at some time in her life, wished desperately for beauty and charm, grace and elegance, that ability to dazzle that the darlings of society took for granted. Rhiannon was wishing now.

She felt Barton stiffen into his most military posture as their arrival was announced to the company— which was completely assembled, except for the two of them, Rhiannon realized, more than a little abashed. It seemed the misadventure with Moll had taken more time than she'd thought.

Lieutenant Williams strode over to pay his respects. Sylvie and May rushed over to greet her. She glimpsed Archie Whitting and his wife, their faces glowing with astonishment and love.

And her heart ached.

There had been nights, when her solitary campsite was quiet, and the darkness had fallen, when she'd looked up at the stars scattered across the heavens. She'd imagined this—the shimmering strains of violins drifting on air perfumed by countless velvet-petaled blossoms. Handsome men garbed in their finest, seeking the smiles of ladies aswirl in heavenly gowns. Laughter and endless conversations, girlish hopes and dreams hidden in hearts pounding beneath silver-thread lace.

In her dreams, Rhiannon herself stood among them, her delicate fan clutched in fingers trembling in anticipation. She waited for one man to stride through the crowd, take her hand, and lead her to the floor, knowing it didn't matter to him that her unruly curls were tumbling from their pins, that her gown was smudged, or that she couldn't think of anything bright and witty to say. All he wanted was her face turned up to his, no feminine arts, no flirting or flattering. Rather, something purer, more genuine, a sharing of hopes and dreams, laughter and tears. Love. She'd reconciled herself to the fact that she'd lost all hope of such magic when the gypsy cart rattled down the tree-lined lane, leaving behind Primrose Cottage and the life she'd known. But still, she took the old dream out occasionally, like a pressed flower from a memory box, to hold it, ever so gently, in her hand.

Had some part of her hoped that the fates had given her one last chance to realize her girlish dreams? One night to reach out again for such perfection? If she
had
been naive enough to harbor such hopes, at least now she was realistic enough to surrender them.

For now the mysterious suitor who had haunted her dreams had a face. Arrogant cheekbones, white-blond hair, a jaw chiseled with incredible strength, and eyes sparkling diamond-fire blue with intelligence and secret humor. A mouth held so firm to hide tenderness and longing, terrified of revealing that he needed anything, anyone.

Rhiannon fought back the sadness, attempting to lock away her crushing disappointment as one of the men led her out to take her place in a cotillion. It didn't matter that her own hopes had been dashed. The soldiers and their wives were so very kind, and they wanted so much to please her. She must never let them know.

Lion wasn't here.

She might as well have been alone on a sea-swept hill, dreaming.

Count on the Irish to be contrary, Redmayne mused, feeling ill-tempered. Forever plotting rebellion, but tonight, when a man could have used the distraction, there wasn't so much as a ripple anywhere on the whole accursed island.

He jammed his hands into the capacious pockets of his jacket, a habit he'd always found appalling. But at least it kept his fingers from picking at buttons or braid or whatever else they could find to occupy themselves.

So this was what a guilty conscience felt like. No wonder the Irish were forever beating a path to the confessional door. If a priest could absolve sin and banish this grinding misery, Redmayne would be tempted to try confession himself—that is, if it weren't for the fact that in his whole life Lionel Redmayne had never once admitted he was wrong to anybody. Not even himself.

But tonight... he'd made certain he was neck deep in an altercation with one of the local landowners as the hour of the celebration had approached. He'd goaded the man and strung out the confrontation to ridiculous lengths, grimly wondering if he was attempting to provoke the landowner to murder. In the end, Mr. O'Hara had shown the good sense to stomp off—a most astonishing act of self-restraint—muttering questions about the sanity of the English in general and the captain in particular.

It was an insult that definitely required satisfaction, perhaps a lovely duel set for dawn, but Redmayne had held his tongue. He had an aversion to killing a man for telling the truth. And no one was questioning the captain's sanity more than the captain himself.

He'd merely fled his office, still littered with countless reminders of Rhiannon and how deeply he was going to disappoint her when he failed to appear at the anniversary celebration. Locking the door behind him, he paced out into the night. But still he found no peace.

The camp was quiet, deserted, except for the few unlucky men who had drawn guard duty. He could hear the faint echoes of lilting dance music as it drifted toward him, his imagination filling with the scene he'd witnessed countless times, to his eternal boredom. A military ball. Despite the unusual presence of the rather nervous enlisted men, it was the same game it always was. Constant vying for the most beautiful woman's hand, lust visible in men's eyes, cunning in their ladies', as all sought to better their position. It had wearied him, astonishing as that was, for no one understood better the benefit of using such opportunities to one's advantage.

At least that was what he'd always thought. Now, as he stood in the darkness alone, he wondered if he'd been mistaken. The thing that had wearied him had not been the usual social machinations but rather those few fortunate couples—rare, but ever present— who had smiled into each other's eyes, protected from all that shallowness and petty nonsense by the love that had surrounded them.

Men who would gladly have laid down their sword for the lady who held their heart. Women who would have followed them even if all the medals for bravery and the marks of rank and honor had been stripped away, who would still have gazed at them as if they were the greatest heroes ever born.

Women like Rhiannon,
a ruthless voice inside him whispered.

Redmayne swore under his breath, wishing he could kick something and not feel a complete fool. Damn the woman, gazing up at him as if he were a hero wouldn't change anything. It wouldn't wash his soul clean of every vile thing he'd done. Necessary things. Ruthless things. Inevitable things, he'd thought at the time. But vile nonetheless.

He closed his eyes, trying to blot out the sudden, painfully clear picture of her when Barton had gone to fetch her. Confusion, a valiant attempt to hide her disappointment to protect the boy's feelings. She'd smile and dance, but the whole time, she'd be glancing at the door, waiting, hoping....

Better she see him for the blackguard he was. The bastard who had kissed her, not because he had the wit to appreciate her rare sweetness, but to further his own ends. The son of a bitch who had all but seduced her in an ill conceived plot, then had the temerity to dare to want her, truly want her, after he'd wronged her so unforgivably.

And now he'd hurt her again, hadn't he? Agreed to the dance, ordered the most perfect dress he could imagine for her unique brand of beauty. Then he had failed to show his face at the celebration because he was too much of a coward to... to what? To see the shimmering welcome in the most honest eyes he'd ever seen, and to know he didn't deserve it?

Redmayne grimaced, his stomach turning with self-loathing as he remembered countless things she'd done for him, little kindnesses, gentle touches, so many favors he'd done nothing to merit. The whole garrison thought she was his betrothed. If he abandoned her the night through, wouldn't they gossip about it? Not overtly. No, they would not dare. No man in this garrison would dare to question Captain Redmayne. But they'd be
thinking,
God curse them. Murmuring among themselves. Hell, the whispers had probably already begun. And with Rhiannon's sensitivity and strange intuition...

Not that he believed in it. Not really. Yet...

Perhaps he'd done nothing to encourage Rhiannon's kindness, but she'd certainly done nothing to earn his careless cruelty. How much longer could the infernal fete drag on, anyway? He'd make an appearance for her sake, then leave. Simple. It would be quite simple. He wouldn't even have to dance.

Resolutely, he turned and started toward the music, with the stride of a man marching into battle.

The instant he entered the ballroom, he heard it, a ripple of recognition running through the crowd of soldiers and ladies. A battery of eyes turned toward him. But not with the vulturish anticipation he'd seen in so many other ballrooms—an eagerness to see someone else's humiliation or pain. If he didn't know better, he'd think the lot of them were damned defensive on Rhiannon's behalf, aggravated with the villain who had dared to disappoint her.

He contrived to appear bored, wishing to hell they'd all just go back about their business as his own gaze scanned the crowd. But suddenly he heard a glad cry.

The pleasure in it pierced through him. He turned, to see Rhiannon, abandoning her seat beside lame Jemmy Carver. In a swirl of seafoam green, she hurried across the room toward Redmayne, a halo of curls wreathing her pink cheeks, her smile soft and joyous, so sincere one could almost believe she was a woman in love rushing to greet her betrothed.

Redmayne had rarely loathed himself more than he did at that moment. She'd nearly reached him before he had the wit to go out to meet her. But suddenly he saw new emotions darting across her face—uncertainty, admiration, awe.

He didn't want to see those things in her eyes. They made something twist in the dead regions of his heart.

"I thought you wouldn't come," she said. "That you—you didn't want to."

Trust his briar rose to admit her own vulnerability with complete openness.

"I'm so very glad you changed your mind," she confided.

He bowed low over her hand, not out of politeness, but to master the shame spilling through him. "You should be furious with me, my dear, ignore me most decidedly for my rudeness."

He straightened in time to see her eyes mist, her gloved hand reaching out to catch his.

"What point would there be in that? I've been waiting for you, hoping so much you would walk through those doors. If I pretended to be angry, I wouldn't be able to talk with you. Tell you"—she caught a little breath—"Lion, you look so beautiful!"

She surprised a laugh out of him. He glanced down, aware that sometime earlier, he'd changed into his dress uniform for appearance' sake, though he had no intention even then of suffering through the ball.

"You look so—so perfect. Not a crease or a smudge." Was there a bit of wistfulness in her tone? "You are the most beautiful man I have ever seen. And to think"—a dimple appeared in her cheek— "that everyone here believes you to be in love with
me.
I'm afraid that throws into question the intelligence of your garrison, Captain."