DeButy & the Beast (17 page)

Anya tried to think of other things. Valerie was so happy, and William Mathias paid very close attention to her. After watching them dance once, Anya had no reservations about the man. He definitely loved Valerie for her bosom; his gaze had rarely strayed elsewhere.

Julian never left her side. They had eaten, though with the bloody corset strangling her she could not eat much, and they had danced. Julian said it was improper for them to dance together so often, but he would not allow any other man to hold her, or to have the view their closeness afforded. Perhaps the corset, painful as it was, was a worthwhile sacrifice. Just for this evening.

She adored the way Julian held her when they danced. They had practiced, in the south parlor at home, but something between she and her husband had changed since those particular lessons. The air around them sparkled, she was sure of it. Her heart beat steady and hard, but every now and then something in her stomach fluttered. Desire. Anticipation. Love. Love, most of all.

She adored the way Julian looked at her. Tonight the beast lurked in his dark eyes, eyes as possessive as the arms that held her.

He leaned down and whispered in her ear. "I suppose we could retire early."

"Yes."

"Your grandmother is standing near the ballroom door. As soon as she moves, we'll sneak out."

Anya tilted her head and smiled at her husband. "Have you ever
sneaked
anywhere before?"

"No."

"I thought not." He was so straightforward, so diligently honest. One would not think he had a devil-may-care bone in his body.

"But the alternative," he revealed softly, "waiting until the wee hours of the morning when the party is done, is impossible."

"You want me," she whispered.

"More than I've ever wanted anything."

Anya glanced toward the doorway, where Grandmother stood. When would she move away? To dance, to eat, to visit with an old friend. Finally, she spotted Mrs. Mansfield and moved to the other side of the room.

"Grandmother has departed from the doorway."

"Good." Julian took her arm, and they turned toward the wide doorway. Their escape was going well, until an agitated red-faced young man came up from behind and grabbed Julian by the shoulder.

"Dr. DeButy," the intruder said breathlessly. Anya recognized him as Katherine Mansfield's youngest son, James, the one Seymour had been rooming with during their stay here. "Would you please come with me? One of the maids has burned herself."

"I'm not really..." Julian began, protesting, but James turned and ran back to the kitchen, and he had no recourse but to follow. "I'll be right back," he promised.

Anya sighed and searched the crowded room for a familiar face. A friendly face. She knew so few of these people. Grandmother was seated on the opposite side of the room, with her good friend Mrs. Mansfield. They seemed to be having a pleasant conversation, and Grandmother even tapped her foot in time to the music.

Seymour was also on the other side of the room, a fact Anya noted as if minding the location of a poisonous snake. She had no desire to speak to Seymour any more than she had to. She had noticed her cousin and Margaret March dancing earlier in the evening. They were a well-suited couple: two vipers.

Finally she caught a flash of Valerie's gown, a pale pink, and headed in that direction. Anya wanted to tell her cousin that Grandmother had been right. She had taken Julian's breath away. The corset, while painful, was perhaps a useful contraption after all.

As she drew closer, stepping around the edge of the crowded dance floor, she saw that Valerie stood with a small group of people. William Mathias was there, standing very close to Valerie, as well as a number of others. They seemed to be crowded around someone or something of great interest. As Anya came closer a few in the group laughed, though Valerie did not.

When she was close enough to see the flash of red through the crowd, Anya's heart leaped in an unpleasant way. She would rather pass the time speaking to Seymour than to listen to Margaret March prattle on! She knew how deadly dull the woman's idea of conversation could be.

The music ended, and suddenly there was a lull, a long moment of silence. A voice rising from the crowd filled the room. "She was a king's whore and a savage. Anya DeButy might dress in a fine gown and speak with a charming accent, but she's still and always will be a whore and a savage."

In an instinctive move, Anya's hand fell over her concealed knife. And then it dropped. Her heart was suddenly heavy, the joy she had felt when Julian held her was gone. She did not care what a woman like Margaret March thought of her or said about her. What hurt, what broke her heavy heart, was that Valerie stood there and listened, and said nothing in Anya's defense. She did not laugh like the others, and her face had gone pale... but she said nothing.

Someone noticed that Anya stood within earshot, just as the orchestra began to play again. Then another person saw her, and then another. The throng parted, until Anya and Margaret could see each other and a short corridor formed by well-dressed revelers stretched between them.

Heart in her throat, Anya stepped through the pathway, past the shocked people who watched with great interest, as if this were a play, a show for their entertainment.

Margaret glared at Anya, a feral gleam in her eyes. "Did I say something that wasn't true?" she asked calmly. "Are you going to call me a liar?"

"No," Anya said softly.

"Poor Julian. I did think better of him. Didn't he know that it wasn't necessary to marry you in order to get you into his bed?" Margaret's eyes hardened. "Tell us, Anya, did you really run about the house naked when you first arrived? When Seymour told me I scarcely believed it, but..."

"Yes," Anya said, cocking her head to watch Margaret's face. Where was the evil that should be so evident? She moved closer, snaking through the crowd that closed behind her until she was trapped in the midst of these curious, shocked, titillated people.

"What is the difference between a king's whore and a prostitute who will sell herself to any man who walks by?" Margaret asked.

Anya stopped when she stood no more than a foot away from Margaret. "I do not know. Perhaps you can tell me."

Those who did not know of Margaret's less-than-virtuous behavior might not catch Anya's meaning, but the widow herself certainly did. Her face went red and her hands formed small fists. "You are a despicable person, and you must've tricked Julian into marrying you." She no longer tried to hide her anger. "You are no better than an animal. Surely you don't think your husband truly cares for you. I understand your grandmother is going to pay Julian a tidy sum for taking you. I wonder if it's enough to make up for the sacrifices he's made. Good heavens, for a respected physician to marry the Beast of Rose Hill, the sum must have been great."

The corset choked Anya, and she was close to tears. Tears! Her eyes burned, and she felt the growing moisture gather there. Weeping for
Romeo and Juliet
was not a sin, but to allow this woman to make her cry would be.

Anya cast a quick, condemning glance to a pale Valerie. If anyone were to say bad things about her, Anya would come to Valerie's defense without a second thought. She would fight for those she loved. It did not matter what Margaret March or these other people thought of her, it did not matter that they thought her an animal, that they knew her husband had been purchased at a high price. But Valerie stood there and said nothing, and that was what hurt Anya's heart.

"I am going home," she said softly. She turned and pushed her way past a squealing young lady in a yellow gown and a tall skinny man who was so anxious to get out of her way that he almost knocked down the lady standing behind him.
 

"Anya," Valerie called softly. But it was too late.

Chapter 10

The kitchen maid's burn had been blessedly minor. Julian had applied a bit of salve, offered a few calming words and a neat bandage, and once that was done the young servant finally quit crying. It had been the hysterical tears that made James Mansfield panic, not the severity of the injury.

Julian searched the crowded ballroom for Anya, certain his eyes would fall upon her right away. That red hair, that gold gown. The almost tangible energy that radiated from her. A disquiet settled in his stomach when he did not see her immediately. He loved her. He wanted her. He was still not sure what she might do next.

When he finally decided Anya was not in the room, a scene on the other side of the room caught his eye. Valerie. Surely she knew where Anya had gone. He was halfway across the room, weaving past and around the dancers, when he realized that Valerie stood toe to toe with Margaret. Neither of them appeared to be happy.

"You should be ashamed of yourself," Valerie said, her cheeks blushing bright pink and her hands working nervously. A quiet and seemingly supportive William Mathias stood at her back. "Anya is a sweet, wonderful woman who suffered a horrid tragedy in her childhood."

Margaret looked down her nose at the plump, fair-haired Valerie. "No matter what the cause, she is exactly as I described her, a..."

"Julian!" Valerie caught sight of him and rushed away from Margaret while the widow was in mid-sentence. "You must stop her."

"Margaret?"

"Anya! She left. She said she was going home."

Julian's heart lurched. He knew that, more often than not, home to Anya was a place far away from North Carolina. Everything had been going so well. What had happened to make her run this way? All that mattered now was stopping her before she went too far. He headed for the door, not even glancing at Margaret as he passed her. Valerie kept up with quick steps, and Mathias was right behind her.

"Tell her I'm sorry."

"For what?" Julian's eyes were on the front door.

"Tell her I'm not brave like she is, but... but that I did defend her after she left." Valerie sniffled. "I should have said something sooner, I know. I'm such a coward."

"You are not," Mathias said, reaching out to place a hand on Valerie's shoulder. "You were quite brave."

Julian stopped with his hand on the front doorknob. His instinct was to run after Anya, but he needed to know exactly why she had run. "What happened?"

Valerie's trembling lips hardened. "It was that awful Mrs. March. She said terrible things about Anya."

"Such as?"

"That... that she was an animal, and that she was a king's... a..." Valerie looked pleadingly up at her suitor, and Mathias leaned forward to whisper the vile word into Julian's ear.

Julian's fingers twitched, and a ball of fury joined the worry in the pit of his stomach.

"And she told everyone that Anya used to wander around the house without clothes, and that Grandmother... bought you for her."

Julian groaned. Not this. Not now. "She can't have been gone long."

"Just a few minutes."

He burst through the front door and onto the lawn. Carriages and drivers crowded the well-lit driveway. Torches burned bright in the night. Julian headed for the nearest driver.

"Red hair, gold dress," he snapped.

The man pointed to the road, and Julian cut through the grass. Once on the road, he ran. The lane was narrow and lined on either side by a well-kept white fence and lush fields. His heart pumped hard, and not from the exertion of running. What if he didn't find her? If any woman would be brave enough to strike out on her own, to walk away without looking back, it would be Anya. She would have no second thoughts about sneaking aboard a ship bound for parts unknown, and then demanding that they take her home. Home to Puerta Sirena. The thought of actually losing her made him run faster.

He hadn't gone far before he finally spotted her. There was enough moonlight to illuminate the narrow road, to shine upon Anya's gold dress and her copper hair, as she stalked down the road ripping pins from her elaborate coif and shaking her red tresses down one strand at a time.

"Anya," he called as he ran after her.

She must be able to hear. He was certainly close enough, but still she did not answer or turn around to acknowledge him.

"Anya!" He ran faster. She didn't slow her step, but she didn't run from him, either. He finally caught up with her, wrapped his arms around her waist, and spun her around.

He expected to see tears, and he did. A few drops hung in her eyes and glistened in the moonlight. He expected to see anger, and he did. Fury shone in those tearful eyes as surely as the moon did. He had not expected his own heart to break when he saw her face, but it did.

"You don't have to run," he whispered.

"I do. I am going home." She tried, not very vigorously or successfully, to shake him loose.

"Margaret is a vindictive, vicious person, and you should not allow her to upset you."

"Vindictive and vicious mean the same thing," she said, pouting slightly. "And your
puta
did not upset me. It was... it was…" Her lower lip trembled.

He had heard enough of the story to know what troubled her. "Valerie?"