In the Brief Eternal Silence (41 page)

Miss Murdock heard these rustlings about her
in an ever increasing wave. She saw the crowd break back as
someone, who was not overly tall, strode through them. There was a
great deal of back clapping of this gentleman, and as though all
had been waiting for something to begin some great, and somehow not
quite decent, revelry, the crowd took on a new element that was a
little frightening.

To her dismay, there seemed to be a sudden
turning of heads, a searching throughout the large expanse of the
ball room, and then first one set of eyes found the Duchess and
then settled upon Miss Murdock. And then another set of eyes, and
then another, and then there were whisperings of there. . . there.
. . that must be she. . . Nonsense. . . Can't be. . . But all the
same a path opened like magic between herself and he who had strode
through the door and had charged the room, and even before the last
few people fell back, she knew with dread in her heart that it
would be St. James.

And she sat like a dowd on the arm of the
settee, her punch tipping precariously in its cup, feeling her
world fall from beneath her feet.

Andrew popped in front of her, his face a
comical (if she had been in the proper frame of mind to appreciate
it) mask of disconcertedness and he said, “Lizzie. . .?” and then
even he fell back, and as she was certain that his retreat was
motivated by the look on her own face, it caused her some alarm for
she could not even guess what expression she must be
displaying.

Then she saw St. James. The path that had
opened for him was narrow, and it closed in behind him as he
passed. It changed some, a little to the left, then a little to the
right, as someone would be jostled out by those who were shoving to
see from behind, but it never closed. And the fact that he was
barely taller than most of the women, and certainly shorter than
most of the men, made it all seem a joke, like a court jester
snagging the crown of a King and wearing it for His Highness's
entertainment, swaggering and ridiculous.

But St. James did not swagger and he was not
ridiculous. If anything, he seemed to find the crowd and its
actions ridiculous, as if the jester was suddenly revealed as true
royalty, and the crowd as so many imposters. But perhaps only Miss
Murdock, and the Duchess surely, were able to read that snapping,
mocking disdain in his eyes as he walked toward them.

Miss Murdock, despite her complete feeling of
being floored by an unseen, unexpected blow had a brief small
thought run through her mind. Something has changed. Oh, Lord.
Something has changed. And then she had no more time for any
thoughts for her attention was caught by the bright red, swollen
palm print on his cheek, and her own cheeks began to burn as though
in sympathy.

He reached them, his coiled tenseness covered
in resplendent red velvet with Wisteria lace at sleeves and neck,
and stockings of the same color. His gold eyes dwelt with
intentness on Miss Murdock and she made some effort to school her
features, cool them, remembered Andrew's description of her being
'dewy fresh' and had to bite her lip to keep from letting loose
with a nervous laugh that she was sure in the sudden hush of the
room would have come out sounding brayingly hysterical.

Everyone quieted, waiting for the action that
would stamp the tone of the rest of the evening (and very possibly
the remainder of the Season). If St. James did something
outrageous, if etiquette was breached any further than it already
had been by his merely striding in with that mark upon his face
that branded him for all to see that although he was a lord, he was
surely no gentleman, then it would seem that the very foundation of
Almacks would be rocked and toppled and all decorum lost. Mayhaps,
some of them were eager to be released from those constraints.

St. James tore his eyes from Miss Murdock,
shifted, bent down, kissed his grandmother on her cheek. “Thank
you,” he whispered.

In a high, loud, fluting voice, the duchess
answered, “Humph! Took you long enough to get here!”

And the people gathered that night found an
unexpected satisfaction in this display of devotion by grandson to
grandmother, and her two pronged remark seemed to say to all of
them that St. James, at last, had gotten there. And if he was a
little marked upon his arrival, they suddenly did not care, for he
was a Duke, after all.

The musicians which had delayed playing at
all this fuss, read the mood of the crowd and struck up playing. As
fast as Miss Murdock and St. James had been at the mercy of the
scrutiny of the crowd, they were now ignored, and only then did St.
James return his gaze to her and say, “Miss Murdock, you are
looking very well tonight.”

“Was it worth it, milord?” she asked in a
strained undertone. “To come and provoke me once again?”

He cocked his head slightly to the side. “We
shall see,” he answered and held out his arm to her. “Shall we
dance?”

She shook her head, feeling as though she
were paralyzed on the arm of the settee, and that if she rose the
sudden oblivion everyone seemed to be holding them to would stop
and they would again be devoured by the crowd's eyes.

“Come, Miss Murdock,” St. James coaxed.
“There is no point in my coming here at all and suffering through
that if you refuse to dance with me.”

“It was your choice, milord, to subject
yourself to that. I, on the other hand, had no choice at all.”

She moved her hand as she spoke, handing her
glass to Andrew, who stood exuding malevolence at her side, for
fear that she would spill it in her agitation. Before she could
replace her hand into her lap, St. James took it in his own and
tucked it into the crook of his arm. “If we are to argue, let us go
onto the dance floor to do it, for we will in fact have more
privacy there than standing here elbow to elbow with this
crowd.”

She saw the sense in that, for they were
playing a country dance, one she was familiar with and where each
had a partner, and they would not be split up as they may be in a
different dance. “Very well, milord,” she agreed, and rose from the
arm of the settee.

As soon as she stood up, she was aware it was
a mistake. There was no longer the obvious staring they had been
subject to, but the furtive, speculating glances were in their own
way as bad. She clung to St. James' arm, shaking a little, and to
her alarm, he did not lead her to the edge of the dancers but in
amongst them until they were at the very middle of the floor. Then
he took her hand in one of his, and her elbow in his other, and
they began moving.

He was silent, which Miss Murdock was
grateful for, since she was concentrating on the steps, and then
when she seemed to have it smoothly and looked up into his face
from her diminutive height, she saw that he was smiling. “We have
it now, yes, Miss Murdock?”

“I—I think so,” she answered, a little
embarrassed. “It has been a long time since I have danced, and
never,” she chanced looking around, “in a setting such as
this.”

“It has been a very long while since I have
danced also, Miss Murdock,” he reminded her.

“Oh, yes, of course!” she exclaimed. “For I
am given to understand that you have never come to Almacks
before.”

“So you see, we are both suffering
equally.”

“I fear you are suffering much more, milord,
for I do not have such a topic for conversation upon my cheek,” she
pointed out.

“Oh, do not start, Miss Murdock,” he
grimaced. “For I have heard quite enough about it already
today.”

“Have you, indeed?”

“Indeed.”

She became serious. “I am sorry. In
retrospect, I fear I overreacted.” Which she felt was true, for if
she hadn't felt compelled to slap Andrew after his kiss this
evening, she could not guess what had come over her to induce her
to slap St. James for what was in reality a far less serious
offense.

He lifted an amused brow. “Are you, Miss
Murdock? If I were to repeat my performance, I would be safe from
any further blows? Perhaps I should try my luck now before you
change your mind.”

“I do not find that funny, milord,” she
warned, and changed the subject. “How is it you were able to come
tonight, at any rate? I had it on good account that you could not
obtain vouchers.”

“Really? And from whom did you hear that bit
of scandalous gossip?”

“My lady's maid, milord.”

His lips quirked but he did not question what
discussion she had been having about himself with her lady's maid.
“Well, she was correct. You may thank my grandmother for helping to
subject you to my presence this evening.”

“Oh!” she exclaimed. It all became clear to
her now. The Duchess's cackling over her missive from St. James
this morning and the unexpected caller, Lady Frobisher. “Oh dear,”
she said, a little shocked. “Now that I think upon it, I dare say
when one of the Ladies of the board visited today, that your
grandmother bought her off!”

St. James gave a startled, loud laugh,
drawing a good deal of attention. “I should not have put it past
her,” he said, still chuckling. Then seeing her haunted look, he
asked, “What is it?”

“It is just that—all these people!” She shook
her head in exasperation. “You did not have to do this to me,
milord!” she accused him.

“Look at me, Miss Murdock. No, not my neck or
my chest or whatever it is you are studying upon. Look at my
eyes.”

She did with reluctance, found that they
steadied her, like a horse shying away from a jump and hearing its
rider calling with calm authority that it was to take it, and then
finding that it could. “I shall get you through this, Miss Murdock,
if you only focus on me and do not begin to look at all the others.
We are alone and there is no one else here. See, I hold your hand,
and we hold each other's elbows, and we make a little circle with
just you and I. They are outside of it, and they can not breach it
if you do not look at them.”

She held onto his eyes with her own. As if to
remind herself as well as him, she said, “I trusted you. And I fear
very much that what you have done to me this evening was catch me
in some well-laid trap, which I can find no purpose for, but a trap
all the same. Those are not the actions of a trustworthy man,
milord. Does that not concern you?”

“Miss Murdock?”

“Yes?”

“Must you always ask questions that I can not
immediately answer?”

“Oh,” she said and felt deflated, for she had
been expecting, just a little bit, that he would have some ready
explanation that would reassure her that she could trust him.

The music ended, and they dropped their arms
from each other and stood for a moment on the floor. St. James
brought his finger to rub across his lip. Miss Murdock said in a
subdued voice, “You had better escort me back to your grandmother
now, milord.”

The chords of a waltz struck up. “No, Miss
Murdock. I think we have your question to answer,” he replied, and
for the second time that evening, her hand was taken, held out to
the correct position, and a man's arm settled around her waist. She
remembered Andrew's instruction, placed her hand upon St. James'
shoulder, and it seemed as though her hand was heated by a low
burning flame. His arm around her waist was searing fire, and when
they moved out into the dance, she glanced up into his eyes and saw
to her utter consternation that he had hooded them against her,
leaving only part of their expression to be seen and covering the
other half.

Something has changed.

“Did I tell you, Miss Murdock, that your hair
is very becoming in that mode?”

“No, I—I don't think you did,” she answered.
His body, fluid and taut, controlled their steps, their rhythm.

“I suppose I was remiss and did not tell you
that your skin warms my eyes when I look upon your neck, your
shoulders. . . and elsewhere?”

She faltered in her dancing, the low swoop of
her neckline embarrassing her when before she had been satisfied
that it was in fact, quite modest.

“Ah, it warms my eyes all the more when you
flush rosily as you are doing now.” He brought his half-hooded eyes
again to her face, her own rounded eyes. “And as I told you once
before, you have very fine eyes and they appear all the finer when
you blush, for you look so suddenly exposed. You enjoy hiding, do
you not, Miss Murdock—” He leaned his head toward hers, drawing
back his lids and the full impact of his golden stare impaled her
brown ones. “Lizzie. . .” He drew out her name into a teasing taste
on his tongue. His nostrils flared and she realized that he had
drawn her inexorably closer to him in the moves of the waltz, until
they were not quite touching, but she could feel his heat radiating
from his body like so many small, damning flames.

With an effort, she put more distance between
them, and even that was bittersweet, for his arm slid around her
waist with maddening friction so that she wanted to embrace him and
flee from him all at once. “Do not make me slap your face again
here in Almacks, milord,” she warned him in a frightened, hushed
voice.

“But that would answer so much speculation,”
he returned. “For I am sure everyone is dying to know whose palm
print it is upon my cheek and if it could, in fact, be from the
young lady now dancing in my arms. Shall we satisfy their
curiosity? I think we shall.”

The blood came roaring into her ears, and her
feet deserted her, leaving her standing still, facing him. That
they were utterly conspicuous, she had no doubt. The music went on
and the other dancers moved in circles around them. And she was
certain he was going to kiss her, for reasons known only to
himself, and she was equally certain she would slap him, for her
hand was jerking in his own for release and she was unable to
control her response any more than she had been able to control her
heart's quick thumping and the weak, warm flush of her body that
evidenced just how very damnedably enmeshed she was in the spell he
had laid so thickly, adroitly and bloody quickly upon her.