Authors: Compromised
“I doubt it was the opera house, per se,” Max drawled. “More likely a certain dan—”
Will interrupted his smirking friend quickly. “Sir Geoffrey, how are your lovely daughters? We must beg an introduction, the ball being in their honor, after all.”
“I believe they are on the ballroom floor at the moment. At least, Evangeline is,” Romilla answered, her discerning gaze entirely focused on Viscount Fontaine. “If you like, have a glass of punch, it is particularly excellent. This set will conclude shortly, I will be happy to introduce you after. And you as well, Mr. Holt.”
Both gentlemen bowed in acquiescence.
“Well,” remarked Will, as they found their way to the refreshments table. “We have no doubt that you have the mother’s blessing.”
“Stepmother,” Max grumbled. He reached for the ladle from the punch bowl, but a long narrow hand had reached it first. Max watched as the tall, painfully thin young gentleman filled a glass halfway with the red punch. Replacing the ladle, the young man placed the cup on the table, and then, by means of some container concealed up his sleeve, poured a clear liquid into the cup, diluting the punch until it was a light pink. He looked around nonchalantly as he did so, only blushing when he saw Max watching him openly. As no one else seemed to have noted the oddity of his behavior (or the oddity of what was hiding in his sleeve), the tall young gentleman gave a wry smirk.
“Some girls need a little encouragement to, ah, enjoy the festivities,” he said, placing his hand in his breast pocket, and transferring his sleeve’s occupant there, while giving Max an easy wink, his sandy hair falling limply over his brow.
Watching the prankster make his way through the crowd, Will inquired, “What was that about?”
“I believe he’s trying to improve his odds with a particular young lady.”
“He spiked the punch?” Will asked.
“Quite.” Max took a sip from his own glass. Lady Alton had been correct; it was very good—in its undiluted state.
“Fontaine,” Will said, eyeing his friend.
“Holt,” Max replied, taking the same innocent tone.
“You’re not going to let him take advantage of some unfortunate girl who has had her wits tampered with?”
“What would you have me do, William? Charge in with my sword drawn and save the day?” Max quipped, quirking an eyebrow.
“Precisely.”
“Did I hit you too hard round the head at Gentleman Jackson’s today? I am going to wait right here, be introduced to our newest debutantes, dance one dance, and leave. You go save the unknown young lady from the perils of drink, if you feel it necessary.”
“Well, I could do that,” Will reasoned, his gaze leveled over Max’s right shoulder. “But, I am going to do you a fantastic favor and head off Mrs. Plimpton and her whistle-toothed daughter.”
Max turned and glanced behind him. Mrs. Plimpton had her daughter by the hand and was quite literally cutting her way through the crowd. Her intended target was obvious.
Max shuddered and turned back abruptly, hoping to God that the old bat hadn’t noticed he’d spotted her. He ducked underneath Will’s arm and walked away as quickly as he could without drawing attention to himself. Max heard Will call after him.
“Rescue the girl and save the day, my good man! Ah, Mrs. Plimpton, how pleasant to see you again. And your lovely daughter as well.”
GAIL
stood alone by the balcony doors, listening to the orchestra play an absolutely beautiful waltz. Not a confident dancer, she was somewhat surprised to find herself swaying to the music. She felt loose, bemused, studying the colors on the dance floor swirling in rhythm to the waltz. As she watched under heavy lids, entranced, Gail picked at the sleeve of her gown. She never realized just how interesting the feel of silk was. The feel of anything, for that matter. She ran her hand over a fluted column relief in the wall, reveling in the cold touch of marble.
This warm, amused feeling was quite foreign to Gail, but instead of being suspicious, she decided to enjoy it. The occasional giggle escaped her lips, which amused her even more. She went on swaying to the sounds of violins and French horns, until her yellow slipper caught the edge of her hem, and she stumbled face forward…
Into the arms of Lord Ommersley.
“Lord Ommersley! Thank you.” Gail spoke in between heavy breaths. “You are apparently agile enough to catch a stumblik…stumbling yellow debutante and not spill the drink you had taken the trouble to fetch for her.”
He had manners enough to seem taken aback, but Gail was too intent on righting herself to catch the mischievous glint that passed through his eyes as he studied the entrancing rise and fall of her breast. She pushed herself away from the young man’s embrace. He, however, was a bit more reluctant to let go.
“I had thought to bring you another drink,” Lord Ommersley drawled, “but now I think you may not need it.” His free hand closed over Gail’s wrist in a gentle but firm grasp.
“Oh, but I am thirsty,” Gail protested, trying to ease her wrist away from its captor, but finding herself caught.
“Well then,” Ommersley said, “come out onto the balcony, and I shall let you have your drink.”
Gail narrowed her eyes, but could not hone in on what was raising her suspicions. Before she had been enjoying her fuzzy mind—now it was becoming somewhat of a hindrance.
“The balcony?” Gail questioned. “But t’would be improper.”
“Come now,” Ommersley cajoled, tugging Gail along to the terrace doors. “We are going to be great friends, you and I. After all, I live right across the Square. I promise, a bit of air will be refreshing.”
Gail’s brow remained set in a furrowed frown. Something wasn’t right here. Before, Ommersley seemed to be very attentive, in a harmless sort of way. But now Gail could see the wicked intentions in his face, hear the fevered determination in his voice. A heavy velvet curtain separated them from most of the party, and suddenly her mind latched onto the fact that she was very alone with this man. And Gail had had enough.
With all the force she could muster, she wrenched her arm free of Ommersley’s grasp, pulling at him with such force that he spilled the drink he carried—all down the front of Gail’s dress.
“Oh!” Gail cried, as the cool liquid drenched through the cloth and hit her skin. “My dress! How awful!”
Ommersley, however, seemed to be more enraged at the thought of her breaking his grip than the ruined state of her gown. Quickly, with a snarling ferocity his hollow frame disguised, he grabbed Gail by the forearms with bruising force and attempted to shake her into submission.
Through the pounding in her ears from being so shockingly handled, Gail heard a growling whisper.
“Enough!”
As suddenly as the shaking started, it stopped. Gail was given to the wall to lean against, whilst a dark, and somehow familiar form dragged a whimpering Ommersley off by the scruff of his neck, opened the French doors to the balcony and disappeared for no more than twenty seconds. Gail could hear nothing but a few grunts through the doors, but when they reopened, only the form of her savior reemerged, wiping his hands with a handkerchief. The long figure walked toward Gail, his strides quiet but strong. As he passed a lit wall sconce, she could discern his features, and her eyes widened in shock.
Bloody Hell.
“I honestly thought you had him when you broke his grasp but he was a bit too fervent for his own good.” The man spoke as he approached, his eyes still on the balcony doors. When he turned his head, his concerned, good-natured smile quickly faded.
“Bloody Hell,” he breathed.
“
WHAT
the devil are you doing here?” Max, after a moment of shock, finally spat out.
“Me?” she expostulated. “What the devil are you doing here?”
“I was invited to this party!” Max replied, which was (marginally) true. “Although I would have thought twice about attending had I known they let in bumbling headstrong nitwits who get themselves attacked.”
“Hah! I can only question how such a conceited, overbearing ass received an invitation!” she shot back.
“Look around.” Max waved his hand to the assembled crowd, who happily went on dancing without any thought or care as to the spitting match that was going on by the balcony doors. “Everyone here is a conceited, overbearing ass!”
A snort of laughter escaped her lips. Max’s eyes narrowed as he leaned over her, placing his hand on the wall beside her head. He knew his frame to be quite imposing and, this time, as he judged by her widening eyes, she might actually take him seriously.
“The man who is currently bleeding on the balcony is a conceited, overbearing ass,” he growled, forcing her golden eyes to hold his gaze. “He could have hurt you, and would have, had I not been here.”
The girl steeled her spine. “I was doing just fine before you came.”
Max snorted. “Oh yes, you had him in your clutches. He was deeply fooled by your impression of a rag doll, unaware that at any moment you would strike.”
Aggravated, she looked up into his face—but for some reason her eyes couldn’t focus on his properly. Her hand went to her head, as her knees bent involuntarily.
“Careful there. I’ve got you.” Quickly, his arms went around her, catching her before she could fall. Max could not help but be reminded of the last time he had this woman in his embrace; she was as soft then as she was now. And as wet—he could feel her form pressing through the damp, sticky barrier of her dress. She was almost pretty, almost likeable…if only she didn’t feel the need to set his back up with every sentence.
“What’s your name?” he wondered, looking down into the hooded golden brown eyes.
She refocused and determinedly met his eyes, steadying herself there. “Propriety dictates the gentleman offer his name first.”
“You wouldn’t know propriety if it came up and shook your hand,” Max countered, but conceded to her unwavering stare. Making certain the girl could stand on her own two feet, Max stepped back and gave a very smart bow. “Maximillian Augustus St. John, Viscount Fontaine, future Earl of Longsbowe, of Longsbowe Park, manor, and estates, at your reluctant service.”
“It makes sense for you to have a name as pompous as you are, Max.” Her smirk was drunkenly lopsided. “I am going to call you Max from now on—I doubt I care to remember all the St. John Augustine nonsense.”
There it is
, Max thought,
there is the reason I find you so terribly provoking
. That thought, however, he managed to keep to himself.
“And what, pray tell, is your name, brat?” Max gritted out. “Hester? Prudence? Mabel? Something as irritating and headstrong as you, perhaps?”
Her eyes lowered. “Gail,” she mumbled, worrying the lace netting of her dress.
“Just Gail?”
“Just Gail,” she countered, lifting her head again, with renewed fire.
“I think I like Brat better. More fitting. Haven’t you a surname? Some poor family must be forced to survive you.”
Gail visibly bristled at this jab and opened her mouth to answer, but was quickly interrupted by a muffled giggle. The giggle was soon joined by a masculine voice, whispering inaudible but heated phrases, eliciting more giggles. Both the giggle and the heated masculine voice were headed toward the balcony doors.
Max put his hand over Gail’s mouth and quickly dragged her into the shadows, behind the curtain.
His mouth at her ear, he whispered, “Believe me, Brat, neither of us wants to be found having private words with the other. It would cause only embarrassment…and possibly marriage.”
Wisely, Gail kept silent.
They watched as a voluptuous Titian-haired woman in an extremely well-formed dress tiptoed past on the arm of a gentleman, who seemed to delight in putting his hand in the most inappropriate place on her posterior. The lady, however, didn’t seem to mind.
Once the frisky couple had closed the doors behind them, Max released his hand from Gail’s mouth, set his head back against the cool stone, and breathed a sigh of relief.
“Well,” he said, “since there were no screams issuing back at us, I gather they didn’t see that conceited, overbearing ass I left behind the potted lemon tree. Although why the Altons have lemon trees outside in this climate is beyond me.” He returned his gaze to the girl. “What, nothing to add? No witty rejoinder?”
Max took Gail by the shoulders and turned her about to face him, which turned out to be the wrong idea. The sudden movement combined with the recent lack of air behind the stuffy curtain and Max’s hand, and none too few glasses of punch, had brought forth a wave of nausea that could not be denied.
There, behind the curtain, near the terrace doors, Gail lost control of her stomach.
All over Max’s only pair of dancing shoes.
“Oh for the love of…!”
Max swore with a fluency Gail likely would have admired if she hadn’t been in such a state. His face flushed to a bright, mottled red, he strained to keep his voice to a fervent whisper.
“Brat! Er, Gail! Are you all right? Can you take some deep breaths for me? Good. Now what’s your family name? Where are your parents?”