Nicole Jordan (15 page)

Caro tried to ignore the pang of distress that thought caused, and instead considered how to contrive a meeting. Sir Gawain’s ball would provide a prime opportunity, unless she asked Ryder to arrange it beforehand. Yet such a blatant request would earn Ryder’s curiosity and incite questions she wouldn’t care to answer….

No, Caro decided, she would handle the introductions herself.

She couldn’t deny that she wanted Max, but she wouldn’t give in to her foolish urges the way she had once done. The less she entangled herself in his life, the more easily she could bear his leaving this time.

She would do her best to see him established in society, with a woman who could prove a match for his remarkable passion. And then their competition would end, and she could finally conquer the irrational, deplorable, undeniable attraction she still felt for him.

To his regret, Max saw nothing of Caro over the next several days. She was busy assisting the doctor and caring for the island’s patients, of course, but he suspected she was purposely avoiding him.

He missed her keenly, although admittedly he had plenty to occupy his time. He swam regularly in the cove beneath Thorne’s villa and rode frequently, exploring the rugged splendor of the mountains and the wilder coastlines. Yet not even those pleasant physical activities diminished his restless craving for Caro.

He thought of her often—her smile, the taste of her mouth, the silken texture of her skin beneath his hands. He saw her in his dreams.

He also found himself itching to wring her neck.

She was clearly set on winning their competition. His social calendar grew daily. The invitations continued to pour in, brought in person by eager callers, so that his days quickly filled with sporting pastimes and his evenings with dinners and soirees and musicales. And he couldn’t go into town without being accosted by a dozen strangers asking to meet him and requesting to introduce their daughters. He was being courted and feted and fawned over, just as he had in London.

Then three days before the ball, Caro had the audacity to send him a list of the eligible females on the island, with extensive descriptions by each name, along with remarks offering advice on how best to attach their interest. She had starred two of the candidates, praising their beauty and their allure.

I trust you will give this careful study,
her accompanying note read.
Perhaps then you will cease to pester me.

Her jab brought an unwilling smile to Max’s lips. He could have told her that no amount of scheming could make him stop wanting her, or cure his irrational hunger for her. But he pledged to throttle Caro when he next saw her—which would likely be at Sir Gawain’s ball.

He had no real desire to attend a ball held in his honor. When he’d returned to London as a civilian after so many years of campaigning, he’d found mindless social pursuits appealing and the regard flattering. Now he simply wanted to spend his time with one particular woman, who was set on throwing him to the wolves.

Feeling somewhat like prey on the afternoon of the ball, Max escaped into Santos Verra’s tavern, hoping to find respite from all the unwanted female attention in favor of simple male camaraderie, perhaps Alex Ryder or some of Ryder’s bachelor friends.

The public room boasted a sizable crowd, many of them fishermen enjoying pints of ale after a long day at the nets. But there was no sign of Ryder or any of Max’s other new acquaintances. No doubt they were all preparing for the evening’s festivities, he thought darkly.

Señor Verra came over to join his table, bringing a fine bottle of Madeira. The Spaniard seemed to sympathize with Max’s expressed aversion to attending the ball, but then something else caught their attention: A gentleman with reddish brown hair and a well-tailored coat had sauntered into the public room, yet the moment he spied Max, he gave a start and spun around, making quickly for the door.

Verra raised a heavy eyebrow. “Mr. Newham seems particularly anxious to avoid you. Did you offend him in some manner?”

Max’s lip curled. “I expect he’s not eager to become reacquainted. The last time I saw him, a friend of mine died under suspicious circumstances, and Mr. Peter Newham and his sister left town under a cloud.”

“You know the sister as well? Danielle Newham?”

“Not by choice. I found her a bit too lethal for my taste.”

Verra nodded. “A wise man does not turn his back on a woman like that.”

“I understand John Yates is courting her.”

“He is indeed, which I think very curious. I wonder what she sees in young Yates.”

“I wonder what she is doing on Cyrene at all,” Max replied. “Miss Newham and her brother seemed far too fond of elegant society to willingly immure themselves on your isolated island since spring.”

“An intriguing question,” Verra remarked. “Perhaps you might attempt to determine the answer.”

Max frowned thoughtfully. He would indeed be interested to discover what the Newhams’ ulterior motives were for being on Cyrene. At the very least he intended to warn Caro that the Newhams had once been suspected of being traitors. And the puzzle might serve to gain her attention when other methods had failed.

“Perhaps I will,” he said, draining the final swallow of wine from his glass and asking for more.

He looked for Caro the moment he entered the castle’s great hall, but saw nothing of her among the milling crowd beyond the doors. Instead his eye was caught by the auburn-haired beauty in the receiving line—the only woman so honored. Danielle Newham.

Sir Gawain welcomed him warmly, as did John Yates. Yates stood bracing his weight on a crutch, no doubt in anticipation of a long evening. Beside him, Miss Newham appeared as elegant and beautiful as Max remembered, gowned in bronze silk with a filmy overskirt shot with gold threads. Of her brother there was no immediate sign.

When Max bent over the lady’s hand, her green eyes flickered with recognition. She didn’t seem dismayed to see him. Rather, she seemed a woman confident of her own power.

“Did your brother accompany you, Miss Newham?” Max asked, prodding.

She returned a calculating smile. “Alas, Peter is indisposed this evening.”

“I am sorry to hear it. I hoped we might reminisce over old times.”

Her smile froze on her lips, while John Yates gave Max a curious frown. “Do you know each other?”

“We are old acquaintances,” Max said blandly. “Someday I will tell you how I met Miss Newham and her brother.”

Her eyes flashed, just as Max heard his name hailed by someone else. He turned away, but he could feel the lady glaring daggers into his back.

The great hall already teemed with guests, and several of them pounced as soon as they discovered Max’s arrival, which prevented him from searching for Caro. But she was indeed present; he finally saw her near the far wall, speaking with a group of gentlemen that included Ryder.

Max felt his heart jolt hard in his chest. It was the first time he’d ever seen Caro garbed in anything resembling fashionable attire. Tonight she wore an empire-waisted gown of pale blue lustring that displayed a modest amount of bosom but showed her slim figure to advantage. Max, however, was very aware of the instantaneous reaction of his body. He wanted to divest Caro of that gown and explore the sensual charms he remembered so vividly.

He wanted even more to drag her away from the men who, judging from their convivial laughter, seemed to be enjoying her company all too well.

Then Caro looked up, and their gazes locked across the room. Max wondered if the intensity of his expression unsettled her, for her cheeks flushed and she turned away abruptly.

After what seemed an interminable time, she made her way toward him with two young ladies in tow.

Both were obviously debutantes, for they blushed and simpered prettily as they gazed up at Max in awe.

Caro smiled as she introduced him to Miss Emily Smythe and Miss Phoebe Crawford. “They have been longing to meet you, Mr. Leighton. And they are both delightful dancers. I assured Miss Smythe you would ask her to stand up with you for the first set. And then you may claim Miss Crawford for the second.”

Narrowing his eyes at Caro, Max silently sent her a message that promised a fitting retribution.

Her cool, keen gray eyes merely looked amused.

She took her leave as the beautiful but vapid Miss Smythe began to gush, “Miss Evers has told us
all
about you, Mr. Leighton….”

Max sighed, preparing to endure an endless evening.

The first two hours did indeed seem unending, for he was hard-pressed to find a moment’s peace. As the celebrated guest of honor, he was expected to dance frequently and to spend much of his time conversing with the dignitaries and notable members of the company.

He met many of the island’s prominent families, as well as the lieutenant governor of Cyrene. Thorne had warned him that the structure and manners of society here resembled those of the London ton, and Max found it true, except for the Spanish influence. Fully a quarter of the assembled guests were Spanish, as were nearly half the elder chaperons and duennas.

When he managed between dances to approach Caro, she introduced him to her companion, Señora Padillo, a stout, elderly Spanish widow who seemed to have little energy. Garbed entirely in black, the señora habitually sighed and fanned herself, as if she might faint at any moment.

Just then he caught a glimpse of Danielle Newham gazing seductively into John Yates’s dazed eyes as they awkwardly negotiated a waltz. Begging the duenna’s pardon, Max firmly took Caro by the arm and drew her away.

“I told you, I do not dance,” she said in protest, coming to a halt.

“Then we will sit out the next set,” Max retorted. “I have something to say to you.”

Their gazes locked in a contest of wills, and Caro was the first to concede. He led her toward a far corner of the great hall, where several chairs remained unoccupied, but their progress was interrupted no fewer than three times by young ladies wanting to attract his notice.

When they finally settled in the chairs, Max muttered an oath under his breath and gave Caro a scowl. “I hold you fully to blame, you know.”

She had the temerity to return an innocent look. “Whatever do you mean?”

“You know exactly what I mean. Your campaign to throw me to the wolves.”

“I am not the only one seeking to introduce you to our island’s eligible young ladies. Sir Gawain and John Yates have made an effort as well.” Caro essayed a provoking smile. “Did you study the list I sent you? I thought surely you would find it helpful in finding a new target for your desire.”

“Wretch,” he murmured, finding it hard not to respond to the laughing gleam in her eyes.

“Truly, I took great pains to include some beauties other than marriage-minded debutantes. Julia Trant is here tonight, and so is Señora Herrera. You really must meet them.”

“I’m not the least interested in your damned list,” Max said. “I have another matter altogether to discuss with you. I thought you should be aware that Yates’s sweetheart is not all she seems.”

Caro frowned, her mirth fading. Holding her rapt attention, Max proceeded to tell her about his former acquaintance with Danielle Newham and her brother, Peter.

“Three years ago I was in London on leave when a university friend of mine killed himself after becoming embroiled in a scandal. He had worked for the War Office—logistics—and was in charge of sending reinforcements to the Peninsula. When an entire battalion of infantry was annihilated by the French shortly after landing, his loyalties were called into question. He was courting Danielle Newham at the time—or perhaps I should say she was wooing him. She left town directly after word of the massacre reached England.

“Nothing was ever substantiated,” Max concluded, “but she was suspected of copying dispatches detailing troop movements and selling them to the French. And shortly after Miss Newham’s disappearance from London, her lover put a pistol to his temple.”

Max’s grim tone held a smoldering anger, his eyes a dangerous glitter that made Caro shiver unconsciously; she would not want this man for an enemy.

Disturbed by his revelations, she searched his face. “And you think she may be a spy?”

“At the very least she has a pattern of preying on gullible young men. Yates won’t stand a chance once she has her claws in him. I advise you to try and steer him away from her if you can. And if you have any secrets that need guarding, I would keep them under lock and key.”

“I will,” Caro replied, knowing the island had significant secrets that required guarding.

Just then she spied Señora Blanca Herrera standing a short distance away. Although her heart wasn’t in it, Caro beckoned to the beautiful jet-haired Spanish lady and, rising, introduced her to Max.

Exquisitely dressed in black and crimson lace, the strikingly lovely señora slowly fluttered her fan while giving Max a sensual appraisal from her dark sloe eyes. “It is a pleasure to meet you at last, señor,” she murmured in her husky voice as he bowed over her hand.

“The pleasure is all mine, señora, I assure you. I have been eager to make your acquaintance.”

Hearing the admiration and male interest in Max’s tone, Caro felt a sharp arrow of jealousy spear though her. Suddenly she regretted making the introductions. Her fingers clenched reflexively into fists, which was a mistake, since Max noted her response.

He sent her a fleeting—perhaps taunting?—glance of amusement, as if he knew very well that having to watch his flirtation with another woman nettled and even unsettled her. After gallantly asking Señora Herrera to dance the upcoming waltz with him, he offered his arm to escort the lady to where the dancers were taking their places.

Resuming her seat, Caro watched them leave, appalled by her savage impulse. Normally she was very fond of Señora Herrera; never before had she wanted to do damage to the beauty’s lovely face.

Caro shook her head, silently scolding herself. Wasn’t this precisely what she had wanted, to divert Max’s interest from her? To crush her own obsessive desire for him?