The night of the ball had come quickly…far too quickly for Lara.
She desperately wanted the evening to be a success. From the enthusiastic responses the invitations had garnered, it was sure to be heavily attended. She planned to use every means at her disposal to collect enough pledges for the orphanage to make certain that there would be no more children forced to live in an English prison. Hopefully Hunter would do his part by entertaining the guests with the tale of his miraculous return from India.
“Promise you'll try to be charming,” Lara had pleaded with him earlier in the day. “And promise you won't mock anyone when they ask silly questions—”
“I know what to do,” Hunter had interrupted grimly, his mouth curling with impatience with the entire affair. “I'll play my part to everyone's satisfaction. Just so long as you fulfill your obligations.”
Knowing what he meant, Lara had bit the inside of her cheeks and flashed him a quick glare. It had been the first time in nearly a month that he'd had the bad taste to remind her of their bargain. She comforted herself with the knowledge that come one o'clock, Hunter would be far too busy with another woman to give her a thought.
With Naomi's help, Lara bathed leisurely in hot lavender-scented water and smoothed perfumed cream over her shoulders, arms, and throat. A faint dusting of pearl powder gave a translucent gleam to her face, while an application of rose-tinted salve made her lips dewy, and pink. Naomi pulled Lara's hair into a braided coil atop her head, giving the effect of a sable crown, and adorned it with individual pearls sewn onto pins.
Lara's gown was simple yet beautiful, a delicate sheath of white overlaid with silvery gauze. The neckline swooped dramatically low, while the sleeves were nothing more than transparent bands of silver lace. It was an elegant gown, but a little too daring. Of course, it had been far more circumspect before she had mistakenly told the dressmaker to lower the neckline.
Lara stared at the mirror critically. “Thank heaven there is time for me to change.”
“Oh, milady, you mustn't!” Naomi exclaimed. “'Tis the loveliest gown I've ever seen, and you're a picture in it.”
“The picture of indecency,” Lara said, laughing as she tugged uncomfortably at the bodice. “I'm going to fall out of this thing at any minute.”
“Lady Crossland wore gowns cut lower than that without batting an eye,” Naomi said. “'Tis the fashion.”
Forbearing to point out that Janet was the kind of woman who had installed a mirror on her bedroom ceiling, Lara shook her head. “Bring out the pink gown, Naomi. I'll remove the pearls from my hair and fasten a rose there instead.”
As the maid opened her mouth to argue the point, Johnny came bursting into the room with screams and yelps of delight. “Watch out! 'E's coming!” the boy cried, and dove against Lara's skirts.
Startled, Lara looked up as a tigerish roar resounded through the room, and Hunter came through the doorway. Moving with fluid swiftness, he approached Lara and snatched up the giggling boy. He lifted Johnny in his arms and pretended to snack on him like a starving beast, while the child squirmed and screamed and laughed.
“They're playing tiger-hunting in India again,” Naomi said to Lara. “They've been at it all week.”
Lara smiled as she watched the pair. In the past few weeks Johnny had begun to display a boisterous energy that equaled ten boys. He was a natural mimic and had responded well to Lara's efforts to teach him manners. He liked games of all kinds, and used his crafty intelligence to excel in them.
Dressed in a light blue short coat and dark blue trousers, his black hair covered with an ever-present forage cap adorned with brass buttons, Johnny could never be mistaken for a child who had come from the gutter. He was handsome, healthy, and adorable. And he was hers.
She didn't care what others thought of the situation, or how many disdainful eyebrows were raised. She would not care in the future, when others were sure to spread ugly rumors about Johnny's parentage, and insinuate that he was her bastard child, or Hunter's. How could any of that matter? She had been given the chance to take care of a child, to love him, and she intended to do just that.
What she hadn't expected, however, was Hunter's bond with Johnny. Despite his lack of experience with children and his initial resistance to Johnny's presence in their home, Hunter seemed to understand the boy far better than Lara did. He had quickly learned the mysterious language of frogs, mud cakes, sticks, rodents, and rocks that so delighted little boys. Games of chase and challenge, wrestling, off-putting stories…Hunter knew endless ways to enthrall Johnny.
“I like the boy,” he had admitted easily, when Lara had dared to mention his apparent attachment to the child. “Why shouldn't I? I'd prefer him to any of the delicate, passive creatures that are trotted out from most aristocratic nurseries.”
“I expected you to resent him because he's not yours,” Lara had said bluntly.
Hunter had smiled sardonically. “As you once pointed out, his lack of pedigree isn't his fault. And the mere fact of having Crossland blood doesn't ensure that a boy will turn out to be a paragon. I'm proof enough of that.”
Squirming from Hunter's grasp, Johnny approached Lara. His blue eyes were round with interest and awe as he beheld her evening gown. “You look pretty, Mama.”
“Thank you, darling.” Lara bent down and hugged him, careful not to look at Hunter or Naomi. As Johnny had no memories of his own mother, he had tentatively begun to call her “Mama,” and Lara did nothing to dissuade him. She knew it startled the servants, but none of them would dare mention it. As for Hunter's reaction, he kept his opinion to himself.
Johnny touched a fold of the silver fabric, rubbing it between his thumb and forefinger. “It looks like metal, but it's soft!” he exclaimed.
Lara laughed and straightened his cap. “It's almost bedtime. Naomi will help you wash and change into your nightshirt, and I'll come in a few minutes to say prayers with you.”
The small black brows drew together in a frown. “I want to see the ball.”
Lara smiled, understanding Johnny's curiosity about the strange proceedings. For the past few days he had watched the preparations for the event, the flowers and decorations being brought in, the chairs and stands set up for the musicians, and the laborious efforts of the kitchen staff. “When you're older you may have your own children's ball,” she said. “And when you're an adult you may attend all the balls you wish—although by then I'm afraid you'll do your best to avoid them.”
“I won't be an adult for years an' years,” Johnny said fretfully, enduring Lara's smiling kiss and trailing after Naomi as she led him from the room.
Left alone with Hunter, Lara was finally able to turn her full attention to him. “Oh,” she said softly, as she received the full impact of her husband in evening clothes—a remarkable sight to behold.
Straightening his cream marcella waistcoat and adjusting his crisp white cravat, Hunter glanced at Lara with a wry smile. His cream pantaloons were snug but not too tight, and his dark blue coat followed the lines of his broad shoulders and lean, well-exercised body with breathtaking precision. He wore his hair unpowdered, the short golden brown locks brushed back from his face. During the past weeks, his complexion had lightened from its startling copper tan to a smooth, light amber.
A well turned-out, utterly civilized man, one would think at first glance…but on closer inspection, there was something exotic and mysterious about him.
As she stared at him, she experienced a moment of doubt that frightened her.
He must be her husband, she told herself. He had the unmistakable look of the Crosslands. Besides, no stranger could have come this far, fooling Hunter's friends and family and his own wife, and daring to present himself to the ton tonight…It went beyond audacity. It bordered on insanity. He must be Hunter. Floundering in sudden anxiety, Lara could not look at him. “Very presentable,” she said, her voice brittle and light.
He came to her, touched her, his fingers sweeping over
her bare upper arm, tracing the edge of her neckline, stopping at the high curve of her left breast. Lara couldn't stop the wild ascent of her heartbeat, the uncontrollable response that made her want to press her entire body against his. She held still, quivering slightly with the effort, baffled and yearning and alarmed.
“You're the most beautiful woman I've ever seen,” she heard him say. “More beautiful than anyone or anything on earth.” He leaned closer, and she felt his mouth at her temple. “You need more pearls with this gown, at your neck, waist, wrists…Someday I'll cover you with them.”
Lara's hands fluttered at her sides. She wanted to rest them on him, touch him, but she clenched her fists to keep them still. The diamond ring had turned around on her finger, the rose-cut stone nestling tightly in her palm. “You don't have to give me jewelry,” she said.
“I'll give you half of England before I'm through. I'll build back our fortune ten times over—you'll have everything you've ever wanted. Jewels…land…a dozen houses filled with orphans.”
Lara looked up into his teasing dark eyes, and to her relief, the shadow of doubt faded. She was still nervous, of course, hoping that her plan to divert him tonight would work, but the other matter…the suspicion over his identity…suddenly seemed ridiculous.
“Twelve orphans is all I'm asking for,” she said. “Although I want the orphanage enlarged sufficiently to accommodate twice that number. I have no doubt we'll easily find children to fill the extra places.”
Hunter smiled and shook his head. “God help anyone who stands in your way. Including me.” He fingered one of the pearls in her hair and smoothed his fingertips over the shining braid. “Why have you become so passionate about children?” he murmured. “Is it because you're barren?”
Strange, that the word that had once wounded so deeply had now lost its power to hurt. In a way, Hunter's matter-of-factness seemed to absolve her of the guilt and unhappiness she had once felt. The barrenness was not her fault, and yet she had always felt responsible. “I don't know,” she replied. “It's just that there are so many children who need someone to help them. And if I can't be a mother, I can at least be a sort of benefactress.”
Hunter stood back and stared at her, his eyes so clear and deep that cinnamon lights seemed to flicker in the coffee-colored irises. “You remember what happens at one o'clock,” he said quietly, with no taunting or mockery.
Lara's stomach seemed to flip, her nerves thrilling unpleasantly. She managed a slight nod, her chin dipping a half inch.
It seemed that he wanted to say something else, but the instinct to let well enough alone kept him silent. He returned her nod with a wary one of his own, and Lara realized that he expected her to welsh on the bargain. The thought interested her—what would he do if she simply refused to sleep with him? Would he be angry, demanding, sullen? Would he try to seduce her, ravish her, or simply wash his hands of her?
Carriages lined the long drive leading to Hawksworth Hall, while crowds of servants and footmen worked with smooth efficiency to convey the members of the ton from the vehicles to the entrance hall. Lara and Hunter stood together, greeting and exchanging pleasantries with each new arrival. Hunter performed his duties with competent charm, but Lara was aware of a tension in him, a reined-in impatience that betrayed his longing to be elsewhere.
The ballroom and surrounding halls echoed with conversation and laughter, as guests exchanged witticisms with well-oiled ease. They swarmed around the row of heavily laden buffet tables, filling china plates with cold meats, puddings, eggs stuffed with caviar, pastries and salads, exotic fruits and marzipan sweets. The uncorking of wine and champagne bottles provided a steady staccato beneath the rapturous hum of the guests, while lilting music drifted from the musicians' bower in the ballroom.
“Lovely!” Rachel exclaimed, joining Lara when she was finally able to move freely among the guests. It occurred to Lara that her sister had lost weight recently. Her fine bones were too prominent. Even so, Rachel was exceptionally pretty, her skin like rich milk, her eyes a swirling mixture of green, brown, and gold. The dark amber silk of her gown draped softly over her slender figure, its scalloped folds barely covering the little gold sandals on her feet.
Lara was amused to note that more than a few men were staring openly at her sister, despite the fact that she was a married woman. Of course, the so-called gentlemen of the ton were rarely fazed by such insignificant matters as marriage vows. She herself was receiving a few admiring glances, though she ignored them coolly. The men who cast flirtatious comments and glances at her now were the same ones who had avoided her like the plague when she had been a poverty-stricken widow.
“I believe it's the grandest affair I've ever seen in Lincolnshire,” Rachel said enthusiastically. “You've planned it brilliantly, Larissa. It seems you're as marvelous a hostess as ever.”
“I've been out of practice for a while,” Lara said with a self-deprecating shrug.
“One could never tell.” Casting a surreptitious glance around them, Rachel lowered her voice before asking. “Has she arrived yet?”
There was certainly no need to ask whom she was referring to. Lara had been watching the door like a hawk for the past two hours. She shook her head with a frown. “No, not yet.”
“Perhaps she won't come,” Rachel suggested hesitantly.
“She must,” Lara replied grimly. “She would out of curiosity, if nothing else.”
“I hope so.”
Their conversation was interrupted by the approach of Lord Tufton, a shy young viscount who had once offered for Rachel's hand, but had been eclipsed by Lonsdale's greater fortune and position.
Lonsdale had resembled a prince, with his athletic build and dark handsomeness and his aura of virility. Tufton, by contrast, was a small, bookish sort of man, far more comfortable in intimate gatherings than large ones. He was gentle and intelligent, and his near-worship of Rachel seemed not to have dimmed in the years since her marriage to Lonsdale. Back then Lara had believed along with everyone else that Lonsdale was the better match for her sister. Now she reflected sadly that Rachel would have been much happier with this shy, sweet man than with a brute like Lonsdale.
After greeting them both, Tufton turned a hopeful smile toward Rachel. “Lady Lonsdale,” he murmured, “would you do me the honor…that is, I hope you would consider…”
“Are you asking me to save a dance for you, Lord Tufton?” Rachel asked.
“Yes,” he said with patent relief.
Rachel smiled. “My lord, I would be very pleased to—”
“Hello, darling.” To all of their dismay, Lord Lonsdale's voice interrupted Rachel's reply. He slid his arm around her waist, his grip tightening until Lara saw her sister wince. His hard gaze bored into Tufton's mild brown eyes. “My wife has saved all her dances for me, Tufton—tonight and every night thereafter. Save yourself the embarrassment of rejection by refraining to approach her ever again. And tell that to any other man who wishes to pant and drool over her.”
Lord Tufton flushed and stammered excuses as he made a strategic retreat to the other side of the room.
Lara turned a questioning stare toward Lonsdale wondering what had caused such crude behavior. “Lord Lonsdale,” she remarked coolly, “it's perfectly normal for a married woman to indulge in a harmless dance or two.”
“I'll handle my wife as I see fit. I'll thank you not to interfere. Excuse me…ladies.” Lonsdale gave them a mocking glance, as if the word were hardly applicable to such a pair, and left after one last remark to Rachel. “Try not to behave like a tart, will you?”
The sisters were frozen in silence as he walked away.
“Did Lonsdale just call you a tart?” Lara managed to ask, white-faced.
“It's only that he's jealous,” Rachel murmured, staring at the floor. She seemed like a wilted flower, all her lovely glow evaporated.
Lara seethed with fury. “What does Lonsdale have to be jealous of? Surely he would never dare to accuse you o
f infidelity, when you are the sweetest, most honorable woman who ever lived, while he's a great rutting hypocrite—”
“Larissa, please. Lower your voice, unless you wish to cause a scene at your own ball.”
“I can't help it,” Lara replied. “I hate the way he treats you. If I were a man, I'd beat him to a pulp, or call him out, or—”
“I don't want to discuss it. Not here.” Wreathed in artificial calmness, Rachel walked away as if she were unable to tolerate another word.
Boiling in frustration, Lara retreated to the corner of the room where she could simmer in private. She accepted a glass of champagne from a passing footman and downed it too quickly, causing a fit of hiccups. Champagne was not a beverage easily guzzled.
As she twirled the empty glass in her fingers, she saw her husband coming toward her. Hunter wore the same bland smile he'd had two hours ago. As he had predicted, he was prominently on display. Old and new acquaintances alike were clearly fascinated by him, and they didn't hesitate to fawn and question and annoy him like so many gnats.
“Are you enjoying yourself?” Lara asked, though she already knew the answer.
His thin social smile didn't falter. “Immensely. There are packs of idiots everywhere I turn.”
“Have some champagne,” Lara advised, disliking the feeling that had suddenly come over her, a sort of camaraderie, as if the two of them shared an understanding that excluded the rest of the world. “It makes everything a little easier.” She gestured with her glass. “At least, that's what I'm hoping.”
“I don't like champagne.”
“Have some punch, then.”
“I'd rather have you.”
Their gazes met, locked, and Lara found that the teasing comment affected her far more strongly than the champagne. She felt unsteady, giddy, endangered. He was waiting, she realized, minute by minute, biding his time until one o'clock when she would be helpless in his arms. Every instinct prompted her to turn and run…but there was no sanctuary available. She took a deep breath and still felt suffocated.