Silk and Secrets(161)

Sara St. James was not stunning, or even vividly pretty, for prettiness was just another fashion that changed as quickly as the English weather. But in the bones of Lady Sara's face, the serenity of her expression, there was a wise, timeless beauty that would be honored in any age, by any race of earth's children. A sibyl of the ancient Greeks would have had such a countenance. Haloed by the sun, her hair was thick dark honey shot with amber and old gold, as luxurious as antique silk. Now he understood why Ross had called Lady Sara beautiful and blond, for there was no single, simple word that would describe her coloring. Or her.

Peregrine smiled and silently saluted his enemy's taste, for Weldon had, indeed, chosen a wife of rare beauty and breeding. Separating Ross's cousin from her betrothed was going to be a most rewarding endeavor, for it would save the lady from a vile husband, deprive Weldon of one of the trophies of his success, and be stimulating sport for Peregrine as well.

Since Ross was having trouble escaping his acquaintance, Peregrine decided to make his way to his hostess on his own. Like a trout into water, he slipped into the crowd. A footman with a tray of filled goblets went past, and Peregrine deftly captured one. A sip identified a fine French champagne, chosen to go with the mounds of fresh strawberries featured on the refreshment tables. He stopped and sampled a berry, discovering that champagne complemented the flavor perfectly. These English aristocrats knew how to live well, even if it was an artificial little world they inhabited.

Numerous oblique glances followed his leisurely progress, but most guests were too well-bred to stare openly. Probably they were just curious at the sight of an unfamiliar face in their usual circle. He knew there was nothing amiss with his appearance, for he had run the gauntlet of tailor, boot maker, and barber, and knew himself to be a very fair approximation of an English gentleman.

The only person who looked at him directly was a glorious golden-haired creature of mature years who gave him a warning look when his gaze lingered too long on her equally glorious young daughter. Seeing her determination to keep the wolf from her lamb, Peregrine offered his most disarming smile.

After a surprised moment, the mother smiled back, though she stayed close to her daughter. Wise woman. Peregrine estimated that the girl would be worth five hundred guineas in the Tripoli slave market, and the mother would probably bring two hundred in spite of her age. He grinned inwardly, imagining the reactions of the people around him if they could read his thoughts. That plump, aging dandy would be overpriced at five pounds.

While he was alert to everything about him, most of his attention was focused unobtrusively on Lady Sara as she performed her duties as a hostess, saying a few words to one guest before moving on to another. It had not been immediately obvious, because she was slight while Ross was tall and strongly built, but as Peregrine came closer, he saw how much the cousins resembled each other. The handsome, masculine planes of Ross's face were refined to delicate femininity in Lady Sara, and the cousins also shared clear brown eyes and well-defined brows and lashes that contrasted dramatically with their fair hair.

But there was a subtler similarity, a quality more mental than physical that was hinted at in Ross, and rather stronger in Lady Sara. It nagged at Peregrine, a faint shadow that he recognized but could not quite define.

Then, when their paths finally intersected and he came face-to-face with his hostess, he knew what haunted her eyes in that particular way. Lady Sara St. James's calm, sibyl face had been shaped and molded by pain.

* * *

As soon as Sara saw the tall, black-haired man, she knew that he was Ross's newly arrived friend. Then she had questioned her conclusion, wondering why she was so certain. His skin was dark, but no more than that of a weathered farmer, his craggy features were not noticeably foreign, and his superbly tailored black clothing was quintessentially British. Nonetheless, she was sure that he could only be Prince Peregrine of Kafiristan.

It was the way he moved, she decided, fluid and feral as a predator, wholly unlike the way a European walked. She saw how women watched him covertly and was not surprised, for there was something about the Kafir that would make women spin foolish fantasies about sensuous savages who were really nature's noblemen, untrammeled by civilization. Sara smiled at her own foolishness, then lost sight of the prince as she talked to one of her father's elderly cousins.

Then, quite suddenly, the currents of the party brought her face-to-face with Prince Peregrine. Sara tilted her head up as she opened her mouth to welcome her guest, but her voice died unborn as his intense gaze caught and held hers. The prince's eyes were a clear, startling green, a color unlike any other she had ever seen, a wild, exotic reminder that this was a man raised under different skies, by different rules. The unknowable green depths beckoned, promising... promising what?