Chapter 5
It was rather small as fashionable balls went. There was still room to draw a deep breath, for which favor Sara was duly grateful. After she and Charles arrived, they had worked their way through the crowd, greeting friends and acquaintances. Then he had found her a quiet seat, half-concealed behind a potted plant, and they had enjoyed a glass of punch together.
As Sara drained the last of her cool drink, Charles asked, "Are you comfortable here, my dear? If you don't mind being left alone, I'd like to go to the card room for a while."
Sara handed him her empty punch glass. "Go and enjoy yourself. When I feel the need for company, I will have no trouble finding it."
"Admirable Sara." He touched her cheek with possessive fingers. "I am the most fortunate of men, for you will make the best of wives." Then he turned and disappeared into the crowd.
Pleased by the compliment, Sara watched his broad back retreat, thinking that her betrothed looked wonderfully distinguished in formal evening wear.
Her shifted to the dancers crowding the floor as her mind drifted back to her own first Season. Though she had always had a serious turn of mind, she had enjoyed her first foray into adult society, and had laughed and danced and flirted as much as any of the young girls before her now. It seemed a lifetime ago.
The ballroom was warm, so she spread her fan and absently wafted cool air toward her face. On the far side of the room, she caught a glimpse of Ross and Prince Peregrine. She had talked to both men briefly earlier. Then Ross, with his usual thoroughness, had taken his friend off for further introductions.
As she watched the Kafir critically, Sara decided that he no longer needed a guide to London society, if he ever had. He moved among the British aristocracy with utter confidence, and they in turn accepted him, at least on this social level. Indeed, society had welcomed him; no less than three beautiful women were listening raptly to his every word.
Sara snapped the ivory sticks of her fan shut, feeling stifled by the heat of massed candles and active bodies. To the left, French doors led out to a wide balcony, so she slipped out for some fresh air. The balcony was blessedly cool and empty. She inhaled deeply, enjoying the fragile scent of the garden below after the heavy atmosphere of the ballroom.
Her body swaying to the rhythm of the music, Sara watched the dancers inside, their bodies abstract blurs through the translucent draperies. Since her accident, watching was the closest she came to dancing.
Turning her back on the ballroom, she looked up at the full moon, which gilded Mayfair with silver serenity. There was no point in envying those who could still dance.
It would be more productive to consider her wedding plans. There was much to be done, and most of the work would fall on her own shoulders. Aunt Marguerite, Ross's mother, would help, but that was not the same as having a mother of her own to take charge of the event.
Caught up in planning, she did not hear the French doors open and gave an unladylike jump when a deep voice said in her ear, "Is playing truant proper behavior at a London ball?"
She whirled, her heart pounding from surprise even though Prince Peregrine's soft, accented voice was instantly recognizable. "It is acceptable to slip away for fresh air, but not to startle other guests out of their wits," she said severely. "You could give a cat lessons on silent stalking."
"On the contrary, I once took stalking lessons from a cat." He smiled reminiscently. "A snow leopard, to be exact."
Black-haired and dark-garbed, he belonged to the night, as intensely alive as he was irresistibly attractive. No, not irresistible; Sara was a woman grown, in control of her emotions. "Did you stalk the leopard, or did it stalk you?"
"Both, in turn. At the end I could have killed it, but could not bear to. It was too beautiful." He chuckled. "Don't tell anyone I said that, I don't think noble savages are supposed to be so sentimental."
Sara considered his remark. "You may be many things, but savage is not one of them. A savage knows nothing of the rules of civilization. You know them, I think, but do not always choose to follow them."
"As usual, you are uncomfortably perceptive," he said after a moment. "But enough of seriousness. Will you dance with me?"
"No, thank you." She looked down and smoothed a wrinkle from the lace trim of her low-cut bodice. "I do not dance."
"Do not dance, or cannot dance?"
"Do not," she said shortly. Then, fearing that she sounded rude, Sara glanced up and added, "I could probably manage most of the steps, but I prefer not to invite the pity of old friends who remember that I was once graceful."