Tempest(2)
Feeling the duke’s eyes on her, Catherine looked for an excuse to escape. Guests in glittering period garb were entering the foyer, and the illusion that they were all at Versailles was becoming more real by the moment. “Mother, I would like to see if Elysia VanGanburg has arrived yet. She wasn’t feeling well yesterday.”
Hermione gripped her soft upper arm, smiling down into her eyes. “Don’t be silly, dear. You must stay with us to greet the guests as they arrive. We’ll stand under the archway of roses, and you will have a lovely time!”
Chapter 2
After greeting what felt like a thousand guests, Catherine’s face hurt from smiling and she felt unbearably restless standing in the reception line for so long.
“Do stop tapping your foot,” Hermione warned softly. “Ladies are composed and gracious.”
There was no time to reply, for Alice Vanderbilt was approaching, radiating the sort of calm composure Catherine lacked. Soft air wafted in from the flower-scented grounds, beckoning. What fun was it to have a wealthy father if one could never do as one pleased, or even make one’s own choices in life?
“Who in heaven’s name is that?” Hermione hissed the moment Mrs. Vanderbilt had left them. Tapping the arms of her husband and daughter with her fan, she gestured toward the entryway. “I believe those people may be strangers!”
Catherine focused on the two men who had just entered. The auburn-haired fellow, costumed in a perfectly proper blue satin Louis XVI suit, consulted with the liveried footmen at the door. When she turned her attention to his companion, her heart literally skipped a beat.
Clad all in black, the man appeared to be costumed as a buccaneer, with leather jackboots, a simple white stock, and a stiff coat with turned-back cuffs and gold buttons. He carried a tricorne hat set off by a white cockade centered with a blood-red ruby, and his raven hair was drawn back in a queue. In the gilded setting of Beechcliff, surrounded by satin-clad, jewel-encrusted peacocks, this unadorned renegade radiated an aura of danger.
“I am not amused by that man’s costume,” Hermione decided. She lifted her pince-nez for a closer look.
Catherine stared in fascination. His skin was darkened by the sun. His eyes were hooded, perhaps bored or cynical, and there was a rather harsh edge to his good looks. He was very tall and powerfully built.
“Papa,” she whispered, “please don’t send them away.”
“Of course not.” Then, as the two strangers approached, Jules Parrish put on a welcoming smile and extended his hand. “How good of you both to come.”
Hermione murmured, “I’m terribly sorry, but I didn’t hear the major-domo announce you...”
“I am Byron Matthews,” said the fellow in the satin suit. “Mr. Parrish, you and I met at the casino.”
Jules was nodding. “Of course! You recently became the brother-in-law of the Duke of Aylesbury.” He glanced toward his wife, whose lips were puckered with doubt. “I had my secretary take an invitation to Matthews at his hotel. Such a fine young man.”
“How nice.” She forced a smile.
“The pleasure is mine, I assure you. I would like to present my worthy friend, the Viscount Raveneau.”
“Viscount...?” Hermione perked up visibly. “Welcome, my lord! What a unique costume you have chosen. You appear to be quite... wicked.” She gave a nervous titter, as if she feared she had overstepped propriety.
“I am Stede Bonnet, the pirate,” Raveneau explained, and watched her blanch under her powder. “Wicked indeed.”
Catherine felt giddy. What a dashingly romantic name he had! And his eyes were breathtaking: marbled gray and blue, with hints of gold dust. Voices and time blurred until he appeared directly in front of her and she stared as her hand went into his. His fingers were long and handsome, but his hand wasn’t soft like those of the men she knew. It was dark and strong like the rest of him.
“Miss Parrish, I presume?”
Jules leaned over, quite taken with his new friends. “My lord, this is my daughter, Catherine Beasley Parrish.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you.” Raveneau’s eyes crinkled slightly at the edges. “Are you supposed to be an historical character? That fichu reminds me more of a Colonial Quaker than a contemporary of Marie Antoinette’s.”
Hermione gasped. “My lord, is such a remark entirely proper?”
“Probably not,” he replied easily, then turned back to Catherine. “Are you a stickler for propriety, Miss Parrish? If so, I apologize.”
Dimly, she realized that he was still holding her hand, waiting for her to speak. “I— I am glad to meet you, Lord Raveneau...”
“My name is Adam,” he corrected. “That title’s just a useless ornament. Nothing to do with me.”
“I couldn’t possibly call you ‘Adam,’ my lord.” Her face was hot. She noticed that the hair curling behind his ears was flecked with silver.
“Of course you can.” He leaned closer and spoke in hushed tones. “Tell me about your honored guest, the duke. Are the two of you betrothed?”
She gasped. “No!”
Hermione leaned across to admonish, “Catherine, more guests have arrived!”
“I mustn’t keep you,” Raveneau said, and released her hand.
She wanted to go after him, but could not. Francine Pembroke appeared on the arm of her brother. Clad in white satin trimmed with gold, a wide diamond stomacher pinned to her bodice, she was ravishing. Her blue eyes wandered over the hall even as she spoke to Catherine.
“Who were those two men? Are they newly arrived in Newport? The pirate is divine! What is his name?”
Hermione intervened. “Dear Francine, would you like an introduction to the Viscount Raveneau? Catherine will be occupied with our guest, the duke, but I should be happy to present you to his lordship.”
And off they went, leaving Catherine with Sunderford. “You Americans do things rather differently than we do in Britain,” he remarked. “I have never met so many outspoken guests. But then, there is so much over here that I don’t understand. Ever since my school days, I’ve been puzzled by the war between North and South America. Considering the distance between you, what could you have fought about?”
“But— we never had a war with South America!”
“Of course you did, in 1861.” He glanced away, as if appalled by her ignorance. “Perhaps you might be forgiven for not knowing, since you weren’t born yet, but it was an awfully famous war. Abraham Lincoln, and so forth.”
Catherine wanted to inform him that he was the idiot, not she, but her real concern was Adam Raveneau. Had Francine, with her invitingly low décolleté, already gotten him in her clutches? “Let’s go into the ballroom, Your Grace. My mother intends that you shall dance with her to open the cotillion.”
Berger’s Hungarian Orchestra had already begun to play softly as guests milled around the ballroom and accepted glasses of champagne from servants in eighteenth century livery. The enormous room was set off by ornate mirrors and a series of crystal chandeliers. The wainscoting had been taken directly from a Loire Valley chateau. Hodgson, the florist, had brought in drifts of silver-ribboned white hydrangeas and orchids, and the ballroom overlooked the main terrace, which was massed with more flowers.
“Ah, there you are!” Hermione Parrish cried as she bore down on them. “I was just about to send Jules in search of you two naughty lovebirds. Your Grace, I suspect that you have been waiting for this magical night to spin your web of romance around my daughter.”
“Eh? Spin my what?” he shouted over the din.
“Don’t tease me, Your Grace!” Her huge frozen smile gave her the look of a dragon. “Will you kindly come out with me to lead the dancing? Then you may have your turn with Catherine.” She gripped her daughter’s hand and came close to whisper, “Don’t be difficult. Tonight, of all nights, I would have you behave properly.”
Catherine felt as if the walls were closing in on her. All the years of training, overseen by her mother, crowded her memory. She’d never been allowed to go to school with other children, but had been strictly tutored by governesses, not only in French and German, but also for dancing and all forms of etiquette. How many hours had she spent perfecting her English accent and learning to pour tea, all the while wearing a steel rod to improve her posture? This was the night for which Hermione Parrish had groomed her only child, just as surely as Jules’s horses had been trained to win at the racetrack.
Now that Catherine’s moment of truth was at hand, she wanted only to escape. Even the enticing distraction of Adam Raveneau didn’t matter now. She didn’t need to hear what her mother was saying to the duke as they began to dance; the determined expression on her face as she spoke was enough.
“Papa!” Relieved to spy her father amidst the guests, Catherine tugged at his sleeve. “I— I am feeling rather ill in this terrible crush—”
He frowned at the champagne glass in her hand. “You shouldn’t be drinking, angel. You’re not used to it.”
“Perhaps that’s it. I’m just going to go and get a little air... and cool off.”