You May Kiss the Bride(12)

Leaving Grandmama established on an ornate gold chair (embellished with dubious hieroglyphics) in the massive, gaudily decorated ballroom, surrounded by a bevy of elderly ladies who sycophantically agreed with every word she let fall from her lips, Gabriel walked away with relief. How could she endure those toadies? Also, he was more than a little annoyed with her. Just before they’d gone down to dinner, she had summoned him to her rooms to triumphantly show him the large stack of letters she’d written—no, that Miss Cott had written—announcing his engagement. She was, she said, looking forward to hearing the announcement at the interval.

You don’t think you’re being just a trifle premature? he had said, coolly.

There’s no time like the present, she’d replied with equal sangfroid. Besides, we’ve dawdled here long enough. I’ve had enough of the so-called food and the draughts and the fireplaces that smoke. My bed, I’m quite sure, is stuffed with chicken feathers and emits a most peculiar odor. I have already set my maid to packing.

It was time to do his duty. He and Miss Orr were to open the ball. Briefly, he wondered what it was going to be like making love to her. She struck him as the type of woman who would find it all rather messy and, worse, harmful to her coiffure. Oh well. Offspring. Offspring. He repeated the word in his head, almost like a cadence, as he made his way along a corridor, through the throng; he could hear the orchestra’s first strains. Offspring, offspring, he told himself, and as he turned a corner he nearly ran into one of the guests.

“I beg your pardon,” he began, and then the little smile of automatic courtesy quickly faded as he realized in stunned disbelief that the guest was none other than the disheveled little maid he’d encountered in the woods a few days before. Only . . . now she was wearing a striking gown, simple white over gold, revealing a graceful, womanly figure. Her rich auburn hair was twisted in a shining knot on her head, bound with a gold ribbon, with a few strands let tantalizingly loose to frame a face that was—

Unforgettable.

Those luminous eyes, set off by dark lashes, stared up at him and for a moment he had that same irrational desire to lose himself within their forest-green depths. Her skin was flawless, a warm sun-kissed shade . . . Skin, he realized with growing indignation, without a spot of mud anywhere.

She had played him for a fool.

His brows snapped together and he said to her in a harsh undertone: “What the devil are you doing here?”

“Oh, sir,” she promptly answered, “I can’t hardly believe it myself! The vasty kindness of them Orrs! Their charity to a poor orfin like me! Why, ’tis a dream come true!”

“Orphan? You mentioned your mother before,” he said before he could help himself, as if victoriously proving a point, then just as quickly realized how ridiculous he sounded. He took a hasty step toward her. “Why, you little—” He hardly knew what he intended to do, but just then a possessive hand slid around his arm and the girl in white cast him a mocking glance and disappeared into the crowd.

“Mr. Penhallow.” It was Miss Orr, smiling up at him. Her willowy form was clad in cream-colored spider gauze, lavishly embroidered with tiny silver flowers that glimmered in the candlelight, as did her artfully curled flaxen hair. The perfect lady from head to toe. “I believe this is our dance.”

“Yes,” Gabriel answered mechanically. “To be sure.” He accompanied her to the ballroom, unable to vanquish a lingering impression of that annoying little baggage who’d so audaciously taunted him.

They began the quadrille, Miss Orr executing the elaborate steps with grace and confidence. They talked, they moved, they twisted, they turned, yet Gabriel couldn’t help but notice the girl in white and gold sitting by herself, with empty chairs all around her. He also noticed a lot of young men staring at her, and how their mothers, with an appalling obviousness, steered them away. Her expression was composed, as if she was unaware of being ostracized. Grudging admiration for her courage rose within him and he said casually to Miss Orr:

“Who is the young lady over there, without a partner?”

She followed his glance. “Oh, that’s poor little Livia Stuart. An orphan, quite destitute, you know.”

“She wears, however, a very elegant gown.”

“I gave it to her,” Miss Orr quickly said.

“Indeed? Your—ah—dimensions are quite dissimilar.”

“Livia is very handy with a needle,” answered Miss Orr sweetly. “It’s the poor girl’s only accomplishment.”

“Your brother Tom seems very taken with her. He’s been staring at her for some time.”