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“I’ll have to beat them off with a stick.”
She giggled and for a moment that little girl in the white cap shone in her eyes.
Mademoiselle Molyneux cleared her throat. “We are almost there, ma petite. Compose yourself so that you may present an appearance of gentility.” The old lady sent a sharp look at Rebecca’s skirts. “You have remembered to wear the shoes, yes?”
Rebecca blinked. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Bon. And here is the mansion.”
Sam looked out the window and saw a line of carriages creeping toward the Earl of Westerton’s town house. Lady Emeline was right: This was too grand a ball to be Rebecca’s first. But introducing his sister to society was only part of the reason he’d chosen this particular ball tonight. The other, more important half, was that he was on the hunt.
He waited patiently as their carriage crawled forward in line, listening with only a fraction of his attention to the female chatter within the carriage. Even now, when his entire being strained toward his goal, he was aware of Lady Emeline in particular. Without turning his head, he followed the cadence of her speech, the pauses and dips in tones. He knew when she glanced his way and could feel her puzzled curiosity in her gaze. She still wanted to know why he’d chosen this particular ball. He could tell her. It involved her brother as well. But something within him shrunk from revealing his true purpose.
The carriage door was flung open by a footman he didn’t know, and Sam’s eyes narrowed at the servant. That was a matter he must watch as well. He hadn’t missed how close O’Hare had stood to Rebecca earlier in the hallway. Sam met the footman’s gaze. This man immediately lowered his eyes, something O’Hare had failed to do. Sam admired courage, but he wondered how long a man could last as a servant with such a spirit.
Sam stepped down onto the cobblestones in front of the Westerton house and turned to help his sister and Mademoiselle Molyneux out. Only Lady Emeline remained in the carriage. She hesitated in the doorway, eyeing him suspiciously.
He smiled and held out his hand. “My lady.”
She pursed her lips. “Mr. Hartley.”
But she laid her hand in his, and Sam had the pleasure of wrapping his fingers around hers. She descended the steps regally and attempted to withdraw her hand. Instead, he bowed over her hand, brushing his lips against fine kid, the scent of lemon balm bathing his face.
Then he straightened. “Shall we?”
But her expression had softened somehow in the interval that he’d bent over her hand. He stilled, the people around him, his sister, even the hunt, fading into the background as he stared at Lady Emeline. Her lips were parted, red and wet, as if she’d just licked them, and her eyes were uncertain. Had they been alone, he would have caught her, drawn her into his arms until her body met his, and lowered his head to—
“Samuel?”
He jerked his head and his attention to his sister. Rebecca. God! “Yes?”
She looked confused. “Are you all right?”
“Yes.” He held out his arm to Mademoiselle Molyneux, who took it with a thoughtful look at him. He braced himself and turned to Lady Emeline, his voice deepening. “Shall we?”
His words were the same as moments before, but their meaning had changed fundamentally. Her eyes widened, and he saw her sweet breasts expand as she inhaled.
Then she met his eyes and her chin lifted. “Of course.”
Which left him to ponder, as he escorted the ladies up the steps, what exactly Lady Emeline had meant by those two innocuous words.
Inside the great double doors, Westerton House was ablaze with hundreds, perhaps thousands, of candles. Even the entry hall was warm, giving an unpleasant taste of the heat that would lurk in the ballroom itself. Why anyone would voluntarily attend an event such as this was truly a puzzle to him. He felt sweat start at the base of his spine. He hated crowds. He’d always had, but since Spinner’s Falls...He pushed the thought from his mind, concentrating on his reason for being here.
The ladies surrendered their wraps to a footman, and the articles of clothing were whisked away. Then they were at the entrance to the ballroom itself, and a footman with a magnificent wig was announcing them. The room was cavernous, but that didn’t help the heat, for it was overflowing with people. They literally stood shoulder to shoulder so that one had to wait for an opening to move forward.
Sam caught his arms twitching and had to consciously still the movement. This was his idea of hell. The heat, the shuffle of bodies against bodies, the noise of scores of voices laughing, talking, complaining. He felt a bead of sweat slide down his back. Mademoiselle Molyneux had already found a crony and slipped away into the mass of bodies. Someone bumped against Lady Emeline, still on his right arm, and he found himself baring his teeth at the man. He saw a startled look on a reddened face and then that man, too, was lost. Sam closed his eyes for a moment to try to control the panic that rose in his chest, but with his eyes shut, the worst part nearly overwhelmed his senses.
The smell.
Oh, God, the smell of burning wax, foul breath, and sweating bodies. Male sweat. That strong acid stink, that rank musk, that rotten armpit odor. They shoved around him, trying to get past, trying to run away. Some old enough to be grandfathers, some too young to shave, all fearing for their lives, all wanting just to live another day. That was what he smelled: the terror of death. He gasped, but all the air had been sucked into babbling lungs, and he inhaled only the fear of battle and the smell of sweat and blood.
“Mr. Hartley. Samuel.”
Her voice was near, and he felt a cool hand on his cheek. With an effort, he opened his eyes.
Her black eyes were staring into his, and he latched on to the sight, trying to focus on only her.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
