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“Thank you.”
“But has he kissed you?” Jane grinned, a naughty twinkle in her eyes.
“Jane!”
“Very well.” She sighed. “If you don’t want to discuss Daigh MacLir, we’ll speak of Kilronan’s intentions. If you’re so alarmed, what do you propose to do?”
“I don’t know yet.” She caught herself gnawing the edge of her finger. Swiped it behind her back before Jane could reproof her. “But if Aidan wants a fight, Aidan shall have one. I’m not as docile as he remembers.”
Jane giggled. “Ard-siúr was right. Setting you loose has done wonders for your confidence. And your stubbornness.”
“Ard-siúr spoke to you about me?” She wasn’t sure whether she was pleased or annoyed.
“Only to say if you came back to us, you’d be twice the priestess you would have been had you never left at all.”
“Did she now?” Sabrina’s back went stiff as she pushed off from the desk. “I’ll show her then. Twice and thrice the best.”
“And Daigh?”
“You weren’t going to discuss him.” Disappointment lodged deep within her chest. A hard, cold rock that seemed to expand until all of her felt weighted and achy. “He’s not my future.” She thought of his certainty. His intense near anger as he swore he knew her. She was his dream. But it couldn’t be. No matter how much her heart began wishing it were so. “And no matter what he says, I’m not his past.”
The musicians struck up a jaunty Scotch reel. Couples forming while Sabrina watched from her place hidden behind an entire grove of potted palms.
Aunt Delia had wandered away shortly after their arrival at the ball. A welcome respite. She’d spewed her poison praise during the entire carriage ride and only subsided upon stepping into the marbled entry hall of Sir Lionel Halliwell’s home at which time she became all that was charming and urbane. Her final parting shot as the powdered footman handed them down to the pavement outside the town house, “Never fret. You’ll be fine, darlings. There’s always a few simpletons just arrived in town in need of partners for the dancing.”
Sabrina answered with a proper smile and thereafter began her subtle drift toward the nearest stand of greenery. Pausing to down restorative clarets at every tray-bearing servant’s pass.
The music began. Ravishing in a gown of cream silk with her beautiful red hair piled expertly atop her head, Jane stood opposite a paragon of masculinity in full scarlet regimentals who’d begged a dance within moments of their arrival.
Sabrina had received no such invitation much to her aunt’s chagrin and her own relief. She couldn’t imagine trying to conduct small talk while keeping to the steps of the dance. It had been too many years since dancing lessons at Belfoyle. And she hadn’t been all that proficient then.
Ahh well. At least here she needed all her energy to keep from making a fool of herself, while if she were at home, she would not be reading her history of Wales, not imagining Daigh as a six-hundred-year-old armored warrior—despite the pleasing picture a battle-armored Daigh made—not thinking of his heated, black gaze locked on hers, and definitely not reliving their one and only kiss that still sizzled her insides like a torch.
Dancers moved in precise pairs. Locked eyes. Spun. Joined hands.
What would it be like to have him kiss her again? Or to have his arms around her? His hands upon her . . .
She closed her eyes, taking a deep breath. What was happening to her? What was it about Daigh that turned her inside out?
She’d always been drawn to the wounded even as a child. The bird with a broken wing, the cat teased by the gardener’s sons, the dog with the bony ribs and imploring eyes that followed her home. All of them had found a place in her heart. And was Daigh so different? The haunted desperation at the edges of his gaze? The grim intensity in his muscled frame? The misery etched into the sharp angles of his face?
Was he simply her latest stray?
Men and women moved in rhythm and time. Closed and separated. Hands clasped then released with a smile.
She swallowed the last of her claret. Searched the room for a convenient servant with a refill. Stiffened at the familiar smiling sophistication of Mr. St. John. He and her aunt chatting and peering at her from across the room with twin looks of delight.
Their differences could not have stood out more. Mr. St. John’s stark black and white elegance in blazing contrast with her aunt’s ghastly lilac and gold gown.
“There you are, darling,” Aunt Delia cooed as she pushed her way into Sabrina’s grotto. “What on earth are you doing skulking in the bushes? I told you in the carriage not to worry. The powder does a fabulous job of concealing your spot.”
What was the punishment for auntricide? Any
magistrate who knew Aunt Delia would probably let Sabrina off with a medal for exemplary conduct.
“If only your gown was as inconspicuous,” she muttered into her fan.
She glanced out at the crowds jockeying for the next set. Jane had already been claimed by a consumptive-looking gentleman who gazed upon her with melancholy eyes.
