Part 19 (1/2)
Her spine straightened as a wave of whispers rippled through the ballroom like froth chasing the tide. An unnatural hush immediately followed.
Although the orchestra kept playing, the music now had a tinny, street-corner quality, as if the melody were being strained through a battered ear horn. The dancers did not falter, but their steps became disjointed and mechanical, as if they were marionettes painted to resemble aristocracy, rather than the pleasure-seeking lords and ladies they'd been just moments ago.
Ellie's senses became overwhelmingly acute. Miss Breckenridge's breathing seemed to echo about the chamber, her perfume suddenly noxious. Ellie's pulse thundered with such force, she fancied she felt the heat of her blood coursing recklessly through her veins. For the first time in her life, she had the inexplicable desire to flee the premises while her heart still beat.
Then there he was.
A leather thong tied thick chestnut hair at the nape of his neck. Eighteen stone of solid muscle sculpted effortlessly into ebony breeches and bone-white muslin. His skin was just as pale, yet managed to convey the strength of marble rather than the fragility of ivory. Impossibly bright sea-green eyes gazed knowingly from beneath dark lashes. Blunt cheekbones accentuated a wide, firm mouth set in a mocking smirk above a strong jaw.
He was too big, too pale, too predatory. He should not have been beautiful, but he was.
The music bobbled in his wake, losing its rhythm, then tumbled forth at twice the tempo. The sharp-edged lords and ladies loosened their joints until they too were fluid and careening about the ballroom once again. Widows and debutantes alike spun in and out of his path, inventing steps where there should be none, dipping to expose both cleavage and bared necks, twirling ever closer even when the music was done.
A giddy countess lost her equilibrium when she could not keep her eyes from him. Without even facing in her direction, he righted her with a mere touch of his palm against the small of her back. She fainted into her husband's arms. The remaining ladies were too entranced by Martainn Macane to take notice.
Ellie swallowed hard.
Lord Lovenip, indeed. For there could be no other man capable of stirring a stately crowd into such a frenzy with nothing more than a moment of his presence.
With what was surely superhuman strength, Ellie cut her gaze from the man sucking all the air out of the previously well-ventilated ballroom and forced her eyes to her benefactress. Perhaps it was the act of severing the inexplicable connection to the rakish Highlander or perhaps the unreality of the moment had been entirely in Ellie's mind, but once the arresting Scotsman no longer filled her vision, the rest of her senses s.h.i.+fted back to normal. Her pulse no longer clogged her ears, her blood no longer simmered beneath her flesh, and Miss Breckenridge was no longer breathing like- All right, yes. Miss Breckenridge was still breathing like a broodmare in labor. If her bosoms heaved any more vehemently, they'd heave themselves right out of their fas.h.i.+onably low bodice. Ellie uncurled fingers she didn't recall clenching and pressed a trembling hand to her own bosom to a.s.sure herself she was in no danger of exposing any womanly curves.
None of the other ladies seemed afflicted with such spinsterish sensibilities.
Everywhere Macane stepped, widows and debutantes swarmed. They taunted him with their long slender necks and bared decol-letage, angling for a dance and hoping to tempt him with the naked flesh displayed above the lace of their gowns. The married ladies were coyer, fluttering glazed eyes at him from over their husbands' shoulders.
He could have his pick of anyone in the room, Ellie realized with a start. Could and, most likely, did. Young, old, married, widowed-they were all shamelessly, shockingly available if he but wished it. The well-favored Scot seemed blind to the tiny dramas of gentlemen clinging desperately to their negligent wives and turned instead to the buffet of virginal misses fairly leaping from their duennas' custody and into his arms.
The steps of country-dances led him to one, then another, then yet another, leaving them all flushed and breathless and smitten, panting and clawing for the chance to tumble into his embrace once again, as if addicted to his scent.
It was horrifying and appalling and ... more than a little exciting. Every time he chose a pastel angel from the adoring crowd, Ellie's flesh tingled as if it had been her hand he had touched. Every time he spun an enraptured young miss out of his arms for a beat or two, Ellie felt the loss of contact down to her very bones. It was as if she could feel what they felt, both the delicious sense of vulnerability as one wide-eyed innocent after another let herself be trapped in his arms, as well as the darker thrill of possession, of mastery, of control over everyone who fell within his line of vision.
If the dukes and dandies felt threatened by the relentless power exuding from the das.h.i.+ng Mr. Macane, they disdained any instinct for confrontation. The married gentlemen clutched their wives to their chests as best they could. The unattached bucks melted into the wainscoting like wolf pups cowering before the leader of the pack.
Macane spared a glance at neither set, as if none of the gentlemen present posed the slightest threat to him having his way with whomever he wished. No matter what that might entail. Although Ellie had, as expected, seen no signs whatsoever of the handsome Lord Lovenip's being tempted by blood rather than by the ladies themselves, he was certainly dangerous in his own right, and a volatile addition to any throng. Not to mention provocative.
”Miss Breckenridge-” Ellie sucked in a breath, shocked to have heard a stammer in her voice. One would think this man had cast a spell over the room. ”Miss Breckenridge,” she began again, once she had regained her command over both voice and body. ”Presumably, the man who has enraptured the entire party without uttering a single word is the infamous Lord Lovenip. I see him dancing with those he should and those he should not, but nothing more untoward than that. I thought you said he ... bites?”
”Not all of them.” With obvious difficulty, Miss Breckenridge tore her eyes from the man in question. She turned toward Ellie, her movements sluggish, as if she yearned to tilt her face to him. ”And not all the time. That's what makes him harder to catch.” Her shoulders lifted with a sigh. ”And it's why n.o.body believes me.” Miss Breckenridge's voice lowered. ”He's not playacting, Miss Ramsay. He's a predator.”
Unconvinced of dark magic afoot, Ellie pursed her lips and considered. ”What is he waiting for, then? A solicitation?”
”A temptation, rather.” Miss Breckenridge lifted one of her slender arms and gave a flick of the wrist at the teeming crush. ”He's bored. He's danced with these women before, many times. Such is the burden of the Upper Ten Thousand-there are a limited set of us at any given party.”
”A trial, to be sure,” Ellie murmured.
”I have had a devil of a time catching him in the act,” Miss Breckenridge continued. ”My own sister doesn't acknowledge the truth, which is what prompted me to hire a professional. Nothing short of impartial corroboration will gain me her ear.” She gave a sharp nod. ”I shall now step aside and allow you your head.”
”Very well.” Ellie returned her gaze to the riveting Highlander who somehow made six-plus feet of controlled muscle seem elegant and graceful. She strongly suspected the virginal misses swarming about were in danger of losing something far more irreplaceable than a ration of blood, but how on earth could Ellie prove it?
”Dance,” she suggested to her client. ”Dance with him, and I promise to watch very closely. I shan't even blink.”
Miss Breckenridge recoiled as if Ellie had suggested eating spiders with tea. ”Are you mad? I've no wish to be nibbled upon by Lord Lovenip, no matter how handsome the devil's sp.a.w.n might be. Dance with him yourself if you'd like to tempt him into action.”
Nibbled upon. Yes. That did sound-Ellie gave her head a violent shake. No, rather. What bug was in her brain today? She had no wish to be nibbled upon, by him or anyone else. Furthermore, while Mr. Macane might be a rake of the first order, that hardly made him an undead creature bent on draining the blue blood from London's finest. Should she risk a dance to prove it? Why, certainly. Miss Elspeth Ramsay was more than willing to get her hands dirty in the name of science.
But how?
No one knew her. She was a dowdy spinster in outdated attire, hidden in a shadowy corner of the ballroom. Anonymity was the crux of any covert investigation. That's why every time she infiltrated a crowd, she spent the first quarter hour mentally chanting, Don't look at me, Don't remember me, at everyone who pa.s.sed her by. Her wish was always granted. Or perhaps someone of her station would never suffer particular attention. It went well against the grain to wish for the opposite. And even if the unthinkable happened and Lord Lovenip did happen to notice an unremarkable old maid flanking the third daughter of a duke, he'd suppose her Miss Breckenridge's chaperone before he thought her a viable dance partner.
Besides, did she even know how? Ellie frowned, realizing for the first time that her ability to perform dance steps-or not-was one of the many maddening holes in her memory. Her mother had cautioned against taking this a.s.signment, as if Ellie might forget herself and never return home. Utter nonsense. What Ellie could not forget was how badly their pockets were to let. They could ill afford to turn down money, and it was just a simple ball. Ellie would stick to the shadows, as always, and hopefully return home overlooked but a few pounds richer. And life would go on as always.
But she couldn't stop the traitorous voice inside her head from whispering, Look at me; notice me as she stared at Mr. Macane's devastatingly handsome form.
Unsurprisingly, nothing happened. His focus was on his simpering dance partner.
Chest tight with resentment and envy, Ellie s.h.i.+fted her gaze to the insipid debutante in his arms. Beautiful and probably brainless. I hope you fall.
The girl's legs collapsed beneath her.
Ellie gasped in shock at the coincidence, unconsciously pressing her back against the uneven wall.
Macane extended a graceful hand to the trembling girl at his feet, but his dark gaze focused over her head, as if he could see through the throng and through the shadows, to the young lady trying desperately to melt into the wainscoting.
”You can't see me. You can't see me,” Ellie whispered, suddenly and unreasonably terrified.
”He can,” Miss Breckenridge corrected, her voice faint. ”I fear you've been marked.”
Ellie's body fought to free itself from the wall, as if pulled toward him by a force more powerful than her self-control. At the same time, every sense, every pore, screamed danger. Her breathing faltered and her heartbeat sped until her only reality was herself... and him.
The melody ended, and a new one began. Without breaking eye contact with Ellie, Macane handed the young girl off to her mother and strode forward, his step purposeful, his eyes determined. Despite the crowd, despite the music, despite her own breath rasping loudly in her ears, from across the ballroom she could clearly hear him speak his first word of the evening.
”You.”
And then he pounced.
Without seeing him cross the dance floor, without any memory of peeling herself from the far wall, their shadows intertwined and those eerily beautiful green eyes were piercing her to her soul.
”I-” Ellie faltered, unsure what she'd meant to say, or if there truly was anything to say.
He frowned, which only served to unnerve her even more. ”You're not-”
”I forgot to make introductions,” gasped Miss Breckenridge, at Ellie's shoulder. ”Of course. Mr. Macane, allow me the honor of presenting Miss Elspeth Ramsay. Miss Ramsay, this is Mr. Martainn Macane.”
Yes. Obviously. But all Ellie could do was stare up at him, mesmerized by the tiny crease between his brows, as if he were as puzzled as she was to find herself the object of his attention. Who had he thought she was? And would he leave, now that his hopes had been disappointed?
Mr. Macane's brow smoothed, and his chiseled features relaxed into a mask of perfect ennui. He inclined his head and favored her with a close-lipped smile.