Part 12 (1/2)

Just as she decided that she'd been insulted yet again, he continued, ”Come now, Cate, You cannot expect me to believe you enjoy mincing about in a minuet. Not when you stride about London as if it were the open moors.”

”Well, I-”

”Do you waltz?”

”I ... no. I never have.”

”Pity. It is a dance made to suit the long-limbed Graces of the world. And, if we gentlemen are very fortunate, we are able to partic.i.p.ate from rather closer than this.” He lifted their joined hands. ”We have been deprived, have we not, living in our respective distant climes?”

How nice it might have been, Cate thought wistfully, to have experienced her first waltz with a man who would not be daunted by the prospect of having all of her many inches in his arms. But there was no waltz music to be heard, and she had never fancied herself a Grace. Beyond that, whenever she danced a freer set of steps, like a Scottish reel, she was wary of knocking other, smaller dancers off the floor.

”I do not mind the minuet,” she said firmly.

”Sharp stones,” Tregaron said again, and guided her into the final pattern.

When the music ended, Cate expected Tregaron to lead her back to the sidelines and leave her somewhere in the vicinity of Lady Leverham, who was holding court near the door. And he might have done just that had she not stopped dead halfway there.

Lord Fremont, resplendent in his formal garb, was striding straight toward them. His fair hair was artfully tousled, his handsome features wreathed in the brightest of smiles. He was quite probably the handsomest man in the room, arguably the cleverest, and Cate was certain that he was coming over to demand a dance. She was equally certain that his intentions were neither honorable nor amicable.

Is this not a room meant to be danced in? He had trailed her into the conservatory of the Maybole house, a sennight after he'd first spied her, breeches-clad and busy, in the gutted music room. Cate had no idea why he was speaking to her at all, and especially with such charm and civility. Later she would decide it was because she'd shown no interest in him, hadn't even looked his way on those odd occasions when their paths crossed.

He did not know that she watched him, watched for him, from beneath lowered lids all the time, awed by his fair beauty.

Was it a room meant for dancing? No, she'd replied tartly, her heart going like a drum, when he'd finally spoken to her; it was a room meant for holding unG.o.dly expensive plants that had no place in Scotland. He'd stared at her blankly for a moment, then thrown back his golden head and laughed. Cate, certain she was being mocked and knowing better than to spit at one of her volatile employer's most treasured guests, had turned her back on him, resumed her task of measuring the windows, and answered him in curt monosyllables until he went away.

She could never have foreseen what the following days would bring-dazzling smiles, snippets of poems, hushed and repeated requests for midnight dances under Egyptian palms . . .

Is this not a room meant to be danced in?

Cate nearly stumbled as Tregaron abruptly steered her in the opposite direction, away from Fremont with his complacent smile. Right past a gaggle of sharp-eyed matrons, past Lady Leverham and her coterie, weaving through the crowded game room, into a small parlor and right out a pair of French doors. In a matter of moments, Cate found herself on a side balcony that was full of shadows and completely empty of people.

Her heart was pounding as she reached the railing. ”Sir,” she began, ready to pull away, to protest, when neither seemed quite the thing to do. But she realized then that he had already released her and was standing a good five feet away, just barely outside the doors. ”Thank you,” she said softly, honestly. ”I did not want to ... to ...”

With what meager light came from the chamber behind his back, Tregaron's face was obscured in shadow. All Cate could see was that he was leaning against the ivy-covered brick wall, arms crossed over his chest, covering much of the white of his waistcoat and s.h.i.+rt. Dark, she thought. And not a little dangerous.

Dear G.o.d, she was foxed, or at least closer than she had ever been.

His voice, coming out of the darkness, was low and rough enough to make her heart do another jittery thump. ”What happened between you and Fremont, Cate?”

”What ever would make you say-?”

”Do you think me stupid?”

”No,” she replied, feeling foolish herself. ”No, I don't.”

”What happened between you and Fremont?”

She momentarily considered telling him, spilling the whole dismal tale then and there. But tempting as

it was to tell someone-to finally be able to tell anyone-she couldn't. There was no way to explainwithout sounding exactly like the moon-eyed, naive creature she had been.

”We were acquainted briefly in Scotland. I do not care for him. That is all there is to it.”

”All there is?”

”Yes.”

He came away from the wall so quickly and smoothly that she barely saw him move. Then he was standing halfway along the balcony, halfway between her and the door. ”Liar,” he said softly. Then, ”But keep your secrets if you need to.”

Cate waited for him to join her at the rail. He didn't. She turned to stare out over the darkened garden far below. ”I suppose I ought to go back inside.”

”Ah, yes. Of course. We cannot have your reputation sullied by mine. By all means, go before you are missed.”

Cate couldn't help it; she gave a short laugh. ”I'm not likely to be missed. Not here anyway.”

”Do you always do that?”

”Do what?”

Tregaron took a half step forward, then seemed to change his mind and retreated to the wall. ”Deny your own value.”

She thought for a moment. No one had ever accused her of such before. ”I know my value,” she said eventually, ”and where it exists.” Then, feeling the need for some levity, she added, ”I simply have no pretensions about my sense of fas.h.i.+on or my freckles.”

Of all the polite responses he could have made, she did not expect, ”For what it's worth, Cate, I like your freckles.”

He had meant only to be honest, not to startle her. But he had; he heard it in her soft intake of breath. He certainly did not expect a simple declaration of fact to send her running. But there she went; she very nearly got by him as she all but bolted for the door.

He reached out and managed to snare her wrist. ”Cate.”

She pulled back, but not hard enough. ”I really must be getting back.”

”Are you feeling missed?”

Her skin was surprisingly warm against his, even through the fabric of her glove. He supposed he had expected, without ever giving any thought to the matter, for her to be as cool to the touch as she was in demeanor. He really ought to have known better. There was a fire within Cate Buchanan that he had sensed. Now he was feeling it.

”Cate,” he said again, tugging gently and trying to remember the last time he had encountered a woman who had met him with real warmth.

She was close enough now that he could see her features clearly. The color of her eyes was lost to the night, but they were wide in her face, her still lips parted slightly in surprise, or dismay ... or something else. Tregaron could see a pulse beating above the deplorably high, cobwebby trim of her bodice. He imagined the bold lines of her collarbones beneath, the soft hollows beneath those.

He had never questioned that there was something stirring, undeniably appealing to him about this woman. She was vibrant as sunlight, bright as summer. He had simply never considered that she might take on the properties of moonlight as well-soft, alluring, drawing a man like the sea.