Nicole Jordan Page 3

  “Oh, my word,” Emily breathed, dismay and excitement lacing her tone. “Is that . . .”

  Trey Deverill, Antonia finished silently for her friend. “I believe,” she answered rather unsteadily, “it is Mr. Deverill.”

  “What is he doing here at my ball? I sent him no card of invitation.”

  He was heading directly toward them, Antonia realized, her stomach rioting with butterflies. But then, miraculously, he paused to speak to a gentleman who had waylaid him.

  “He looks a bit like a pirate,” Emily observed breathlessly.

  He did indeed, Antonia thought, relieved to have more time to prepare herself before coming face-to-face with Deverill.

  Even dressed in a tailored black coat and white satin knee breeches, he was the picture of raw masculinity. His gleaming brown hair, thick and wavy and sun-streaked, was an unfashionable length, almost reaching his shoulders, while his striking features were still deeply tanned. With his height and sleek, powerful build, he commanded the attention of every eye in the room.

  Hers in particular. Every inch of him was as vital and bold as Antonia remembered.

  Then Deverill turned toward her again, and her gaze locked with his. She couldn’t look away. Absurdly, all her nerves began thrumming in anticipation, as if her entire being had suddenly come alive after a long sleep.

  Emily, too, seemed unaccountably flustered. “He is moving this way. What should I do, Antonia? Should I refuse him admittance? Mr. Deverill is not considered respectable, even if he comes from a highly genteel family and is exceedingly rich.”

  “No, you don’t want to make a scene,” Antonia replied in a rallying tone. “Try to act naturally, as if you expected to receive him.”

  But when Deverill came to a halt before her, it was Antonia who had difficulty managing the pretense of composure.

  He was breathtakingly handsome at close range, captivating with his sea green eyes gazing down into hers so intently. It aroused her just to look at him—

  although surely the flush infusing her body could be attributed to the warmth of the ballroom.

  “Miss Maitland,” he murmured briefly in greeting, in that deep, rich voice she still remembered.

  To her surprise, though, he barely acknowledged her before bowing politely over Emily’s hand. “Pray accept my apologizes, Lady Sudbury, for appearing uninvited. I have been away in India this past year and just heard the terrible news about Miss Maitland’s father. I was a close friend of Samuel Maitland’s and wished to offer her my condolences.”

  Emily was not proof against Deverill’s easy charm. “That is most kind of you, Mr. Deverill. And you are welcome to join us if you wish.”

  Returning his attention to Antonia, he took her gloved hand. “I am keenly sorry for your loss. Your father was a remarkable man.”

  Antonia winced, feeling the familiar sharp stab of grief that had diminished little in the year since her father’s passing. “Thank you,” she murmured, discomfited by the touch of Deverill’s fingers as they pressed hers.

  “No doubt you miss him.”

  “Very much.” She missed her father dreadfully. Yet she was determined to throw off her gloom and look to the future; it was what Papa would have wanted, she was certain.

  Deverill was regarding her sympathetically. “Since you are out of black gloves now, Miss Maitland, perhaps you will honor me with a dance for old times’ sake.”

  She eyed him in surprise, wondering what his purpose was, knowing it would not be quite the thing to dance with a man of Deverill’s notoriety. She was glad to have an excuse to refuse him. “I am afraid my dance card is full, Mr. Deverill.”

  He flashed a slow grin. “I expected nothing less. But surely your intended partner will understand that we wish to renew our acquaintance. If you will excuse us, Lady Sudbury?”

  Not giving either lady a chance to respond, he took Antonia’s elbow to guide her through the crowd.

  Caught off guard, she lacked the presence of mind to protest Deverill’s presumption before he steered her onto the ballroom floor. She might even have admired his boldness if she hadn’t been the target of it. Over her shoulder, Antonia saw her next partner approaching, saw the gentleman’s jaw drop in puzzlement at being abandoned. And her betrothed was moving toward her as well, bearing two cups of punch. Lord Heward directed a dark frown at Deverill as the orchestra struck up the music.

  The dance was a waltz, Antonia realized with a sinking heart as Deverill took her in his arms. She was required to tilt her head back to look up at him, which made her feel uncharacteristically small and feminine. Worse, she felt an undeniable heat at his closeness. Trying to pretend nonchalance, however, she braced herself and followed his lead as he swept her into the dance.

  He whirled her around the ballroom with fluid grace, matching his steps to hers in perfect rhythm. At least he held her at a proper distance, yet the solid feel of his shoulder beneath her gloved fingertips was highly disturbing. She knew from experience how hard and lean his body was, but touching him only brought to mind the image of his magnificent nude form. . . .

  When her cheeks warmed again, Antonia raised her eyes to the ceiling and muttered an imprecation to herself. She was an utter nitwit for dwelling on such forbidden memories. She was no longer that tongue-tied green girl who had been struck spellbound by a dashing adventurer so long ago. She was four years older now—and determined to hold her own with Deverill.

  “I confess surprise,” she made herself comment airily, “that you dance so well, Mr. Deverill. I would not have guessed that dancing would number among your unusual accomplishments.”

  He raised a dark eyebrow. “Why would that surprise you?”

  “Because I thought you held an aversion for polite society.”

  “I do occasionally consort with civilized company in other countries, Miss Maitland,” he answered her dryly. “It’s primarily London society that has never appealed to me.”

  She wanted greatly to ask him why, but instead she essayed a polite smile. “Where did you say you have been this time? India? It must be delightful to travel to such exotic quarters of the globe. But I should tell you that Lord Byron is proving to be something of your rival. Have you read The Corsair from his ‘Turkish Tales’?”

  “No, I haven’t had the pleasure.”

  “All the ton is talking about his poetry. I admit I thought of you when I was reading it—although I suspect your real-life adventures are more exciting than Byron’s fictional accounts.”

  A lazy smile curved Deverill’s lips, as if he agreed. But he made no reply as he expertly negotiated her around a knot of dancers. After a moment’s silence, Antonia continued the conversation, since talking helped distract her from the unruly sensations that were still flooding her at being in his arms.

  “I actually had one small adventure since I last saw you, Mr. Deverill. In truth, I should thank you for inspiring it. Two years ago, I persuaded my father to take me to Cyrene when he had business there.”

  Cyrene was a small island in the western Mediterranean, not too far from the southern coast of Spain. Antonia had relished every moment of her visit there, and every moment of the voyage to and from the island as well.

  That topic had caught his attention. “And what did you think of Cyrene?” Deverill asked with evident interest in her answer.

  “I found it remarkably beautiful. I can understand why you make it your home when you are not at sea. You have an estate there, I understand. My father told me,” she said at Deverill’s quizzical look, not wanting him to know how avidly curious she was about how he lived his life or where he chose to live it.

  Deverill was measuring her again with that striking green gaze, which deplorably only made her heart beat faster. “I was told that you remained in London after your father’s passing.”

  “Yes. London has always been my home. But for propriety’s sake, I hired an acquaintance of my late mother’s as a companion, to come live with me and act as chaperone
. And my trustee is a barrister who was a close friend of Papa’s, so I am well cared for.”

  Deverill’s eyes narrowed a degree. “I also believe felicitations are in order. You are soon to announce your betrothal, isn’t that so?”

  It was Antonia’s turn to be surprised. “How did you learn of my betrothal?”

  “Your housekeeper told me when I called at your home this morning.”

  “You know Mrs. Peeke?”

  His broad shoulders lifted in a slight shrug. “I performed a service for her husband once, so she tends to think of me as her prodigal son whenever I’m in London.”

  Antonia studied Deverill’s enigmatic expression, dearly wanting to know what he had done to win such loyalty from her housekeeper. But he forestalled her with another remark about her betrothal.

  “Mrs. Peeke says you are happy with your choice of Baron Heward.”

  Even if she had no desire to discuss her future marriage with Deverill, the skepticism in his tone made her want to defend herself. “I am indeed quite happy.”

  “Do you think your father would have been pleased?”

  Antonia’s brow furrowed. “Yes, of course. Papa was delighted when we became engaged, since it was the brilliant match he always wished for. Lord Heward holds an illustrious title that goes back to Richard Lionheart, and he is considered the height of good ton, accepted everywhere. What is more, Papa approved of his business acumen. Heward has extensive interests in shipping—he owns his own firm, in fact. So our marriage will be a merger of fortunes and business interests as well.”

  “But what of your own feelings? Are you in love with him?”

  Antonia blinked at the frank question. “That is scarcely your concern, Mr. Deverill.”

  “Your father was a friend of mine, Miss Maitland. I feel obliged to make certain his daughter is protected from unscrupulous fortune hunters.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Lord Heward is hardly a fortune hunter! He has a significant fortune of his own. And he certainly is not unscrupulous.”

  “Are you so confident of that?”

  Antonia could only stare back at Deverill, frankly startled by his intense interest in her impending marriage and by his probing questions.

  Suddenly, though, Deverill shook his head, as if becoming aware he had gone far beyond the bounds of polite discourse. “Forgive me, sweeting. I didn’t mean to distress you.” He flashed her a charming smile. “I know you believe you are doing exactly what your father wanted.”

  Momentarily speechless at how he had turned his apology into an indictment of her judgment, Antonia mentally reviewed all the arguments she could make in retort. The crucial one being that by marrying Lord Heward, she would be fulfilling her father’s most ardent wish. As a baroness, she would be assured of a place in the elite ranks of the Beau Monde.

  It would be a marriage of convenience, true, not a love match. Yet her handsome, charming betrothed was the sort of husband every young lady dreamed of. And she was very fond of Lord Heward and enjoyed his company—although he could be a bit stuffy and proper at times. Not that she would ever admit it to Deverill.

  Finally finding her tongue, Antonia gave him a frigid smile. “This marriage is precisely what my father wanted. But tragically, he died before he could see it come to fruition.”

  “I’m surprised Heward didn’t press to declare your betrothal before now.”

  He had wished to announce it, she reflected, but she had insisted otherwise. “Lord Heward was quite understanding when I put off our official betrothal so I could properly mourn. And in the interim, he has been wonderfully supportive. He stepped in to help oversee Maitland Shipping’s extensive concerns, which naturally, as a female, I could not do.”

  “Naturally. But I don’t wish to discuss Heward any longer. I merely want to enjoy dancing with the most beautiful woman in the room.”

  Antonia’s eyebrows snapped together at Deverill’s sudden about-face and dubious flattery. But she could think of no appropriate retort and so fell silent as he spun her around the ballroom.

  She still had not entirely lost her annoyance with him by the time the waltz came to an end. When they drew to a halt, however, she found herself distracted, since Deverill didn’t immediately release her.

  She stared up at him, aware that the heat shimmering between them had suddenly returned full force to assault her senses. His embrace was unnervingly intimate, his face disquietingly close to hers. Her gaze dropped to his mouth. His beautiful, sensual mouth that could give such intense pleasure . . .

  Abruptly Antonia shook herself from the memory of his kiss. Most decidedly she ought not feel this fierce attraction for Deverill, particularly not when she was betrothed to another man.

  She glanced about her, realizing that his provocative attentions had attracted undue notice from the highbrowed ball guests. And Lord Heward was casting a jealous scowl from the sidelines, she saw.

  Abashed, she extricated herself from Deverill’s embrace and stepped safely back.

  Seeming to ignore that he was the focus of such keen attention, Deverill sketched her a polite bow, although his mouth held a sardonic twist when he spoke. “I will pay my respects to your betrothed some other time. I would very much like to speak to him, although I doubt the feeling is mutual, considering the way Heward is looking daggers at me just now. He’ll be pleased that I must take my leave, since I have another engagement. Your devoted servant, Miss Maitland.”

  With another bow, he turned away, leaving her to stare after him.

  As Antonia stood there trying to gather her scattered wits, her friend Emily suddenly appeared at her side.

  “Oh, my,” Emily exclaimed, “what did he say to you?”

  “Nothing much,” Antonia managed to reply. “We discussed my father. And he asked me about my betrothal.” She offered her friend an apologetic smile. “I regret that Deverill showed up uninvited to create a stir, Emily.”

  “Goodness, I don’t blame you in the least. He reportedly delights in flouting the rules of polite society. In fact, I believe I am quite pleased after all, Antonia. His notoriety is sure to make my ball a success, for it gives my guests something to prate about. Indeed, I heard all manner of juicy gossip about Deverill while you were dancing. So tell me, is he as fascinating as everyone says?”

  Antonia was not about to answer that question honestly, or admit that Deverill’s powerful, breathtaking presence still affected her as much as it had when she was a mere schoolgirl. “He was a friend of my father’s, simply that.”

  “Well, Heward looked quite put out because Deverill danced with you. And any number of ladies are jealous as cats that he spoke only to you. I hear Lady Follows has been hopelessly in love with him for years, but no one has ever succeeded in rousing the slightest longing in his heart—if he has one, which they consider debatable. There is no question, however, that women find him irresistible, with that combination of raw virility and elusiveness. Not to mention his celebrated sexual expertise—”

  “Emily!” Antonia chastised, feigning shock. “You know you shouldn’t say such disgraceful things in my tender hearing. Miss Baldwin would box your ears if she knew.”

  “Well, I don’t see why I must hold my tongue around you any longer. You will be wed to Heward soon enough, and then you will understand the delights of the marriage bed.”

  But until then, Antonia reminded herself, she ought not be discussing a man’s sexual expertise. Particularly not Deverill’s. It was difficult enough to forget the magnificent image of his nude body and the scandalous fantasies he still roused in her dreams.

  She let out a long breath. To her dismay, her attraction for the bold, exciting adventurer was stronger than ever, but she needed to remember that she was engaged to wed Lord Heward. Deverill needed to remember it as well.

  It was none of his concern whom she married, although clearly he had not approved of her intentions. Inexplicably, Antonia shivered, recalling how his green eyes had darkened with searching int
ensity when he spoke to her of unscrupulous fortune hunters.

  She suspected that she hadn’t heard the last word from him on the subject of her betrothal. For now, however, she intended to dismiss all thought of Deverill from her mind, since her fair-haired nobleman was approaching her, bearing two long-forgotten cups of punch.

  Excusing herself from Emily, Antonia pasted a welcoming smile on her lips and went to meet him.

  Deverill had a distinct frown on his face as he left the overheated ballroom. Dancing with Antonia had been a mistake, he’d realized the instant he took her in his arms. Holding her, touching her, had been dangerously, unexpectedly arousing.

  Roughly he locked his jaw to counteract the still-painful swelling in his loins.

  Of course, his lust had a likely explanation. It had been months since he’d enjoyed a woman’s charms, with no female companionship during the long voyage from India to Cyrene. And once he’d discovered the housekeeper’s urgent letter waiting for him on the island, he’d been too impatient to reach London to give any thought to dalliance.

  Moreover, Deverill admitted with grudging honesty, he’d always been partial to red-haired temptresses. And Antonia’s auburn hair glowed with a molten flame that made a man eager to singe his hands.

  He wondered if her lovemaking would possess the same fire that shone in the depths of her hair. He suspected it would, even though on the surface she appeared every inch the polished, proper, gracious lady. The flash of temper he’d seen tonight in her vivid blue eyes suggested she had merely banked the fire in order to present the genteel facade expected of her.

  It was that hint of fire that called to him.

  He’d had a glimpse of it four years ago, during his first intriguing encounter with Antonia, but he had managed to ignore his male urges then, sternly quelling his inappropriate desire for her. Even though he’d satisfied her curiosity by giving her her first kiss, he knew full well she was innocent and untried and completely off limits, with a protective father who intended for her to make a brilliant marriage. A rakish adventurer was assuredly not proper husband material, no matter how much Samuel Maitland had professed to admire him.