Page 62 of Some Like It Wild
As if on cue, the quartet of musicians seated in the corner struck up the first soaring strains of a Viennese waltz.
Delighted to find an excuse to be in his arms without causing a scandal, Pamela beamed up at him. “Would you care to dance, my lord?”
Folding his brawny arms over his chest, Connor smiled down at her with equal tenderness. “Hell, no.”
“They make a striking couple, don’t they?” Crispin observed, joining his mother at the railing of the portrait gallery overlooking the ballroom.
She was dressed all in white again. Like a bride. Or a ghost.
“Indeed they do,” she agreed in a tone that was surprisingly amiable.
Connor was standing behind Pamela now. Crispin watched as he gently rubbed her upper arms before bending his lighter head to her darker one and whispering something in her ear.
“What did you do with that broadsheet I found?” Crispin asked his mother.
She shrugged one pale shoulder. “Nothing of import. I simply made a few inquiries.”
“And just what did you learn?”
A smile curved her lips. “All in good time, my son. All in good time.”
Growing weary of her little games, he shook his head in disgust and turned to go.
She rested her hand lightly on his arm. “Never forget, my darling boy, that everything I’ve done has been for you.Everything,” she added, her meaning impossible to miss.
He turned to gaze into her dark blue eyes, chilled anew by the absence of emotion within them. “That’s precisely what I’ve always been afraid of.”
Sophie pressed her ear to the bedchamber wall, groaning in frustration as the distant strains of a Viennese waltz came wafting up from belowstairs. If she closed her eyes, she could almost see herself twirling around a candlelit ballroom in Crispin’s arms with every admiring eye fixed on them.
She threw herself down on the settee, glaring at the door. There hadn’t been a single opportunity for Crispin to pay her another nocturnal visit. Pamela had rarely left her bedchamber in the past week, much less the house. Given the intriguing thumps and muffled moans which emanated from her sister’s chamber each night after the candles were extinguished and she believed Sophie was asleep, Sophie wasn’t sure she could blame her.
She rose to restlessly pace the room. Pamela had promised her that as soon as she and Connor were safely wed, she would reveal to the duke and the world that Sophie was her sister and not her maid. Sophie hugged herself, smiling to imagine the stunned look on Crispin’s face when he discovered she was no lowly maidservant, but…but…the sister of a marchioness!
Her gaze fell on the rejected gowns still piled haphazardly on the bed. Instead of moping, she supposed she could make better use of her time by hanging them in the dressing room before they wrinkled. She certainly had no intention of pressing them.
Feeling a bit like Cinderella after the wicked stepsisters had gone off to make merry at the prince’s ball, she gathered up an armful of the gowns. But when a lustrous pearl-trimmed bodice caught her eye, she let the rest of the gowns slide carelessly to the floor.
The silk of the high-waisted evening dress had been dyed a rich cornflower blue that perfectly matched the shade of her eyes. Unable to resist the temptation, Sophie held the gown up to herself and waltzed over to the cheval glass to admire her reflection. The dress would have been all wrong for Pamela but it was perfect for her. Well, at least it would be if she could find some cotton batting to stuff the bosom.
Humming along with the music drifting up from the ballroom, she swayed back and forth in front of the mirror before finishing her impromptu waltz with a graceful twirl.
When she faced the mirror once again, she was wearing an evil little smirk. “She borrowed my gowns, didn’t she?” she reminded her reflection. “Why shouldn’t I borrow hers?”
Before she could lose her nerve, she scrambled into the dressing room and tugged one of their old battered valises down from the shelf above the dormer window. The case was stuffed with discarded props they’d filched from the theater over the years, including the music box pistol Pamela had used to take Connor hostage. It didn’t take Sophie long to findexactlywhat she needed to complete her ensemble.
Pamela pursued Connor relentlessly through the crowd, ignoring the avid glances they were getting. “What do you mean you can’t dance? I don’t understand. I’ve never seen a man so light and graceful on his feet. Why, you practically dance every time you move.Everytime you move,” she added under her breath, remembering a particularly spectacular motion he had executed in her bed only that morning. He certainly couldn’t deny having rhythm.
“My mother tried to teach me to dance when I was a lad. It didnotgo well.”
“But any man who can fence and recite poetry as well as you should be able to dance!”
He cast her an arch look over his shoulder, pointing out the illogic of that statement without a word.
Pamela doubled her steps to keep pace with his long strides. “Why didn’t you tell the duke? I’m sure he would have engaged a dancing master for you.”
“I almost killed the fencing master. Can you imagine what I’d do to a dancing master?” Connor groaned as he veered around a marble column only to find his path cut off by Crispin.
“I need to speak with you,” Crispin said, his lean face grim.
