Page 65 of Some Like It Wild
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” Connor said grimly as their next giddy turn nearly bumped a couple right off their feet.
It quickly became apparent that they were posing a danger not only to themselves but to the other dancers as well. Pamela laughed aloud, marveling that a man so graceful both on his feet and off of them could be such a wretched dancer.
She tugged him to a halt. “We can practice later,” she told him. “In private.”
Her husky promise wiped the scowl right off of his face. Instead of releasing her, he splayed his powerful hand at the small of her back and urged her closer. As he gazed down at her, his eyes going smoky with want, it was as if the two of them were suspended in time while the world continued to spin around them in a whirling kaleidoscope of color and motion.
Pamela would have been content to remain that way forever if the music hadn’t lurched to an abrupt halt, leaving the dancers milling about in confusion.
Before they could regain their composure, the footman’s resonant voice reverberated from the arched doorway of the ballroom on a note of pure triumph. “His Grace, the Duke of Warrick.”
A stunned gasp went up from the crowd as two young, burly footmen appeared in the doorway, bearing the duke’s wheeled chair between them as if it were a pasha’s litter or the throne of some mighty and ancient king.
“I do believe someone is trying to upstage you,” Pamela murmured, shooting Connor a wry glance.
He snorted. “I’m surprised he didn’t have heralds dressed as angels announce his arrival with a fanfare of trumpets.”
They watched along with the rest of the guests as the footmen carried the chair across the ballroom, then gently lowered it to the floor. Two more footmen followed in their wake, staggering slightly beneath the weight of a tall velvet-draped object. Those in the back of the room were craning their necks to get a better look at the infamous recluse and the footmen’s mysterious burden.
The duke’s gaunt cheeks were flushed, but it was impossible to tell if his sunken eyes were glittering with fever or excitement. His hair had been neatly combed and lay in a shining curtain over his shoulders. The kiss of hoarfrost at his temples lent him a dignified air. Despite being confined to the chair, he was sitting with his back ramrod straight. His elegant evening clothes masked how wasted his frame had become.
As he surveyed the crowd through his shrewd hazel eyes, Pamela caught a glimpse of the man who must have once commanded every room he entered. The man who had won his duchess’s heart, and then been foolish enough to toss it away like so much refuse.
“Most of you already know why you were invited here tonight,” he said.
Although an expectant hush had fallen over the crowd, Pamela was still surprised by how well his voice carried.
“After many long years of wandering this world alone, my son—and heir—has finally come home.”
That statement produced several surreptitious glances at Connor and a smattering of polite applause.
“At this time I would like to ask him to take his rightful place by my side.”
The duke stretched out his hand toward Connor, its palsied trembling betraying the weakness he was trying so hard to hide. Pamela could feel the tension arcing through Connor and knew he would have liked nothing better in that moment than to bolt for the door. But instead, he laced his fingers through hers and started forward, making it clear that this was one ordeal he had no intention of facing alone.
The crowd eagerly parted to clear a path between the two men. As she and Connor approached the duke, Pamela felt a peculiar chill shoot down her spine. She glanced over her shoulder to find Lady Astrid watching them from the gallery, her eyes glowing nearly as feverishly as her brother’s.
Pamela frowned, disconcerted by the woman’s gloating expression. But there wasn’t anything she could do at the moment except obey the duke’s summons.
Connor reluctantly surrendered her hand as they approached the wheeled chair. She stepped back a respectful pace, executing a graceful curtsy. Connor bowed as well, but the duke quickly caught him by the hand, urging him to straighten.
Pamela glanced behind them again, sensing movement in the crowd for the first time since the duke had made his grand entrance. There seemed to be several new arrivals slipping past the footmen and into the ballroom. Before she could blink, they had disappeared into the crowd, fanning out in all directions.
Her sense of unease growing, she returned her attention to the duke, praying his speech would be over quickly so she could warn Connor that something might be amiss.
Still gripping Connor’s hand, the duke drew him to his side so that they were both facing the crowd. “Ever since the day my son returned to Warrick Park, I’ve been trying to come up with the perfect gift with which I might welcome him home. As most of you know without my boasting, my fortune is such that I could lay many of the world’s greatest treasures at his feet. But by watching him with his lovely fiancée in the past fortnight, I have learned that my son is a much wiser man than I was at his age. He has already come to recognize the value of the dearest treasure of all.”
Pamela felt the sting of unexpected tears in her eyes as the duke paused to give her a gracious nod.
As if by prearranged signal, all four footmen moved to station themselves around the object draped by the velvet curtain.
“After searching my heart—or what’s left of it—I decided to give my son a gift that would honor not only him, but also the memory of his dear mother.”
The duke waved his hand in a dramatic flourish. The footmen tugged a quartet of gold cords and the velvet curtain went rippling to the floor.
An astonished gasp went up from the room as an enormous portrait propped up on a gilded easel was revealed. A portrait of a lady in the first tender bloom of womanhood.
Her hair was piled high on top of her head and lightly powdered in the style of a generation ago, making it impossible to determine its hue. Some might have said it was her striking gray eyes, her ripe lips, or her fine straight nose that made her beauty so uncommon, but Pamela believed it to be the mischievous dimple tucked deep into her right cheek. There was also a beguiling hint of stubbornness to the lift of her jaw, giving the impression that she was not a woman with whom a man would want to trifle. Pamela sighed, thinking how very tragic it was that the duke had learned that lesson too late.
