Page 3 of The Moonstone Pirate
His owner laughed and motioned a footman over. “We are in dire need of a damp cloth, if you please.”
“At once, my lord,” the servant said with a quick bob of his head, and hurried away.
“I ought to have warned you about Parrot.” Draco Waring bent on his haunches beside her to casually pet his dog. “But he does not usually take so fondly to strangers. He approves of you, however.”
“Well, I approve of him, too. Why do you call him Parrot? That is rather an odd name for a dog.”
“Do you think so?” His eyes beneath his mask were glittering with mirth. “It just seemed to fit him when he was a mere pup. He squawked rather than barked, and he had an odd way of turning his head, just the way a parrot does.” He shrugged. “See, he is doing it now.”
“Yes, I see.” Imogen laughed as she nodded. “May I draw his portrait sometime?”
He stopped petting his dog and regarded her with what appeared to be a soft expression. “Are you an artist, Butterfly?”
“Yes, mostly landscapes, but also people and animals. I am quite familiar with the flora and fauna in the area and have spent many summers drawing scenes of the surrounding cliffs and caves, including the pirate caves on this very property. I used to come here quite often for this purpose.”
“But no longer?” he asked, his expression suddenly serious.
She shook her head. “There were reports of pirate activity a couple of years ago, so my uncle forbade my coming here again. Do you know we have many caves once used for smuggling in the Moonstone Landing area? It was quite an active trade several centuries ago, and again only decades ago during the Napoleonic Wars, when so many goods were under embargo. The most popular pirate caves are right here, as a matter of fact. Just across the meadow from Woodley Lodge. I suppose you can easily access them from your cliff walk. Have you been down there yet?”
The footman returned with the damp cloth before her companion had the chance to respond. “Ah, here we go.” He rose, took the cloth from the footman, and then drew her up beside him. He turned her hand palm up and rested it in the cup of his own. “You have soft skin, Butterfly.”
“Don’t all butterflies?” She studied him while he wiped Parrot’s drool off her fingers and wrist with surprising gentleness. His touch shot tingles through her again, but she dared not make anything of it. Their proximity also affected her, for he was tall and broad in the shoulders, taut and trim, but unmistakably powerful.
Indeed, he exuded masculine heat and a decidedly brash confidence. This was most disconcerting. She had never responded in this manner to any gentleman before. His scentwas divine, a blend of tropical bay spices that made her want to put her nose to his neck and brazenly inhale.
Goodness, what was she thinking? She struggled not to draw closer. She did not know this man at all, nor would she recognize him were they ever to meet again, since she had only seen him masked.
“All done, Butterfly,” he said with a raspy resonance to his voice.
“Thank you.” Perhaps she might recognize the silver glint of his eyes or the attractive shape of his lips if they ever met again. Not that it mattered. This was just a ball, and who knew if she would ever see this pirate after tonight? “Why do you insist on calling me Butterfly? Is it because you have forgotten my name?”
He cast her a devastating smile. “No, Lady Imogen Stockwell. I am not likely ever to forget a thing about you. Come, let me escort you through the garden and out of sight of those drunken fools who appear to have taken an avid interest in you.”
He offered his arm while they strolled, and she gladly latched on to it, for those leering knaves put her ill at ease.
“I do know of those pirate caves,” he said, in response to her earlier question, “but haven’t been down to properly scout them out yet. Are you an explorer?”
Imogen shook her head. “No, I am merely an artist.”
“Nothing mere about you, Imogen.” He stopped to stare at her. “So, you think you can sketch a decent portrait of Parrot?”
She laughed. “Yes, I believe I can. I could also draw you with Parrot. I’ll show you some of my work when my uncle, the Marquess of Burness, invites the Earl of Woodley and his family to Westgate Hall. Then you can make your own assessment of my talent.”
She shook her head immediately. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I just assumed you were a member of Lord Woodley’s family. Perhaps it was the way you stood on the front stepsearlier to greet everyone, and that footman referred to you as ‘my lord’ when he handed you the cloth a moment ago.”
“Albert Woodley is my uncle. I look forward to seeing your work when we are invited over.” His expression softened. “I sensed there was something special about you the moment I set eyes on you.”
“Nonsense.” She shook her head. “I expect you say this to all the young ladies.”
“What? That they are great artists? I assure you, I have said this to no one but you. I do not need to see your drawings to know you are serious about your craft. You have a small callous on your finger just where one might hold a paintbrush. But you also give yourself away in the way you look at things, although it is hard to tell more about you while we are all wearing these blasted masks.” He cast her a rakish smile. “We are to remove them and reveal ourselves right after the supper dance. May I claim that dance from you as well?”
Imogen wasn’t certain whether she ought to accept two dances from him without ever having seen his face, but it was not as though any other gentleman would know to approach her while they were all in disguise. Besides, those unpleasant louts near the cliff walk were still ogling, and she did not wish to give any of them the opportunity to claim her. There was one in particular among them, wearing a pirate costume with an ostentatious white egret feather atop his hat, who gave her the chills. She feared he might live up to a pirate’s marauding reputation. “Yes, you may,” she replied.
“Why do I sense a hesitation, Butterfly?”
“It isn’t really a hesitation… It is just—we are all hiding behind masks and spending hoursnotmeeting each other. That seems a shame.”
They continued to stroll through the garden that more resembled a lovely cottage walk, with imprecise borders andan abundance of colorful flowers spilling over those loosely marked borders. Red roses climbed along trellises, and golden honeysuckle tumbled over stone walls. Purples, pinks, and whites bloomed everywhere.
