The Silver Coin Page 10

  Her worried thoughts were interrupted by Wells trumpeting, “May I present this evening's other love ly honoree, Lady Breanna Colby. While I realize Lady Breanna is your hostess, I am temporarily relieving her of that role—long enough to ask you to join me in wishing her a very happy birthday.”

  Wells's utterly unconventional announcement yielded a round of laughter and a host of good-natured wishes. It also did wonders for easing Brean­na's unsettled state—a state that had escalated from mere anxiety over a public appearance to blind fear over armed killers.

  “You're incorrigible,” she told Wells affectionately, grateful as always for his innate understanding of her. She knew he'd very intentionally made her entrance more relaxed and less ceremonious. And she loved him for it.

  Drawing a slow breath, she walked into the room, greeting her guests as she did, finding that it was infi­nitely easier than expected to act the part of hostess. Many of her guests approached to thank her for con­siderately adding so many guards to the estate since, as expected, they were all terribly nervous about the string of murders taking place.

  Breanna scarcely had time to answer before she was swept up into a whirl of activity, being claimed for a dance, then moving from one partner to another. She found herself wishing she could stop long enough to take a breath and exchange a word with Stacie.

  Not that her cousin was any more idle than she. Dressed in an exquisite gown of bottle-green silk overlaid with French gauze, Stacie was holding her own kind of court. With Damen adhered firmly to her side, she was politely accepting the stammering apologies of a half dozen businessmen—apologies, Breanna suspected, that were motivated by equal doses of regret over their missed profit-making op­portunities and worry over the glares they were re­ceiving from Damen Lockewood, whose bank was at the heart of all their ventures. As she circled the dance floor with the arrogant nd handsome Lord Percy Gilbert, Breanna caught Stacie's eye, saw the amusement there, and nearly laughed aloud. Those poor men. They didn't stand a chance.

  The strings fell silent, and Breanna was just about to excuse herself and head toward Stacie and Damen when she heard a soft, feminine voice ask, “Breanna, may I speak with you?”

  She turned, surprised to see Lady Margaret Warner waiting impatiently beside her.

  As the most sought-after young woman in the crowd, Margaret never approached anyone, certainly lot at a ball. She waited for them to approach her. Ever coy, friendly but not eager, Margaret was always surrounded by far too many friends and admirers to weak free and chat. True, she and Breanna had become friends over the past months, but doing needlepoint together and seeking her out at a ball were two different things entirely.

  “Margaret.” Breanna hid her surprise well. “Of course.” She smiled at Lord Percy. “You'll excuse us?”

  “Of course he will.” There was that flirtatious charm Margaret exuded so well. She gazed intently at Gilbert, batted those long, irresistible lashes, and mur­mured, “His lordship, understands that we ladies have things to discuss. You don't mind, do you?”

  Gilbert bowed, an anticipatory gleam flashing in his eyes. “Of course not.”

  “I knew you'd understand.” She touched his arm, ever so slightly. “Thank you.” With that, she led Breanna off, guiding her close to the musicians so whatever they discussed would be drowned out once the dancing recommenced.

  The next set began and Margaret came to a halt, pivoting about, the skirts of her blush-colored gown swirling about her ankles like a pastel cloud. “This ball is delightful,” she told Breanna with an unexpectedly warm squeeze of her hands. “The whole party is a stunning success.”

  “I'm glad you're enjoying yourself.” Breanna offered her new friend a genuine, if puzzled, smile. She waited, wondering what the real reason was behind Margaret's unprecedented behavior.

  She didn't have long to wait.

  “Tell me,” Margaret whispered, leaning closer to Breanna as if to share a coveted secret. “I'm dying to know. How did you do it?”

  “Do what?”

  A puff of tinkling laughter. “You needn't be modest. Not with me. I'm duly impressed. So tell me, how did you convince him to come?”

  “Convince who to come?” Breanna was beginning to feel like a total idiot.

  The look Margaret gave her did nothing to erase that feeling. “Who?” she repeated incredulously. “Why, Royce Chadwick, of course. He's refused every invitation since returning from India. And last Season he made only three appearances, none of them for more than an hour. Yet you managed to lure him to your party. How did you do it?”

  Breanna followed Margaret's line of vision, easily spotting Lord Royce conversing with a group of gen­tlemen. Then again, Lord Royce would be easy to spot anywhere, even in a large crowd such as this. His height and build, his powerful presence, those hard, ark, dangerously handsome good looks—especially lad in formal evening clothes— were enough to at-:act any woman's eye.

  Clearly, they attracted every woman's eye. And Margaret Warner was no exception.

  “I...” Breanna wet her lips with the tip of her tongue , desperately trying to think of a reply. She recalled Lord Royce mentioning that he rarely attended parties, but it never occurred to her that his appearance here would cause such an extreme reaction.

  Then again, it should have occurred to her. Judging from the look on Margaret Warner's face, Royce Chadwick was not only noticed by every breathing unattached female in the ton, he was coveted by them, as well.

  “Don't keep me in suspense,” Margaret hissed. Tell me. Have you known him long?”

  “He's a friend of Damen's,” Breanna finally replied, realizing that she couldn't stand there gaping and saying nothing forever. “I believe they're business associates.” She prayed that wasn't a confidential tidbit he'd just revealed. But Lord help her, she had to say something.

  “So you're not acquainted with him yourself.” Mar­garet's face fell. “I was hoping you could put in a kind word ... that is...”

  Breanna understood precisely what Margaret was toping. The question was, how did she respond?

  She was mulling it over when Royce Chadwick looked up, staring directly toward the musicians and finding her with an ease that made her suspect he knew exactly where she was now, and probably where he'd been from the instant she entered the ballroom.

  His midnight blue gaze locked with hers.

  The impact was staggering, like a blow knocking the breath right from her lungs, and Breanna had to fight the urge to gasp in air. Instead, she merely stood there, unable to look away, watching as he made his way across the room, heading purposefully toward her.

  “Breanna?” Margaret repeated, obviously unsettled by Breanna's silence, as well as by the fact that she had to humble herself in a fashion that was utterly foreign to her. “Have you met him or not?”

  “Yes,” Breanna heard herself say. “I've met him.''

  “Ah.” Margaret released a heartfelt sigh. “Then Anastasia has introduced you. Good. Would you do me the same favor? I mean, I've actually been intro­duced—twice—and even shared a dance or two with him. But it can't hurt to refresh his memory. It would certainly ease my way—some idle chatter, a waltz, maybe even a moonlight stroll. After that, the rest should go smoothly.”

  Breanna scarcely heard what Margaret was saying. Because at that moment, the very man her friend was plotting to snare was reaching their sides.

  “Good evening, Lady Breanna.” Royce bowed, lifted her gloved hand to his lips. “Thank you for invit­ing me to this lovely party.”

  Breanna's heart began slamming against her ribs and, suddenly, she knew why she'd reacted so strongly.

  This was a different Royce Chadwick, not the implacable man who hunted down criminals, under­stood their minds. This was an elegant, polished nobleman who blended in with the ton —polite, socia­ble, alarmingly charismatic. No —not just charismatic Seductive. Desirable. Exciting in a way that had noth­ing to do with outwitting an enemy.

 
This man was more dangerous than the one she'd originally met.

  “I'm delighted to have you, my lord,” she managed, then felt hot color rush to her cheeks at the im­plication of her own words. She found herself praying it was only her heightened senses that were causing her to view her comment in such a lascivious fashion.

  If Lord Royce perceived anything out of the ordinary, he didn't show it. “I'm delighted to be here.”

  Thank heavens. He'd missed it.

  “You're flushed,” he added with offhanded ease. “May I get you some punch?”

  He hadn't missed it. Or if he'd missed the indecent connotation of her words, he certainly hadn't missed her flustered reaction to them.

  Once again, Breanna summoned her now-faltering inner reserve. “Yes. Thank you. I do feel warm. I sup­pose it's all the excitement.” From the corner of her eye, she spied Margaret, inching purposefully closer. “Lord Royce, are you acquainted with Lady Margaret Warner? If not, let me introduce you.”

  Royce's smile was the essence of gentility. “Lady Margaret and I have met. How are you, my lady?” he inquired.

  “Very well, thank you, my lord. And, yes, I do recall our introduction. It was last year, during my first Sea­son.” Margaret lowered her lashes and moistened her lips—ever so scarcely—prompting Breanna to wish she could master the fine art of furring as well as her friend.

  “Will you excuse us?” Lord Royce was asking Mar­garet, simultaneously gripping Breanna's elbow. “Our hostess deserves something cool to drink.”

  “Of course.” Whatever disappointment Margaret was feeling she kept carefully in check.

  Royce led Breanna across the room and over to the punch bowl. “Here.” He offered her a glass. “This will help.”

  Help what? Breanna wanted to ask. Her hand trem­bling, she accepted the glass, drinking down the entire goblet in an attempt to cool her throat and calm her nerves.

  “More?” Royce asked.

  It was only fruit juice, flavored with a little Madeira, a bit of champagne, and an insignificant amount of brandy, Breanna reminded herself. She nodded, swal­lowing the second glass almost as quickly as she had the first, then reaching eagerly for a third.

  She was three-quarters of the way through with that glass when Royce murmured, “I think you should take a few breaths before going for a fourth.”

  He sounded amused.

  Breanna glanced up at him.

  He looked amused.

  “I suppose so.” Breanna wondered what his amuse­ment was based on: was it her nerves, her excessive thirst, or that stupid remark she'd made about having him?

  She'd have to find out in order to make the appro­priate amends.

  “My lord,” she began, grateful that the area they were standing in was unoccupied. The last thing she wanted was to make a fool of herself in front of all her guests. And as it was, she could already feel the warming effects of the punch drifting through her, making her question whether she'd underestimated the amount of liquor that was mixed in with the fruit.

  “Royce,” he amended.

  Breanna's head snapped up. “Pardon me?”

  “My name. My given name. It's Royce. Not my lord. Nor Lord Royce. Just Royce.”

  She studied his face: the bold features and hard, square jaw, the thick raven-black hair and broad fore­head over the twin black slashes of brows and mid­night blue eyes. And the decisive mouth that was used to issuing orders—and having them obeyed.

  Her gaze lingered there, studying the subtle curve of his hps.

  She wondered what it would be like to kiss him God help her, she was foxed. She was also still staring.

  “My name,” he repeated, those incredible lips mov­ing ever so slightly, his deep baritone huskier than it had been before. “It's Royce.”

  She tore her gaze from his mouth, met his hooded stare. “It wouldn't be proper for me to address you that way.”

  He leaned negligently against the wall, regarding her with a kind of lazy curiosity. “Why not?”

  “We scarcely know each other.”

  “Anastasia calls me by my given name. And she knows me precisely the same amount of time as you do.”

  That comparison elicited a fond smile. “That's Stacie. She's far more unconventional than I.”

  “I think you're more unconventional than you realize—more unconventional than that conventional ve­neer of yours allows.”

  Breanna's eyes widened, and she gaped at him silently.

  “Ah, a waltz,” Royce commented as the strings began to play. He straightened, took her near-empty glass, and set it down on a tray. “May I have the honor of sharing it with you? Once you've recovered from your shock, that is.” He extended his hand, his gaze darkening, looking directly into hers. “By the way, I don't blame all these men for fighting over you. You're breathtaking.”

  Instinctively, Breanna placed her fingers in his. “Yes,” she managed, first answering his request for a dance. “And thank you.”

  “Splendid. And you're welcome.” He guided her onto the dance floor, his fingers burning through the fine material of her glove—and her gown—as he led her into the waltz.

  For the first time Breanna understood why some people considered this dance to be scandalous. Then again, most people hadn't drunk three glasses of Re­gent's punch on an empty stomach before attempt­ing it. Still, it was unlike any dance she'd shared with any man this evening. The steps, the motions, even the proximity—those were all the same. And yet...

  “So far, so good,” Royce murmured.

  Breanna blinked, finding it suddenly difficult to focus on his face. “What's so far, so good?”

  A corner of his mouth lifted. “Your party. The fact that there haven't been any unwelcome guests all day, nor thus far tonight.”

  “Oh.” She nodded, wishing the punch had done more to eliminate the knot of dread this topic incited.

  Royce seemed to sense her distress, because he frowned. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to bring up this subject. You've been living with it too much as it is.”

  “That's your job. Besides, it's not something I can forget.”

  “Maybe you should—at least for a while.” Abrupt­ly, Royce halted capturing Breanna's elbow and drawing her off the dance floor.

  She blinked, wishing she weren't so dizzy and puz­zling over how two and a half glasses of punch could wreak so much havoc. “I felt fine before,” she an­nounced.

  “It takes time for the spirits to hit.” Royce guided her forward, and she felt a blast of cold air strike her face and arms. Abruptly, she realized they were stand­ing just outside the French doors. “Come with me,” he urged. He led her onto the balcony, nodding as they passed the guards. “Lady Breanna and I are going to get some air,” he said quietly. “We won't go far. And I have my pistol.”

  “Fine, my lord. We're here,” replied one guard, a big, burly fellow whose size alone was intimidating.

  “Where are we going?” Breanna asked, stumbling a bit and wrapping her arms about herself as her teeth began to chatter. “It's cold.”

  “I know. The cold air is good for you.” Even as he spoke, Royce was shrugging out of his coat. He wrapped it around her, covering her bare arms and en­veloping her in a layer of woolen warmth. “Better?”

  “Yes.” She felt odd, like she was floating, gloriously numb to the anguish of the past weeks. “I think I'll drink more often,” she announced.

  Royce chuckled, snaked an arm about her waist as she teetered on her feet. “I wouldn't suggest it. You don't hold your spirits too well.”

  “I guess not. A bit of fruit punch and look what happens to me.”

  “Fruit punch?” Royce echoed dryly. “There are sev­eral bottles each of Madeira and champagne in Re­gent's punch, not to mention a pint of rum, and a quart of brandy. No wonder you're foxed.” He scanned the area, led her over to a small rock garden that was lined with shrubs—enough to ensure priva­cy but not isolation—and came complete with a small, outdoor b
ench. “Sit.”

  “All right.” Breanna sank down, leaning her head back and staring up at the sky. “The stars are waltzing.”

  “Really? Who's leading?”

  She didn't smile. “You're mocking me. I'm not too foxed to realize that. I suppose I can't blame you.”

  “I'm not mocking you.” He stood beside the bench, hands clasped behind him as he stared off into the darkness. “I'm teasing you. I want you to smile.”

  “I do smile.”

  “Not often enough.”

  She twisted around to look up at him. “And how would you know that?”

  “The same way I know you're less conventional than you think. And the same way I know you need relief from the worry you've been carrying around.”

  “Oh.” Breanna's heart gave another of those little skips, and she wondered if Royce realized how excru­ciatingly charismatic he was, how powerful an effect he had on women.

  “Royce?” she tried, finding it wasn't so hard to say his name after all.

  “Hmm?” His smile told her he approved.

  “Margaret wants you.” She blurted it out without preliminaries or warning—even to herself. “She asked me to put in a good word for her.” Pausing, Breanna's brow furrowed in thought. “I should do that.”

  Another chuckle, this one husky. “Should you?”

  “Yes. And quickly. Because Margaret has a great deal of competition. Apparently, dozens—scores of women—want you.” Even as she spoke, Breanna won­dered who in God's name was saying those things. “Are you one of them?”

  Royce's question, uttered with a fierce but quiet in­tensity, penetrated her clouded mind, made it swim even more. Her head dropped back against the bench-top, and she stared blindly into the night, struggling to regain her senses. “Your eyes are that color,” she noted in a whisper. “That same midnight blue. Al­most black. Ebony with a sharp tinge of color—color that makes them all the more riveting. It's hard to look away from eyes like that”

  “Breanna.” He was standing in front of her. He caught her arms, drew her to her feet, and tilted up her chin with his forefinger. “Answer my question.”