Nothing happened.
Sweat broke out at her hairline. The black-haired footman would think she was an absolute ninny. Why did the man have to be so lovely? It was one thing to make an ass of oneself in front of an old, balding man, and quite another—
He cleared his throat directly behind her.
Rebecca yelped and swung around. The footman’s beautiful green eyes were wide and startled, but he merely said, “If I might, miss?”
He reached around her and pushed open the door.
Rebecca stared past the open door and into the library. Oh, Lord. “Actually, I believe I’ve changed my mind. I’d like the sitting room, please.” And she pointed behind him like a small, slightly backward child.
Fortunately, he didn’t seem to find her at all odd. “Aye, mum.” He pivoted and opened the door across the hall.
Rebecca held her head high and swanned across the hallway, but as she neared the footman, she could see quite plainly that his gaze was not where it should be. She stopped dead and slapped her hands over her bosom.
“It’s too low, isn’t it? I knew I shouldn’t have listened to that maid. She might not mind her boobies hanging out for all to see, but I just can’t—” Her brain suddenly caught up with her mouth. She removed her hands from her bosom and slapped them over her awful, awful, awful mouth.
And then she just stared at the gorgeous black-haired footman, who was staring back at her. There really wasn’t anything else to do, except possibly die right here in her brother’s London town house hallway, and that option, unfortunately, seemed very unlikely at the moment.
Finally, he cleared his throat again. “You’re the fairest lass I’ve ever seen, mum, and in that gown, you look just like a princess, you do.”
Rebecca blinked and cautiously removed her hands. “Really?”
“Swear on me mam’s grave,” he said earnestly.
“Oh, is your mother dead, too?”
He nodded.
“That’s a pity, isn’t it? My mother died when I was born, and I never knew her.”
“Me mam died two years ago this Michaelmas,” he said in a soft kind of burr.
“I’m sorry.”
He merely shrugged. “After me youngest sister was born. Eldest of ten, that’s me.”
She smiled up at him. “You don’t sound like the other servants.”
“That’s because I’m Irish, mum.” His green eyes seemed to twinkle at her.
“Then, why—”
But she was interrupted by her brother’s voice. “Are you ready to leave, Rebecca?”
She jumped and spun for the second time that night. Samuel stood three risers above her on the stairs.
“I wish you’d make some sort of noise when you move,” she said.
He raised his eyebrows, his gaze flicking to the footman. Rebecca followed his look and found that the black-haired footman stood against the wall again, his eyes straight ahead. It was as if he were a magical creature who’d turned back into wood.
“O’Hare, will you get the door?” Samuel asked, and for a moment Rebecca wondered to whom he spoke.
Then the black-haired footman jumped forward. “Sir.” He opened the door and held it as they walked outside.
Rebecca looked into his face as they passed, but his expression was perfectly blank, and the twinkle was gone from his green eyes. She sighed and laid her hand on Samuel’s arm as he led her down the steps to the carriage. If she didn’t know better, she’d think that she’d imagined her conversation with O’Hare the footman.
They settled into the carriage, and she noticed her brother’s attire for the first time. He wore a perfectly respectable dark green coat and breeches with a gold brocade waistcoat. Unfortunately, he’d chosen to wear his usual leggings and moccasins over his breeches.
“Lady Emeline will not approve of your leggings,” she remarked.
He glanced at his legs, and his lips quirked. “No doubt she’ll make her opinion known.”
She stared at his face, and a funny thought entered her head. Samuel smiled the same way O’Hare the footman did: with his eyes.
LADY EMELINE CONTAINED herself for fully a minute after entering the carriage, which was a minute longer than Sam had estimated.
“What are you thinking to wear such things?” She scowled at his feet and legs.
“I believe I’ve told you before that they’re comfortable.” Probably she would scowl harder if she knew that he thought the expression was adorable. She wore an elaborately embroidered pale red gown with a yellow underskirt. The colors were gentler than those she usually employed, and although they became her, he preferred the flame reds and bold oranges.
She was an elegant lady of the London ton tonight, far removed from the woman who had accompanied him to a warehouse to inspect pottery. What had she thought of their outing? She’d seemed interested in his business transaction, but was it merely the novelty? Or did she perhaps feel the same communion of mind as he did?
Lady Emeline shook her head at him now, oblivious to the direction of his thoughts. Maybe she was beginning to realize the futility of arguing over his leggings. She turned on Rebecca instead. “Now, remember that you must not dance with anyone I have not expressly approved. Nor may you talk to anyone that I have not introduced you to. There will be men—I do not call them gentlemen—who have been known to break these rules, but you must not let them.”
Sam wondered if she was thinking of himself. She turned a gimlet eye on him, and he was made certain. He grinned back at her, his little ruffled hen. Lady Emeline sat beside her aunt, both ladies ramrod straight, although the older woman was nearly a head taller than her niece. The carriage rattled around a corner, making everyone inside sway. Beside him, Rebecca had wrapped her arms about herself.
He leaned close. “You look splendid. I hardly recognized you when I came down the stairs.”
Rebecca bit her lip and peeked up at him, and he was suddenly reminded of her as a little girl. She had looked at him thus when he’d visit her at their uncle’s house in Boston. He remembered her in a white cap and apron, standing shyly in Uncle Thomas’s dark hallway, waiting to greet him. He’d never known what to say to her when he’d visited—he’d come to Boston once or twice a year. His little sister had seemed such a foreign creature, a girl child brought up in the prim civilization of Boston society. All the things he knew—the forest, hunting and trapping, and eventually the army—were completely strange to her.
He blinked now, realizing that Rebecca had spoken to him. “What?”
She leaned close, her brown eyes vulnerable. “Do you think anyone will dance with me?”
“I’ll have to beat them off with a stick.”
She giggled and for a moment that little girl in the white cap shone in her eyes.
Mademoiselle Molyneux cleared her throat. “We are almost there, ma petite. Compose yourself so that you may present an appearance of gentility.” The old lady sent a sharp look at Rebecca’s skirts. “You have remembered to wear the shoes, yes?”
Rebecca blinked. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Bon. And here is the mansion.”
Sam looked out the window and saw a line of carriages creeping toward the Earl of Westerton’s town house. Lady Emeline was right: This was too grand a ball to be Rebecca’s first. But introducing his sister to society was only part of the reason he’d chosen this particular ball tonight. The other, more important half, was that he was on the hunt.
He waited patiently as their carriage crawled forward in line, listening with only a fraction of his attention to the female chatter within the carriage. Even now, when his entire being strained toward his goal, he was aware of Lady Emeline in particular. Without turning his head, he followed the cadence of her speech, the pauses and dips in tones. He knew when she glanced his way and could feel her puzzled curiosity in her gaze. She still wanted to know why he’d chosen this particular ball. He could tell her. It involved her brother as well. But something within him shrunk from revealing his true purpose.
The carriage door was flung open by a footman he didn’t know, and Sam’s eyes narrowed at the servant. That was a matter he must watch as well. He hadn’t missed how close O’Hare had stood to Rebecca earlier in the hallway. Sam met the footman’s gaze. This man immediately lowered his eyes, something O’Hare had failed to do. Sam admired courage, but he wondered how long a man could last as a servant with such a spirit.
Sam stepped down onto the cobblestones in front of the Westerton house and turned to help his sister and Mademoiselle Molyneux out. Only Lady Emeline remained in the carriage. She hesitated in the doorway, eyeing him suspiciously.
He smiled and held out his hand. “My lady.”
She pursed her lips. “Mr. Hartley.”
But she laid her hand in his, and Sam had the pleasure of wrapping his fingers around hers. She descended the steps regally and attempted to withdraw her hand. Instead, he bowed over her hand, brushing his lips against fine kid, the scent of lemon balm bathing his face.
Then he straightened. “Shall we?”
But her expression had softened somehow in the interval that he’d bent over her hand. He stilled, the people around him, his sister, even the hunt, fading into the background as he stared at Lady Emeline. Her lips were parted, red and wet, as if she’d just licked them, and her eyes were uncertain. Had they been alone, he would have caught her, drawn her into his arms until her body met his, and lowered his head to—
“Samuel?”
He jerked his head and his attention to his sister. Rebecca. God! “Yes?”
She looked confused. “Are you all right?”
“Yes.” He held out his arm to Mademoiselle Molyneux, who took it with a thoughtful look at him. He braced himself and turned to Lady Emeline, his voice deepening. “Shall we?”
His words were the same as moments before, but their meaning had changed fundamentally. Her eyes widened, and he saw her sweet breasts expand as she inhaled.
Then she met his eyes and her chin lifted. “Of course.”
Which left him to ponder, as he escorted the ladies up the steps, what exactly Lady Emeline had meant by those two innocuous words.
Inside the great double doors, Westerton House was ablaze with hundreds, perhaps thousands, of candles. Even the entry hall was warm, giving an unpleasant taste of the heat that would lurk in the ballroom itself. Why anyone would voluntarily attend an event such as this was truly a puzzle to him. He felt sweat start at the base of his spine. He hated crowds. He’d always had, but since Spinner’s Falls...He pushed the thought from his mind, concentrating on his reason for being here.
The ladies surrendered their wraps to a footman, and the articles of clothing were whisked away. Then they were at the entrance to the ballroom itself, and a footman with a magnificent wig was announcing them. The room was cavernous, but that didn’t help the heat, for it was overflowing with people. They literally stood shoulder to shoulder so that one had to wait for an opening to move forward.
Sam caught his arms twitching and had to consciously still the movement. This was his idea of hell. The heat, the shuffle of bodies against bodies, the noise of scores of voices laughing, talking, complaining. He felt a bead of sweat slide down his back. Mademoiselle Molyneux had already found a crony and slipped away into the mass of bodies. Someone bumped against Lady Emeline, still on his right arm, and he found himself baring his teeth at the man. He saw a startled look on a reddened face and then that man, too, was lost. Sam closed his eyes for a moment to try to control the panic that rose in his chest, but with his eyes shut, the worst part nearly overwhelmed his senses.
The smell.
Oh, God, the smell of burning wax, foul breath, and sweating bodies. Male sweat. That strong acid stink, that rank musk, that rotten armpit odor. They shoved around him, trying to get past, trying to run away. Some old enough to be grandfathers, some too young to shave, all fearing for their lives, all wanting just to live another day. That was what he smelled: the terror of death. He gasped, but all the air had been sucked into babbling lungs, and he inhaled only the fear of battle and the smell of sweat and blood.