Forever My Love (Berkeley-Faulkner #2)(86)

Apparently Rosalie had noticed Alec as well, for her slim brows had lifted slightly, lending her an expression of thoughtful disgruntlement. “I’ve seen that costume before,” she said in a low voice, making certain that Rand and Carr were engaged in conversation before she continued: “but I’ll admit that no man has ever been able to carry it off so well. I’m afraid it’s far too suitable for him.”

Alec’s tall, broad-shouldered form was clad in black breeches, a crimson damask waistcoat, fringed gauntlets, and high-topped boots of spur leather. His black hair, uncovered by any hat, shone with the gleam of pure obsidian. Around his neck hung a gold cross, and a sword was strapped to his lean waist. “What cos-tume is it?” Mira whispered, moving her gaze back to Rosalie’s face with an effort.

“Captain Bartholomew Roberts—you can always tell by the cross. A pirate, quite swarthy from what the legends say, who was killed in battle during the sixteenth century. A heroic figure, though reputedly not a very kind man.”

“I’m going to dance with him if it takes me all night to get an invitation,” Helen of Troy said, following Rosalie’s eyes and sighing as she stared at Alec.

“Bonne chance,” Mira murmured, staring down at the floor as a secret smile forced its way to her lips, no matter how she tried to prevent it. Tonight it would not bother her if every woman at the Pavilion plied her wares on Alec Falkner… for just now he had been staring at her, only her, and the knowledge made her heart sing.

As the ball continued, Mira was buffeted with a large number of introductions and invitations to dance. Rosalie was clearly delighted by Mira’s popularity, and even more so by the fact that Carr made every effort to monopolize Mira’s attention. The ball was interrupted for a few minutes while the assemblage received the news that the king was indisposed and would not be able to attend the festivities that night. A few people seemed regretful at the announcement, but none seemed surprised, attesting to the truth of what Rosalie had said earlier about the king’s indolence.

Standing near one of the tables of refreshments and sipping punch, Mira stood by Carr’s side and conversed idly with a small group of people. Nothing more than mundane comments were exchanged, which caused Mira to relax in their company. She listened to the latest gossip and laughed in all the appropriate places until her attention was occupied by a minor catastrophe. Miss Henrietta Lester, a flirtatious and empty-headed girl, had accidentally dropped her glass of punch, shattering the crystal and splashing brightlycolored liquid everywhere. Miss Lester’s face flamed red with utter humiliation, and after endeavoring to make an apology while servants rushed to clear the mess, she burst into becoming tears. Carr and the other men in the group rushed to comfort her, while Mira retreated to the corner of the room to survey the damage done to her dress. The hem of it and her boots were splattered with the punch, which had probably created permanent stains.

“Nom de Dieu,” she said as she dabbed at her clothing with a napkin, never dreaming that anyone was within hearing distance. She heard another of Miss Lester’s heartrending wails over the music and scowled in disgust. “Oh, don’t be such a shallow-pate,” she muttered. “Much good your crying’s going to do anyone—”

Just then Mira’s grumbling was interrupted by an amused cackle. “My sentiments exactly.”

Mira spun around to observe an elderly woman sitting in a small chair with a tiny table set in front of her. There was no one else nearby, and Mira wondered why no one was there to keep company with the woman, who wore a sharp, assessing expression on her aristocratically boned face. She was small and thin, with slate-shaded hair and a vital, fierce personality stamped on every line of her skin.

“Excuse me—I had no idea anyone would overhear me,” Mira managed to say. “You must think that I am extremely uncharitable—”

“I think you might be somewhat sensible,” the woman replied, gesturing to Mira’s dress. “Go on with what you were doing. You might be able to soak up enough of that… whatever it is—”

“Punch,” Mira said, bending over her task again as she smiled ruefully. “I had considered it to be first-rate punch until it was splashed on my costume.”

“Do you need my handkerchief?” the elderly woman inquired, fishing out a small white square and holdingit out to her. The handkerchief fluttered out of the woman’s pale, well-veined hand to the floor. “I’ve dropped the damned thing,” she said, and Mira smiled, finding a certain delight in the discovery of another woman besides herself who knew how to swear effectively. “Where the deuce is it?” The woman leaned forward slightly, squinting at the floor until she located the patch of white and pointed to it. “There. Drat, my companion has taken leave for a few minutes and isn’t here to fetch it. That confounded girl is never here when I need her.”

Mira bent over and picked up the small lace article slowly, looking at the woman’s face closely before standing up. There was what appeared to be a thin, light film covering her eyes, and Mira’s heart softened with compassion as she realized that she could not see very well.

“Madam,” she said, placing the handkerchief on the woman’s lap carefully, “may I ask you a question?”

“I suppose so,” she replied sharply, as if being asked questions were a bother she would have liked to do without.