Oh my lord, she thought. No, he wouldn’t, surely? That morning in Bond Street he had given no sign of having changed his fixed intention of bending her to his will—the very opposite, in fact.
‘I hope he will be at Lady Cuthbert’s masquerade tonight,’ Lady Wycombe said. ‘Your shepherdess costume is charming, Evaline, but I wonder what Lord Iwerne will be wearing.’
‘He is going as an India maharajah,’ Dita said without thinking. ‘I saw him in Bond Street this morning and he told me he has sent for a trunk full of silks and jewellery and so forth that he shipped home to England last year. He promised to send me a selection of Indian female garments and jewels so I could wear Indian dress tonight.’ She prattled on, convinced her confused and jealous thoughts must be visible on her face. ‘He’s got a small house in south Devon he bought because it had a garden suitable for the plants he has been collecting. Whenever he sent things back they went there and not to the castle.’
‘How interesting.’ Her mother looked thoughtful. ‘If Evaline wears the Indian garments it will be subtle, but it will put the idea of a pairing into his head. You can go as the milkmaid as we originally planned.’
She did not appear to notice Evaline’s look of dismay. Dita only hoped her own expression was not as unguarded. ‘Yes, Mama,’ she said obediently. It was providential, it would save her from more temptation. She wanted to refuse and sulk and disobey. Instead she closed her eyes and made herself accept her mother’s instructions.
Alistair swept into the ballroom at the Cuthberts’ hired mansion with a considerable flourish, resplendent in brocades and silk, a turban with a large moonstone and an aigrette of feathers at the front, a curving sword thrust through his sash and hung about with enough jewellery to stock a small, if exotic, jewellers. All around him masked faces turned and a ripple of appreciation ran through the ladies. He looked the part, he knew, because everything was authentic, just as the silks and gems he had sent to Dita were those of a Mogul princess.
And there she was. He recognised the costume although her hair, flowing freely down her back, had been dyed black and her eyes were hidden by her mask, her lower face by her veil.
When he had met her that morning it had not been by accident, although he was certain she had no idea he had been following her with the aim of giving her the clothes for this evening. The masquerade was an opportunity to recall the sultry heat, the sensual pleasures, of India. Dressed in exotic silks, surrounded by the licence of a masked ball, reminded of the East and its delights, she would be more receptive to the seduction that tonight he was set on.
What had happened in Devon had not shifted her intransigence; his patience since had not caused her to yield, but she was not immune to him—her blushes this morning had shown him that. And this time he would not be careful; if he got her with child, then she would surrender.
Dita was beginning to fill his thoughts, obsess him. The truth of what had happened that night seemed worse the more he brooded on it. What if she had become pregnant? He had left the country—she would have been alone, ruined. He had prided himself on meeting his responsibilities and now he knew he had defaulted on something as fundamental as a lady’s honour. No wonder his dreams had been haunted by her face, by erotic images that had left him ashamed of his imagination. But it was not imagination.
Alistair narrowed his eyes on the slim figure and felt his breathing quicken. He wanted her, and he would have her. It was like following a fish through a pond full of weed. Every time he almost reached her she slipped away and he was stopped over and over by ladies exclaiming at his costume and men asking questions about the curving scimitar. Finally he saw a flash of golden silk as she went through a doorway and followed. What the devil was she up to? Or did she know he was behind her? Was she leading him here?
Soft-footed in his doeskin boots, Alistair padded along a passageway that opened up suddenly into a conservatory. Dita was nowhere to be seen. He scanned the crowded palms and ferns as though expecting a tiger to emerge from them, but all he heard was a sob, and then another.
He eased closer, parted some greenery and found himself looking into a little arbour with a fountain and Dita locked in the arms of a shepherd. What the hell—?
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, still sobbing, ‘it is impossible. You were right: I must marry someone with money and a title. Mama and Papa expect me to encourage Lord Iwerne and they believe he will offer for me.’
Evaline? And then the man embracing her straightened up and Alistair recognised James Morgan. ‘They cannot force you,’ Morgan said. ‘He is years older than you—’
‘Ten, I suppose,’ Evaline said drearily, making it sound like fifty. ‘But he is kind, I think. He isn’t like his father, after all. I wouldn’t mind so much if it was not for you. I love you so much, James.’
‘And I love you.’ He bent his head and Alistair let the greenery drop, trying not to listen. ‘But I must do what is right for you,’ Morgan said after a moment, his voice stronger. ‘I cannot allow you to be estranged from your family. It will be years, if ever, before I can support you in the style you are used to. I was wrong ever to let it get this far.’
Alistair sat down on a stone bench and realised that the churning sensation inside was nausea. He isn’t like his father, Evaline had said of him. No, please God, he wasn’t. What had he done to make the Brookes believe he would offer for Evaline? Perhaps his shadowing of Dita had appeared as something else in her parents’ eyes.
Whatever the reason, he had come within an inch of sundering a young couple and breaking two hearts. It was only temporary, that illusion of love, but Evaline was a sweet girl and Morgan was apparently an honourable and likeable young man and they would make a good marriage if they got the chance.
He thought of Dita when she was talking about Imogen and his own youthful heartbreak and found that now he could understand what might force a young and dutiful girl into the marriage bed of a man she did not want. He stood up and took off his mask as he walked round the edge of the potted plants and into the grotto.
Evaline gave a small scream of alarm, but Morgan stood his ground, only shifting to put out an arm and draw her behind him. He put his chin up as he faced Alistair. ‘My lord, I hope you will believe me when I assure you that I am entirely to blame for what must appear to be a compromising situation, but—’
Alistair waved a hand dismissively. ‘Six of one and half a dozen of the other, I imagine, if she’s anything like her sister. Evaline, put your mask on and get back to your mama or Dita. Do not say anything about this and try not to look as though you have been misbehaving in the conservatory.’
Evaline gave a little gasp and ran. Morgan confronted him. ‘My lord! If you wish for satisfaction—’
‘Mr Morgan, I am not a suitor for Evaline’s hand, just a friend of the family. If you want a wife at the end of this, please control your desire to shoot me dead, sit down here and listen.’
‘Evaline, what is the matter with you?’ Dita murmured under cover of Lady Wycombe giving instructions to the housekeeper. ‘I know this is boring, but we did promise to help Mama write the invitations for the dinner party; if you sigh like that once more, I am going to scream.’
‘I’m sorry, girls, can you manage without me?’ Lady Wycombe left the room, still discussing missing table linen.
Dita looked closely at her sister. ‘You don’t look as though you slept a wink. Whatever is the matter?’
‘I am in love with James Morgan,’ Evaline blurted out. ‘And Lord Iwerne caught us in the conservatory last night and I keep expecting there to be the most awful row.’
‘Oh, Evaline, I didn’t realise you truly loved him. Are you sure?’ Her sister’s face was pale and miserable and Dita hated herself for the ruthless way she had been thinking about James Morgan. How could she have wanted to blight her sister’s happiness when she knew all too well what it was like to love hopelessly?
‘Yes. I know it is impossible. We both know it. And James is so honourable and … and then Lord Iwerne was horrible.’