Chapter Twenty-Three
“He’s very sweet, but I don’t wish to marry him,” Penelope said as she plopped into the chair beside Rynn. Placed for the
convenience of the chaperones, or anyone really who chose to sit out, the small gilt chairs lined the walls. From them, mothers
could keep an eye on their marriageable daughters, dowagers could put their heads together and engage in a good gossip about
the dancers, and wallflowers could hide behind the potted plants.
“Need you do so?” Rynn cast a speculative glance at this young half-sister who seemed to have most of the eligible bachelors
in London at her feet. She and Penelope were on perfectly good terms, but this was the first time that Penelope had ever specifically
sought her out.
“My mother wants me to. Edward is the Duke of Norfolk’s heir. She’s very keen for me to marry the son of a duke.” A sidelong
glance said much that Penelope didn’t put into words, and suddenly Rynn understood Lord Somerset’s amusement at her own marriage
to Thomas. Lord Somerset, it seemed, enjoyed seeing his wife get her feathers ruffled.
“He seems quite nice,” Rynn said. Heretofore, she’d seen no resemblance between herself and Penelope, but now, suddenly, she was struck by the realization that their hands were the same: slim and pale, with long, tapering fingers.
With Penelope’s hand stretched out along her chair’s armrest, and her own hand stretched out along her own chair’s armrest, they were side by side and there was no mistaking the similarity.
This is my sister, Rynn thought, and for the first time the relationship felt real.
“He is,” Penelope agreed. “But there are twenty just like him. They all want to marry, not me, but my money.”
“I’m sure that’s not true.” Rynn reflected for a minute. “Not all of them.”
Penelope made a wry face. “My mother says there’s no reason such a marriage shouldn’t work out. She should know, she’s made
two of them. And that brings me to what I wanted to ask you. How would you rate such a marriage? You seem perfectly happy
with Lord Thomas, and he is clearly besotted with you.”
Rynn was taken aback. “If you’re suggesting that I married my husband for his money, nothing could be further from the truth.”
“Oh, really? I beg your pardon, I meant no offense. Only, that’s what everyone is saying, you know.”
“Well, everyone is wrong.”
“I was hoping to get your perspective on it.” Penelope sounded disappointed. “Mama says that in the most successful marriages,
both parties get something they want. Since I have a fortune, but Grandpapa was a Cit, she thinks I should choose a high-ranking
nobleman—like Edward—for the sake of my future children. But the truth is, I’d as soon not be married for my money.”
“You must do as you please, of course, but I’m sure there’s a gentleman out there you will prefer to all the others—and he
won’t want to marry you for your money.”
“I hope so. Anyway, if I must be married for my money, I’d like somebody more exciting than Edward—” her eyes, which had been restlessly searching the
ballroom, suddenly lit up “—like him.”
Following her gaze, Rynn was stunned. Was Penelope really looking at . . . Maguire? Because there he was on the opposite side of the ballroom, talking to a man she didn’t know. Dressed in classic evening
attire—did he not realize that the invitation specified fancy dress?—he looked tall and fit and, yes, very handsome. Certainly
she could see his appeal to someone as sheltered as Penelope.
“Is he one of your suitors?” She did her best to keep her voice neutral. Her pulse had quickened upon spotting him, and she
was afraid her face might reveal it.
Where have you been? was the question that pounded like a drumbeat through her brain.
“No, but I’d quite like him to be. He’s gone into partnership with my stepfather, who says he has a good hard head for business.
From Papa Somerset, that’s high praise indeed.”
“Really.” Rynn was just debating whether to reveal that she knew Maguire when, possibly because he felt the force of her and
Penelope’s gazes, he glanced around and saw her. His face brightened, the slightest of smiles touched his mouth and then he
excused himself to his companion and cut a straight line through the dancers as he headed across the ballroom toward them.
“Oh, my, he’s coming over.” Penelope clasped her hands in excitement. “We’ve been introduced, but I didn’t think—” Her head
swiveled toward Rynn and her voice went flat. “He’s not coming for me, is he?”
“Major Maguire is Irish, you know. We’re acquainted. No doubt he’s glad to see a face from home,” Rynn said with careful composure.
She was more thankful than she could say for her half mask, which hopefully kept Penelope—or anyone—from reading what she
feared must be the excitement blazing from her eyes at seeing him. She’d been so worried, and now here he was. With answers.
He stopped in front of them. His eyes met hers for the briefest of moments. She always minimized their impact until she was with him again. It wasn’t only that in his sun-and-wind-bronzed face they were the unexpected clear pale blue of the sea; it was that they seemed to hold as many secrets.
Some of which she was dying to know.
“Lady Thomas,” he said, and then his gaze shifted to Penelope. “And Miss Carmichael. Or should I say Queen Mary of the Scots?”
“Yes,” Penelope trilled delightedly. “How clever you are! You got it in one!”
“It’s good to see you again, Major Maguire.” Rynn did her best to make sure her smile was no more than polite. The last thing
she wanted was for some keen-eyed gossip to divine that he was anything more to her than a casual acquaintance. “It seems
like a long time since we’ve seen you in London.”
“Yes, I’ve been busy setting up my offices in Dublin.”
An unobjectionable answer. If it was true. It was all Rynn could do not to frown skeptically at him.
“And how did you find Dublin?” she asked, making polite conversation when what she really wanted to do was drag him off somewhere
and lambast him with questions.
“Beautiful as always. Lively. Crowded.”
Was he giving her a significant look? By “crowded,” was he referring to the presence of Donal and Seamus in Dublin?
The look she gave him asked everything she couldn’t put into words. He smiled. Tantalizingly? Was he teasing her? He knew
what she wanted to know.
“Oh, that’s my favorite song,” Penelope exclaimed before either of them could say anything more. Rynn realized that the previous
dance had ended, and couples were taking to the floor again to the sprightly strains of “I’m Forever Blowing Bubbles.”
Even with her mask, the hopeful look Penelope turned on Maguire was impossible to mistake.
“Would you care to dance, Miss Carmichael?” Holding out his hand, he gave Penelope a charming smile. Rynn practically choked. She wanted answers—but she was clearly going to have to wait.
“I’d love to.” Jumping to her feet with an eagerness that, to Rynn, underlined just how young she was, she placed her hand
in his.
“If you’ll excuse us, Lady Thomas?” The flicker in Maguire’s eyes told Rynn that he knew how impatient she was. Her lips tightened
in response before the realization occurred that if he was still hale and hearty and a free man nothing too terrible could
have happened—she hoped.
“Certainly.” Rynn waved them away and sat back to wait.
Maguire was far from the most skilled dancer on the floor, but Penelope added grace to his vigor by matching her steps to
his with aplomb. Eyes sparkling, previously pale cheeks blooming with color, she laughed and talked and in general made it
clear that she was enjoying herself and the man she was with. Maguire, for his part, had a lazy, almost avuncular smile on
his face as he listened to her chatter. As a couple, the tall, dark Irishman and the slender, laughing British heiress attracted
a good deal of attention. The gossips had their heads together watching them spin around the floor. Lady Somerset, who’d just
left the supper room with a group of friends, frowned as she spotted her daughter. Several of Penelope’s suitors looked less
than pleased as well.
Edward, for his part, when he returned with the requested lemonade, spilled nearly half of it from trying to watch them as
he walked.
“Who’s that chap?” he burst out as he reached Rynn. Then, realizing they hadn’t been introduced, he added, “I’m Arundel, you
know.”
“And I’m Lady Thomas Dunne,” Rynn replied.
“Oh, I know that. Everyone does. Dunne’s Irish bride.
” As that blurted-out-before-he-thought answer clearly appalled him, he stammered and apologized and in general behaved with so much boyish embarrassment that Rynn found herself quite liking him.
She couldn’t imagine that he was much older than twenty, and thought that when he outgrew his callowness he might actually be a solid prospect for Penelope.
“I, uh, would you care to dance, Lady Thomas?” he asked at the conclusion of his convoluted apology. He started to hold out
his hand to her, realized he still held the glass of lemonade and blushed bright red.
Taking pity on him, Rynn took the glass out of his hand and set it down beside her champagne on the small table at her elbow.
“You’ll do better waiting for my sister.” She nodded toward Penelope as, the song having ended, she and Maguire came toward
them. “She’s the one you really want to dance with anyway.”
“She is,” Edward agreed gloomily, before casting Rynn an alarmed, apologetic glance. “Not that I don’t wish to dance with
you, Lady Thomas, but—”
“I’m an old married woman and not a bit exciting,” Rynn finished for him with a twinkle in her eye.
“Yes,” Edward said, then looked horrified. “No, that’s not it at all! I—”
Rynn was laughing at him as Penelope and Maguire reached them.
“Take him away and dance with him,” Rynn said to Penelope, thrusting Edward at her. “He brought you your lemonade and now
the toll must be paid.”
“Yes,” Edward said to Penelope. “I did. Brought the lemonade, I mean. Though some spilled, I’m afraid, and, uh—” He gave up,
swallowed and concluded with a stiff “Miss Carmichael, will you . . . ?”
Before he could finish asking, Penelope said, “Certainly. I always pay my debts, you’ll find,” and Maguire transferred Penelope’s hand to his arm and stepped aside.
They walked away, and Rynn was left alone with Maguire at last.
“Where have you been? It’s been weeks,” she hissed.
“Your friends are safe. Anything else should probably wait for a more private setting.” He cast a significant look around,
then nodded at Maud and Alice and their respective partners, all of whom were heading their way. “Unless you wish to find
yourself in company, I suggest we take to the floor.”
“No, I don’t wish to find myself in company. Not right now. Very well, let’s dance.” She put her hand in his and he swung
her into his arms. She felt surprisingly at home there, and once again it was easy to match her steps to his. Moments later,
they were in the midst of the company gliding around to the plaintive “After You’ve Gone.” The dance floor was crowded, too
crowded to afford any semblance of privacy. Any kind of sensitive discussion would have to wait, even though she was practically
foaming at the mouth with questions.
“We should probably try to make polite conversation,” he said.
She tilted her head back to see his eyes. They twinkled at her.
“You do realize that this is a costume ball, don’t you?” If she sounded cross, well, perhaps she was, a little. To be so near
to the answers she needed and yet not be able to get them was maddening. “You’re supposed to be in disguise.”
“I’m in disguise.”
“Oh?” Her gaze swept as much of him as she could see. “What are you disguised as, then?”
“An English gentleman.”
“Instead of an Irish brigand? That is a disguise.” Her voice was tart.
“I thought so.” He smiled. “And you’re a . . . half-plucked red chicken?”
“Oh, ha-ha. I’m the Firebird. From the ballet.”
“Ah. Well, I wouldn’t know much about that. What was that boy saying to you back there to make you laugh so?”
“That I’m an old married woman and he much prefers my sister.”
“He didn’t.”
“He thought it,” Rynn said. “I may have put it into words for him, but he thought it.”
“He’s an idiot,” Maguire said with conviction.
Leaning back against his arm, Rynn succumbed to a reluctant smile. “Possibly. He’ll be a nice fellow when he grows up a little,
though. Like Penelope, he’s very young.”
“Says the old married woman. How old are you, anyway? Twenty-one? Twenty-two?”
“Twenty-three. And didn’t anyone ever tell you that it’s rude to ask a lady her age?”
“I’m sure someone must have.”
“How old are you?”
His brows lifted. “Oh, ho, so I can’t ask you, but you can ask me?”
“I think you’ll find that applies to many topics. But you did ask me, and I told you. So . . .”
“As near to twenty-nine as makes no difference.”
“What does that mean?”
“My birthday’s in three weeks.”
“I see. Happy almost birthday.”
“Thank you.”
“Ever married?” She couldn’t help it. She was dying to know.
“I’m sure that’s one of those questions you shouldn’t be asking me.”
“Well?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I’ve been a tad busy, what with the war and all.”
She gave him a speculative look. “Now that you’re going into business with Lord Somerset, I’m sure it’s occurred to you that
my sister is a considerable heiress.”
He lifted his brows at her. “Are you by any chance matchmaking?”
“No, I’m not. I don’t think you’d suit.”
“I thought we agreed that only a fool doesn’t consider his opportunities.”
That brought her back to the conversation they’d had on the Reaper. It seemed like a very long time ago now.
“Or a rogue.” The tartness was back in her voice.
“Exactly.”
They exchanged measuring looks, and then he smiled at her. “You know, when I saw you there on the edge of the ballroom, I
could have sworn you looked glad to see me.”
“I was. I am. Oh, come outside.” They’d reached one of the three sets of open French doors by that time. Casting a quick glance
around to make sure no one who mattered was watching, she pulled out of his arms, caught his hand instead and dragged him
out onto the terrace.