Deborah held the ornament against her throat. Indeed, it was a vastly pretty piece of jewellery and her cousin’s suggestion found favour, especially as the gown she had selected was of cream silk sewn with garnets and pearls on the falling sleeves.
‘Yes, why not?’ she replied, looking through her collection of fal-lals for a ribbon to match her gown. ‘After all, we must look our best this evening, cousin, for it is our last at Court before we leave for the country.’
‘Yes.’ Sarah smiled dreamily. ‘We have both been fortunate to find handsome husbands. It is not always so, Debs. Mistress Anne Goodleigh has been promised to a man twice her age and as ugly as sin. I vow I would rather die an old maid than submit to such as he!’
‘We are both lucky,’ Deborah agreed. She leaned forward to kiss her cousin’s cheek. ‘You look so pretty this evening, Sarah, that shade of blue becomes you very well.’
‘Thank you,’ Sarah said and dimpled. ‘I think I am pretty—but you are beautiful, Debs. I do not think I have ever seen you look so well as you do this evening.’
‘Beautiful?’ Deborah glanced at herself in her hand mirror of silver and Venetian glass. The glass was dark and showed only a hazy image of her face. ‘I have never thought so, but I dare say I am well enough. Father has commissioned a portrait as a gift for Don Miguel…I hope he will be as pleased with it as I was with his.’
‘He would be addled in his wits if he were not,’ Sarah said and giggled as her excitement overcame her. ‘Are you ready, Debs? I cannot wait for the evening to begin. Master Henderson has said he will give me a ring to seal the promise he made me, and tomorrow we shall be betrothed.’
‘And the day after we go home.’ Deborah took her cousin’s arm. ‘I am quite ready, dearest cousin. Let us go down and see if the chairs have been summoned.’
Chapter Three
T he masked dancers were in merry mood, twirling in reckless abandon to the music. This was no sedate country dance but a wild romp that brought each couple close in what was almost an embrace, and many gentlemen had seized the chance to behave immodestly towards their partners. Their behaviour was quite shocking, and Deborah did not care to join them.
She could see her cousin dancing with her betrothed, her cheeks flushed and excited. She herself had already refused two partners who seemed to be intoxicated from too much wine, preferring to watch rather than participate.
‘Not dancing, fair one?’
The man seemed to have come from nowhere, or perhaps she had been too preoccupied to notice his approach. He was masked, as was everyone present, but his size marked him out. He could only be the Marquis de Vere. Deborah drew a sharp breath as he grasped her hand and pulled her into the throng of carefree dancers. She would have resisted had he asked her permission, but his grip was firm and strong and she felt it would be useless to try to free herself. He was determined to have his way.
‘This is madness,’ she breathed as he placed his hands about her waist to toss her into the air and then catch her to him.
It was as if she weighed no more than a feather. Her heart raced furiously as he held her crushed against him for a brief moment before setting her on her feet to whirl her round and round the room. Again and again, she was caught, tossed and held, the madness of the dance infecting her so that her natural caution was all but lost.
Deborah gazed down into the handsome face of her captor, for that in truth was what he had become. He had daringly made a prisoner of both her body and her mind. She seemed to have no will of her own and was seized by a strange desire as she met the fire in his dark eyes, a longing that was so strange and wanton she was suddenly afraid. Was this man truly a devil? How else could he have made her so far forget herself?
The music was ending at last after what had seemed an eternity. Deborah was finally set upon her feet by the marquis, and his hold on her released so that she was able to breathe freely once more. Slowly, her senses returned to normal and she stood staring at the mocking set of her partner’s mouth. He was laughing at her! She drew herself up to her full height, which came no farther than the top of his shoulder. Her expression became proud and withdrawn, her eyes cold.
‘I shall not thank you for the dance, sir. Had you had the courtesy to ask, I should have refused.’
‘Yet I would swear there was delight in your eyes while we danced, sweet mistress.’
‘More like fear,’ she answered waspishly. ‘I thought myself in the clutches of a madman.’
‘Aye, mayhap we were both a little mad for a moment.’ His eyes had narrowed beneath the slits of his velvet mask, the colour of them so intense and dark that a shiver went through her. His hand reached out to touch the pendant she wore about her slender throat. ‘You wear a fine jewel this night, Mistress Stirling.’
Deborah lifted her head, anger making her speak as she did without truly thinking of what she said. ‘It is the gift of the man to whom I shall soon be betrothed. Don Miguel Cortes…’
‘God’s breath!’ Nicholas ejaculated and tore off his mask. His features were contorted with a terrible anger, making Deborah recoil in genuine fear this time. ‘You lie! I beg you, Mistress Stirling—tell me this is some wrong-headed jest to punish me for my behaviour towards you. You cannot wish to be the wife of such a man. It would be sacrilege.’
Deborah was trembling inside as she saw the strange, almost haunted look in his eyes, but determined not to let him see that she was so affected by his words.
‘His likeness pleases me.’ She faced him with a steady gaze, though she was near ready to faint. ‘I am aware that you and he have some quarrel between you, but…’
‘You think my disgust is because of a petty quarrel?’ Nicholas gripped her wrist, his fingers digging so deeply into her flesh that she almost cried out in pain. ‘That man is a monster—a murderer! Were I to tell you of his hideous crimes you would never again sleep in peace. Do not give yourself to such a man, Mistress Stirling. If you value your self-respect—or your life!—you will step back now, before it is too late.’
Deborah saw hatred and a chilling horror in his eyes. His words terrified her. There was a sickness in her stomach and she felt as though she would swoon.
‘Please let me go,’ she whispered. ‘I must…I need air.’
Nicholas saw the distress in her eyes and cursed himself for a fool.
‘Forgive me, you are unwell.’ He took her arm, feeling her tremble beneath his hand. ‘I am a brute indeed, sweet lady. You are not to blame for that monster’s crimes. Do not fear me. I would kill Cortes if I could but you are safe with me. I swear it by my honour.’
Deborah had no strength to break free of him as he led her from the hall, which was crowded with flushed and sweating dancers, into a quiet chamber nearby. A single torch flared here and the air was cooler, fresher. She sank onto an oak settle near a window and drew in a deep shuddering breath to steady her nerves. It was dark outside with hardly a star in the night sky. An omen, perhaps, of what the future held for her if she were to believe this man—but could she believe him?
‘Are you feeling better?’ Nicholas asked after a few moments. ‘I should not have shocked you so, though I spoke only the truth. It would have been better had I gone to your father. He has been deceived in this matter. I cannot think he would allow the marriage if he understood what kind of a man this Spaniard truly is. No father would give his only child to such a monster.’
‘Don Manola is my father’s friend. He offers us much kindness…’
‘The Don seeks to trap you with honeyed words,’ Nicholas replied harshly. ‘No Spanish woman of gentle birth would wed with his son, for his reputation is known beyond his own province. Why do you imagine he has sought