"The captain believes—since the two of you have already become lovers—that it would be in your best interest if you allowed him to become your protector."

Color washed into Vermillion's cheeks. The cup rattled again as she rested it in her lap. "H-he said that? Captain Tanner told you we were lovers?"

Gabriella waved away her niece's concern. "Don't be angry, darling. I couldn't be more thrilled. The man is obviously enamored of you. He knows that in time he'll be forced to return to Spain, but in the meantime he wishes nothing so much as for the two of you to be together."

Vermillion sat back in her chair, the tea in her cup untouched. "What else did the captain say?"

"For his part in the arrangement, he has pledged to do his best to initiate you into the world of pleasure."

Vermillion's eyes widened. "That is what he said?"

She nodded. "Unless you are dissatisfied with his performance so far, I would say it presents a great opportunity. And afterward, once the affair is over, you can take your time, decide then what it is you wish to do."

Vermillion shook her head. "I can't believe this. I can't believe he would tell you something like that."

"But darling, don't you see? He came to me for help. He wants to be certain he is the man you choose and not someone else. Surely it would break his heart if you did."

"Break his heart? I'd like to break his neck!"

"Darling, please. I wouldn't have told you if I thought you would be angry. I thought it was important you understood how highly you are held in the captain's regard and the length he has gone to in order to win your affections."

The color remained high in Vermillion's cheeks and her smile looked forced. "I'll keep that in mind."

Gabriella tried to think of something to say that would smooth the frown from her niece's forehead. "That is all I ask, darling. If you truly care for Captain Tanner, you should take advantage of his offer and enjoy your time together."

Vermillion merely nodded.

Gabriella thought her shoulders looked a little stiff, but perhaps it was only her imagination.

"Thank you for telling me, Aunt Gabby." Vermillion set the untouched cup and saucer down on the table in front of her.

"As I said, I thought you should know."

"Yes, well, now I know." Rising from the sofa, she made her way across the room and out the door.

Gabriella watched Vermillion leave, her spine unnaturally straight, and hoped she had done the right thing.






18


« ^ »


Vermillion's nineteenth birthday ball was a long-awaited event, a costume ball, a gala affair in the world of the demimonde. Though it was well known among the men that tonight she would choose a protector, there would be no formal announcement, nothing quite so tawdry as that.

Instead, when the birthday waltz was played, whichever gentleman she chose to partner her in the dance would become her lover.

Unless she decided to choose no man at all.

Which was exactly what Vermillion planned to do.

Last night and all of today, she had been so furious with Caleb she had purposely avoided him. She couldn't trust her temper not to spin out of control if she saw him.

Damn and blast the man! How dare he involve Aunt Gabby in so personal a matter!

In truth, it was amazing he had done so, extremely out of character for Caleb, who seemed in most ways a very private man. Did he really believe her aunt could convince her to become his mistress? And when had he become so determined? Once the head of the spy ring was caught he would be leaving. Whatever time they had together would indeed be brief.

Her stomach knotted at the prospect. She didn't like to think of Caleb going away, of never seeing him again. She didn't like to think of him fighting the French, being injured or maybe even killed. Instead, she summoned her anger and pushed those thoughts away. Ignoring a lingering thread of worry, she rang for Jeannie to help her dress for the evening ahead.

The task was lengthy. Being a costume ball, she would be gowned as Aphrodite, the goddess of love, beauty, and sensual rapture. The costume her aunt had commissioned for the affair was made of white satin and fashioned in the Grecian mode, baring one shoulder, clinging to her curves, and draping across her bosom. The sides of the gown were split, and when she walked, her legs were exposed well past the knee.

The entire effect was heightened by the Grecian designs embroidered in gold across the bodice and around the hem, the thin gold sandals that encased her bare feet, and the bands of gold encircling her upper arms.

As soon as she was dressed, she sat down in front of the mirror and Jeannie coiffed her hair, clipping it up on the sides with mother-of-pearl seashell combs while leaving the rest loose down her back in fiery red curls. As she watched Jeannie work, she tried to stay angry at Caleb, but her temper had cooled considerably and most of her fury had seeped away.

In truth, chances were good if he had known her decision—not to pick Mondale or Nash or any other man—he wouldn't have gone to her aunt.

Why had he? Did he really want her so badly? And if he did… ? If he did, what exactly did that mean?

Surely Caleb couldn't be in love with her.

She shook her head. It was impossible. Ridiculous. He was the son of an earl. His interest was only in the physical side of the attraction they shared. It wasn't love. It couldn't be.

But what if it were?

The question nagged her, wouldn't get out of her head.

As Jeannie fastened the buttons on her white satin gown, she told herself she was being a fool, a complete and utter harebrain, but the niggling thought remained.

Jeannie dabbed a little more rouge on her cheeks, urged her up from the stool, then made a sweeping assessment of her handiwork. " 'ow lovely you look, chérie. Magnifique!" Jeannie motioned for her to turn in front of the tall cheval glass and she made a slow pirouette.

Vermillion thought she looked exotic, that she looked sensual and seductive. That she looked like Vermillion and nothing at all like Lee.

And so this night, for perhaps the last time in her life, that was exactly who she would be.

She reached over and caught her maid's hand, gave it a gentle squeeze. "Thank you, Jeannie. You've been a very dear friend."

The older woman smiled. "You will choose the captain, no?"

Vermillion shook her head. "No, Jeannie."

"But why not? Nom de Dieu, surely now that you know 'e is not a servant, that 'e is—"

"I'm not choosing Captain Tanner or anyone else. I'm going to lead a life of my own." Vermillion turned away before Jeannie could argue and started for the door.

The guests had all arrived. Everyone would be waiting downstairs. It was time to make her entrance.

The ballroom was in a separate wing of the mansion, a huge, high-ceilinged chamber illuminated by crystal chandeliers. As the guests walked in, each cut glass prism sparkled and danced, the colors multiplied a thousand times in the mirrors that lined the walls. Tonight the room had been decorated to resemble the sea from which Aphrodite rose the day she was created. Murals had been painted depicting the ocean, with white clouds above a rocky shoreline dotted with white-winged gulls. In the corner where the orchestra played, sand had been brought in to resemble a beach.

Pausing at the entrance to the ballroom, Vermillion pulled a white-feathered mask down over her eyes, then started through the door. Just inside, Oliver Wingate, costumed as a too-tall version of Admiral Nelson, offered her his arm.

"Good evening, my dear." His eyes moved over her seductive satin gown. "There are not words to describe your beauty, Vermillion."

"Thank you, Colonel."

Lord Andrew Mondale, extravagantly costumed as a sixteenth-century courtier in a doublet of deep orange velvet trimmed with ermine, doffed his matching ermine-trimmed hat. "Happy birthday, my beauty."

"Thank you, Andrew. You are looking quite dashing, as always."

He beamed with pleasure and settled his hat back on his head, hiding the gleam of his golden curls.

Jonathan Parker, Viscount Nash, was the third of her suitors to appear. It was obvious the men had been waiting.

"Ah, yes, Aphrodite. Quite appropriate, I would say." Wearing the tunic, jackboots, and the hat of a musketeer, Jonathan bent and kissed her hand. "Before the night is over, I hope to worship at your altar of love."

It was a rather un-Nash-like remark and she couldn't help a smile. "Why don't we join the others?" she said evasively, then, once they were immersed in the milling throng, excused herself to go in search of her aunt.

As she crossed the ballroom, making her way through the crowd, she tried not to search for Caleb. She didn't see him, but perhaps she wouldn't recognize him if he were there. He could be one of the several court jesters she passed or perhaps a Roman soldier. She recognized Sir Peter Peasley, costumed as Henry III, and beside him, Lisette Moreau in a tall silver wig, playing the role of Madame de Pompadour. Juliette Beauvoir was there, flirting outrageously with the actor, Michael Cutberth, but there was no sign of Caleb.

Vermillion continued toward the dais where Aunt Gabby stood next to Lord Claymont—a handsome Mark Antony and a beautiful, silver-blond Cleopatra.

Gabriella smiled, the golden serpents on her gown glittering as she moved. "We've been waiting for you, darling. Now that you're here, the party can truly begin." But of course it was already in full swing.

Vermillion thought of the long hours ahead, the boring conversation, the leering glances, the gossip she cared nothing about.