Her Dearest Sin. Gayle Wilson
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gardens had been left enticingly open in a fruitless attempt to permit the cooler outside air to circulate through the crowded ballroom. Her progress toward them was interrupted a few times to return greetings from those who had known her father or who were friends of her guardian.
It had been a very long time since she had been required to attend such a gathering. She knew that Julián would never have brought her tonight if he had not believed her absence might cause comment.
When she eventually reached the balcony, she was surprised to find it deserted, perhaps because the official presentations had ended such a brief time before and the dancing was to begin shortly. Julián seldom danced, so it would be some time before he would look for her.
The king’s gardens lay enticingly below, free of crowds and clamor. If only she dared…
She glanced back at the ballroom, her eyes easily locating Julián’s dark head. He was engaged in conversation with several others of the king’s advisors. Such discussions normally occupied several hours. Surely this one would last long enough for her to escape for a few minutes that unaccustomed tumult.
Unable to resist the temptation, she hurried down the steps that led to the grounds below. It was not until she had entered the sheltering darkness under the ornamental trees, beyond the reach of the flambeaux that lined the palace walls, that she slowed, lifting her face to the breeze.
The scent of almond blossoms was heavy on the night air. If she closed her eyes she could pretend she was back on her father’s estate, far from the sights and sounds and smells of the city.
Drifting out from the ballroom came the strains of the seguidilla. She smiled unconsciously, remembering the first time her dancing master had led her though its intricate patterns. Lifting the hem of her gown with her left hand, she began to parody the steps as they would be performed inside.
As she danced, she circled in and out between the slender trunks along the avenue of trees. Her outstretched fingers trailed over their bark as she moved from one to another, keeping time to the melody that floated out into the garden.
So far from the lights of the palace, she had no fear she would be seen, and only an occasional welling of anxiety that she might be missed. Surely Julián would be more concerned tonight with keeping the king in line than he would be in keeping her in line. After all—
Her fingers brushed across an unexpected texture, one that was definitely not wood or bark. Despite the brevity of the contact, she knew at once that what she had touched was flesh and bone. A living, breathing body—here, where none should be.
Her involuntary gasp broke the stillness. She stumbled backward, putting a protective distance between herself and whoever was leaning against the tree.
“I do beg your pardon,” a deep voice said in English.
Her eyes found the small, glowing tip of the cigar he held. She wondered that she hadn’t been aware of its pungent smell. Of course, the heady fragrance of the flowering trees and her own childish masquerade had been convenient distractions.
“Who are you?” Pilar asked, taking another step back.
Had the man not addressed her in English, she might have been more frightened, convinced she had encountered some trespasser on the palace grounds. Given her previous interest in the Duke of Wellington’s party, however, she found herself more intrigued than apprehensive.
“Merely the victim of an unfortunate vice,” he said, his voice tinged with amused self-deprecation.
Her eyes followed the unhurried rise of the end of the cigarillo as he brought it to his lips. The tip flared briefly in the darkness as he inhaled, and then it was lowered again. This time the smoke wafted toward her, its scent as faint as the music.
Her father had smoked these same small, tightly rolled cigars, and their fragrance had lingered in his clothing. When she was a little girl, and her papa had been away too long, she would sneak into his chamber and open the door of the enormous wardrobe to breathe in the wonderful variety of smells she would always associate with him. These cigars. The oiled leather of his boots. Sandalwood and cedar. Horses. The aromas of home.
“Shall I put it out?” the Englishman asked.
She swallowed against the force of those crowding memories and shook her head before she realized he would no more be able to see that gesture than she could see him. All she could discern was his shape, black against the lesser darkness of the night, his chest centered by the pale gleam of his cravat. And, of course, the small glowing tip of the cigarillo.
“No,” she said, the word little more than a whisper.
“Is something wrong?” he asked.
Hearing the unfamiliar—and unmistakable—concern in his voice, her eyes stung with tears. She blinked, denying them.
“I wasn’t expecting anyone to be here,” she confessed.
“Escaping?”
The word reverberated in her consciousness. Another memory.
“For the moment,” she said.
“Then we can be conspirators together.”
There was a heartbeat of silence.
“You’re with the English envoy.”
“The Duke of Wellington. Have you met him?”
“Not yet. He seems…” She hesitated, searching for a word that would not give offense.
“Ordinary,” the deep voice supplied, touched again with amusement.
Which made it even more attractive, Pilar decided. Confronted with his ease of manner, she was beginning to relax. Despite the fact that she shouldn’t be here, despite the fact that he was a stranger in a dark garden, she felt no sense of foreboding in staying to talk to him.
Even if someone came looking for her, it would be easy enough to fade into the shadows. No one would ever know she had been here. With the constraints under which she was now forced to live her life, this small, harmless adventure had suddenly become unbelievably precious.
Of course, whatever interpretation she chose to put on this clandestine encounter, she had no doubt what Julián’s reaction to it would be. Then she reminded herself again, almost fiercely, that he need never know. What were a few moments in a garden compared to a lifetime—
“It’s all right,” the Englishman went on. “Most people think him to be far less…extraordinary, somehow, than they had expected.”
Wellington, she realized. He had asked her what she thought of the duke.
“I don’t believe I have yet had time to form an impression,” she said.
“I see,” he said, the amusement in his voice still evident. “I should imagine that a lady like you has heard little about his military exploits.”
“Only that they were successful,” she lied.
And was rewarded by his laughter. Like his voice, it was rich and pleasing, clearly masculine, and yet, unlike her guardian’s, free of mockery.
“Somewhat,” he agreed after a moment.
“Did you fight under his command?”
“I was a member of his staff.”
“Then I am sure you must have the greatest admiration for him.”
“Of course,” he agreed readily, that tantalizing hint of amusement lurking.
“And as a member of his staff, what were your duties?”
“Primarily to dance attendance.”
“On the duke?”
“On whomever or whatever needed attending to. The role of staff is to make things run as smoothly as possible. The variety of tasks we undertake to accomplish that would probably amaze you.”
“I