Scandal At The Christmas Ball. Marguerite Kaye
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to do so. That he might not welcome her company was a possibility she must consider, given her shockingly forward behaviour. She had practically demanded that he kiss her! Mind you, he had needed little encouragement, and he had seemed to enjoy kissing her every bit as much as she had enjoyed kissing him.
No, there was no denying it had been an extraordinarily nice kiss. Not a bit like Evan’s kisses, and Evan’s kisses were the only ones Joanna had for comparison. She hadn’t seen Evan for seven years, but she most certainly didn’t remember his kisses making her feel like she might melt. She had liked them, they had been pleasant, but she’d been content when they were over, and she didn’t recall ever replaying any of them over in her mind, and ending up all hot and bothered and—and wanting. Yes that was the correct word, the teacher in her thought, wanting.
When Drummond had rubbed the snowflake from her cheek, kissing him was all she’d wanted, and when their lips had met, her only thought was that she didn’t want it to end. Wrapping her arms around herself, she closed her eyes and indulged herself by remembering once more. The soft leather of his gloved hand on the nape of her neck, beneath her scarf. The slumberous look in his eyes. Close up, the hazel of his iris was tinged with green. Close up, she could see the faint slash of a scar slicing neatly through his right brow. Close up, he smelled of soap and wet wool and cold, crisp winter air. He had not crushed her in his embrace, there were so many layers of warm clothing between them she could not feel the heat of his skin, but she could test the breadth of his shoulders with her hands. His lips had been warm, gentle, careful. It was an amuse-bouche of a kiss, Joanna thought, smiling at her own fancifulness. A tasting kiss, a foretaste, enough to tease, to tempt, to entice. It was a perfect kiss as the prelude to another kiss. The question was, whether there should be another.
The shepherdess chimed quarter to the hour with her crook. Startled, Joanna leapt to her feet. There was no time to be posing such questions, and no point either, for the answer was a very emphatic yes! Quickly threading the silk ribbon which matched her gown through her hair, she stabbed a few more pins randomly into her coiffure. Her turquoise necklace and matching earrings, her last gift from Papa, were the finishing touch to her toilette. Placing the guard in front of the fire and draping a shawl around her shoulders, Joanna gave her reflection a final check and, satisfied with what she saw, headed down to dinner.
* * *
After an elaborate meal of countless courses, the guests were invited to assemble in the ballroom, which was a grand affair, running the full length of the house from front to back, opening out on to the terrace and the south lawn, which could be glimpsed, glittering with frost, through long French windows. The ceiling, twice the height of the other reception rooms, was painted alabaster white, with only the ornate Adam cornicing to relieve its plainness. The pilasters running down one side would give the room the look of a Roman forum, were it not for the garlands which had been twisted around them. The greenery and mistletoe which they had so enthusiastically hung yesterday had been festooned with silver and gold paper formed into stars, lanterns and snowflakes, which caught the light from the three huge chandeliers which blazed down, their flames reflected in the highly polished wooden floor.
The striking of a gong announced the emergence of their hosts on to a small balcony set above the assembled guests dressed, as Joanna was beginning to realise was their custom, in co-ordinating evening wear of silver and dove-grey.
The skin on the nape of Joanna’s neck prickled with awareness.
‘They are fond of a little theatricality, are they not?’ Drummond spoke softly, for her ears only. ‘I’ve been waiting all day for the opportunity to speak to you.’
She bit back a smile of relief. ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to wait a little longer. Our hosts are about to address us.’
Which was no lie. ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ the Duke of Brockmore began, ‘as you can see, we have laid on some festive games. We hope that there will be something to suit everyone.’
Joanna listened distractedly as, between them, the Duke and Duchess explained the various activities laid out in the ballroom, all the time acutely aware of the man by her side. Drummond, like the rest of the gentlemen, was wearing country evening dress. A pale blue waistcoat almost the exact, original shade of her own gown. Dark blue pantaloons which clung to his legs. He had very long legs, and they were very nicely shaped too. Not many men looked so well in tightly knitted pantaloons, but Drummond’s legs showed them to perfection. Not flabby, but certainly not too thin either. Muscled, she was willing to bet. Though who would take on such a wager, and how she could be so certain, when she had never seen a pair of well-muscled legs in the flesh before, she could not imagine. She dragged her eyes away from the perfect legs and her thoughts away from their shocking trend, only to discover that the owner of said legs was gazing at her quizzically. ‘Your coat,’ she said distractedly. ‘I was just thinking how exactly it matched the panels of my gown.’
‘We have inadvertently copied Their Graces,’ he agreed, ‘in co-ordinating our attire.’
Joanna laughed. ‘‘Do you think they will be flattered by our imitating their style, or consider us presumptuous?’ The Duke and Duchess, having concluded their little speech, were now descending from their Olympian heights to join their guests.
‘I am inclined to think the former, in which case we should continue to co-ordinate each night, for their good opinion, as you know, is essential to my future happiness.’
His tone was light, but there was an underlying edge to his words that made her turn to face him. ‘You do not sound overly enthusiastic about achieving that.’
‘I am as enthusiastic about it as I am to bob for apples. Though perhaps you wish to have a go?’
It was the lightest of brush-offs, but it still stung. ‘I have no intention of bobbing for apples,’ Joanna said tartly. ‘This is my only evening gown, and I cannot risk ruining it with water stains. Which means, I’m afraid, that unless you plan to wear that same coat and waistcoat every evening, you’ll have to come up with some other method to impress our hosts. If you will excuse me.’
‘Joanna, I did not mean...’
But she turned her back on him, making for the French windows at the furthest point in the ballroom from the laughing guests gathered around the huge copper bath of water where apples bobbed on the surface, beguiling the innocent into thinking them easy to capture between their teeth.
She was not, however, the only guest to seek this secluded spot. Lady Beatrice, dressed in a deceptively simple gown of puce figured silk with piped satin trimming, was standing in the shadow of the long curtains. ‘A wise decision, Miss Forsythe,’ she said coolly. ‘If one is set upon eating an apple, there are plenty in the fruit bowl to be taken without destroying one’s coiffure.’
‘Or making one’s gown virtually transparent.’
‘Neither dilemma seems to have occurred to Miss Canningvale,’ Lady Beatrice said, eyeing the flame-haired beauty disdainfully. ‘Though if her objective is to draw the attention of every male in the company, she is succeeding. Just look at Aubrey Kenelm, he is positively mesmerised.’
‘Perhaps he has made a wager on her success,’ Joanna said drily.
‘More likely he has made a wager on the probability of her bosom falling out of that dress, and if she leans over into the bath one inch further—oh, please, do not pretend to be shocked, Miss Forsythe.’
Joanna laughed. ‘I am surprised, not shocked, and Mr Kenelm is about to lose his bet. Look, Captain Milborne has come to the rescue with a towel and an apple.’
‘A practical man, and a thoughtful one,’ Lady Beatrice said. ‘Much underestimated qualities, don’t you think? I can’t imagine Captain Milborne lisping poetry and sending flowers, and treating one as if she were a feather-witted piece of Sèvres that might fracture in a summer zephyr. Why is it, do you think, that so many men believe beauty and brains are incompatible?’
Joanna laughed nervously. ‘Clearly not in your case.’
Lady Beatrice shrugged.