Scandal At The Christmas Ball. Marguerite Kaye

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СКАЧАТЬ Joanna stood stock-still. Their eyes locked. There was a stillness in the air, a muffled silence enveloping them as the snow fell softly on to the existing carpet of white. He trailed his fingers down her cheek, to rest on the soft wool of her scarf. Her breath formed a wispy white cloud. Another snowflake landed on her cheek, and this time he used his lips to melt it. Her skin was cold, and so very soft. He wanted to kiss her. Her lips were parted so temptingly, and it had been so very long since he had wanted to kiss anyone.

      But a gentleman did not go around kissing ladies he was barely acquainted with, no matter how much he wanted to. Making a show of brushing the snow from Joanna’s shoulder, Drummond looked up at the sky, blinking as a flake of icy snow landed on his eyelash. ‘They’ll be sending out a search party for us, if we do not make haste.’

      ‘Yes,’ Joanna said, making no move.

      Her breath was rapid, her cheeks bright. ‘When you look at me like that,’ Drummond said, ‘I find it very hard to think of anything but kissing you.’

      ‘Only think? I thought you were a man of action.’ She smiled at him, and that smile heated his blood beneath the icy cold of his exposed skin. ‘There is nothing to think about, Drummond, for this is not real, and no one will ever know. Our paths have crossed for a few days, but when we leave Brockmore, we are very unlikely to meet again. Are you afraid I will slap your face?’

      A laugh shook him. ‘It would be what I deserved.’

      ‘Are you prepared to take the risk?’

      He wrapped his arms around her, sliding his hand under her scarf to the warm skin at the nape of her neck. ‘I most certainly am,’ he whispered, putting his lips to hers.

      * * *

      Joanna owned only one serviceable evening gown. Purchased ten years ago, in the days when she had a little spare cash, it had started life as a simple tea gown of pale blue satin. As a governess, she was occasionally required to accompany her charges to soirées, and with no funds to purchase a new gown had been obliged to adapt this one, shortening the sleeves and lowering the neckline. When the invitation to spend Christmas at Brockmore Manor had arrived, she had upgraded her evening dress for the third time, layering panels of sprigged muslin over the skirt, using the same material to put a new trim on the neckline and sleeves.

      Standing in front of the long mirror in her bedchamber on Christmas night, she was pleased with the result, though she couldn’t help wishing that she, like the other female guests, had brought a different gown for every night. Which was as silly a wish as ever could be made, for it was highly unlikely that she would ever have an opportunity to wear any of them ever again. Unless she was able, once again, to take up a governess position in another household similar to Lady Christina’s, once her name had been cleared. Perhaps this was the form the amends the Duchess had referred to would take. Eighteen months ago, she would have given anything to be able to do so but now—the conversation with Drummond this afternoon made her question whether that was still what she wanted.

      The Duchess had made no attempt to speak to her yet. Until she did, there was no point in her speculating, though she assumed that removing the terrible stain on Joanna’s reputation would be a pre-requisite. Mind you, if the Duchess had seen her this afternoon, kissing Drummond with shocking abandon, she’d have another, very different blot on her copybook. One which, moreover, she’d been very, very careful to avoid, for whether governess or teacher, she could not afford to be branded a brazen hussy. Yet she’d behaved like a hussy this afternoon, and what’s more she’d thoroughly enjoyed it.

      The gilded shepherdess on the ornate ormolu clock on the mantel marked the half-hour by raising her crook to strike a goat bell. It was time to assemble for dinner but Joanna, who normally had a horror of being late, sat down on the footstool by the fire. She was not paired with Drummond for dinner tonight, the seating plan had placed him further down the table, between Lady Beatrice and Miss Burnham. Later, games were due to be played in the ballroom, and she would have the opportunity to speak to him then, if she wished 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.’

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