Sapphire. Rosemary Rogers

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      Miss Stillmore glanced at Sapphire with the look she knew too well after being in London for two weeks. It was the look, Aunt Lucia had explained, that ugly English girls gave the pretty ones as they realized they were no match.

      “Miss Portia and Miss Alma,” Lady Carlisle said, completing the introductions.

      The two younger girls, who were more comely than their elder sister, bobbed curtsies, seemingly more interested to meet the new arrival. Portia appeared to be the same age as Sapphire, and Alma only a year or two younger.

      “It’s very nice to make your acquaintance,” Sapphire said, returning their smiles.

      “Is he here?” Lady Carlisle asked the youngest daughter, leaning closer so as not to be overheard by those passing in the hall.

      “He, my lady?”

      “Why, Lord Wessex, of course,” the older woman hissed under her breath. “I expected to meet him in the receiving line. That is why we were invited, was it not? To formally meet the new Earl of Wessex?”

      Alma snatched a quick look at her sister, then returned her attention to Lady Carlisle. “He’s here, my lady, only…he says he prefers not to stand in the receiving line.”

      Lady Carlisle raised her plucked and painted eyebrows so high that Sapphire thought they might reach her receding hairline. Then, spotting an acquaintance, Lady Carlisle fluttered her fan and walked into the next room, her husband in tow.

      Sapphire waited for Angelique inside the doorway of a large parlor a little farther down the hall. Exquisitely decorated with stylish furniture and rich-hued draperies, the sound of clinking glasses and restrained laughter came from inside.

      “So, my chicks, shall we stick together?” Lucia asked, putting one arm around Sapphire and the other around Angelique. “Or shall we scatter?”

      “If you’ll excuse me,” Angelique said, narrowing her gaze and pursing her plump lips seductively. “I believe I recognize that gentleman under the window.”

      Sapphire looked at the man and lowered her voice as she spoke. “Angel, how can you know him? We’ve barely been here long enough to—”

      “Find me if you need me,” Angelique said, moving off in her new lavender and white silk evening gown.

      Lucia and Sapphire watched Angelique cross the room, and then Lucia turned to her goddaughter. “So what will it be, my dear? Shall we corner this scoundrel together?”

      “Thank you, but no. I can do this on my own.”

      “Very well, puss.” Lucia pecked the air close to Sapphire’s cheek with her rouged lips and walked away, lifting her hand to Lady Morrow who stood beyond them. “Lady Morrow,” she called in her French accent, “so good to see you again, ma chère.”

      Sapphire’s pulse raced and she felt butterflies in her stomach. She leaned against the wall for a moment and watched the stylishly dressed guests come and go. There were at least two hundred guests socializing in the two parlors to the right of the front hall and the large drawing room on the left that seemed to have been cleared of furniture for dancing. She was overwhelmed by all the sights and sounds: the glittering jewels hanging from slender necks and earlobes, the stiff white cravats gentleman wore around their necks, the hushed voices, the lively strum of instruments as the musicians struck up a lovely dance.

      Sapphire watched as couples moved opposite one another, advancing and retreating, locking arms and then separating to weave their way among the other dancers. She tapped her kidskin slipper beneath her gown, remembering how Armand and her mother had hosted parties at Orchid Manor. They had danced half the night in the tropical garden where Armand had built a platform for such occasions. How her mother had loved dances…. When Sapphire closed her eyes, she could almost hear Sophie’s laughter, see Armand draw an arm around her and whisper in her ear. She remembered dancing with Maurice, as well, and the feel of his arms around her…

      “You would care to dance? Excellent.”

      Sapphire’s eyes flew open as a man closed his hand over hers and pulled her into the drawing room to join the other dancers. Before she could open her mouth to speak, Blake Thixton released her, pushing her onto the dance floor in the direction of the other ladies as they and their partners separated. Sapphire realized she knew the steps from lessons in Martinique; it seemed as if her mother had spent her whole life preparing her for this introduction to London society. The dance was a variation of the Roger de Coverley and she took her place across from Thixton, staring at him.

      She forced a smile, advanced, retired and curtsied to his bow. The moment they joined hands to begin the figure, he spoke harshly beneath his breath. “I thought I warned you not to come here again.”

      To the many men and women who lined the walls of the drawing room to observe, or to the other dancers, it must have appeared that Sapphire and Thixton were conversing pleasantly as they danced. She would certainly not be the first one to disclose otherwise.

      “I must speak with you,” she said, loathing the fact that he was holding her so tightly when he rested his hand on her waist. Loathing the fact that her eyes kept straying to his mouth, that strange waves of heat washed over her each time he spoke.

      “Let me guess—you must see me so that you can tell me more about how you are Wessex’s daughter and what the estate owes you.”

      “Yes.” The dancers parted and he released her. “I mean no,” she said in his ear, and then sailed away.

      It was a full minute before they were joined again, and as they danced he watched Sapphire with impenetrable brown eyes. It was something near to hatred she felt for those eyes at this moment. “I don’t want money,” she said under her breath. “I want to be acknowledged. I want my mother, who was Lord Wessex’s legal wife, to be acknowledged.”

      He spun her around, proving to be a superb dancer. “Surely you jest.”

      She was forced to move away from him to remain in step with the music, but the moment he took her hand again, she met his gaze with determination. “I assure you, sir, I do not jest.”

      The dance came to end and all the dancers bowed, curtsied and clapped.

      “I want you to go now,” Thixton said, his disdain for her obvious in his voice as he looped her arm through his and escorted her off the dance floor. “Go now or you will find that it is I who does not jest.” In the hall, he released her. “As I told you before, there are laws against fortune hunters like you, and the constable will be more than happy to take you to prison where you belong.”

      “Fortune hunter! Sir, I don’t know who you think you are, but I—”

      Thixton turned and strode down the hall and entered a room, closing the door behind him.

      For a moment, Sapphire stood there seething, her gloved hands pressed to her sides as she tried to catch her breath. Another dance had begun and the sound of the orchestra seemed to swirl around her in the twinkling candlelight.

      Her gaze shifted to the door where Thixton had gone. There were no guests in the hall. It was completely inappropriate for an unmarried woman to follow a man into a room without a proper chaperone, but without considering the consequences, she hurried down the hall, drew back her hand and rapped hard on the door.

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