Julian blew away a tickling strand of silver hair from his nose. “I doubt that, buttercup. You seem to be a natural dancer.”
“It's my Spanish blood,” she said. “You should see me dance at fiesta, all swirling skirts and castanets and a lot of bare leg.”
“Very appropriate for a small reception in a sleepy Cornish village,” he observed.
Tamsyn wondered if he knew just how big this small party was going to be. He'd evinced no interest in the details at all.
“Anyway,” he said, reverting to the original topic.
“You may not wear the rubies because young unmarried girls wear only pearls, turquoise, garnets, or topaz. Anything more serious would be considered vulgar.”
“How stuffy'“
“Very,” he agreed. “And the other thing you must remember is that ingenues do not put themselves forward in any way. You may not dance unless a partner has been properly introduced to you, and you may dance only once with each partner. When you're not dancing, you must sit by the wall with the chaperons.”
“You are not being serious?” Tamsyn pushed herself up against his chest and stared down at him in the dim light behind the bed curtains.
“Never more so,” he said, grinning at her dismayed expression. “But this is the part you wish to play, remember.”
“And you really enjoy rubbing it in, don't you?” She glared at him, but her eyes were still glowing from their loving.
“Maybe,” he said, still grinning. “However, you may dance more than once with me, since I'm your guardian… oh, and it would be perfectly acceptable for you to dance several times with Gareth.”
“Thank you. What an entrancing prospect.” She flopped down beside him again. “Oh, I meant to say…” She bounced upright again. “I don't know how much this is all costing you, but since it's all part of my plan to make my debut, of course I expect to pay for it. So if you would give me an accounting…”
“Oh, a ruby will probably cover it,” he said carelessly. His throat suddenly tightened as he remembered the Aladdin's cave in Elvas, when she'd offered him her treasure and he'd misunderstood and been wild with fury at the thought that she would pay him as if he were some hired lackey. But what she was offering him were the glorious treasures of her body and her wonderfully inventive imagination.
“What is it?” Tamsyn saw the tautness of his features, the grim set of his jaw when a minute before he'd been laughing, his eyes heavy with sensual pleasure, his expression soft and amused in the way she loved.
He didn't answer, merely pulled her down to him again, rolling her beneath him. Tamsyn was still puzzled by the strange change in him, by the roughness of his body on hers, the urgency of this suddenly rekindled hunger. But she allowed herself to be swept up in his passion, to adapt the contours of her body to the hard one above her, to take him within herself, to lose herself in the rhythm of his body because the weeks were galloping by and Cedric Penhallan was approaching her net… and it would all too soon be over.
“Goodness me,” Tamsyn murmured, examining herself in the cheval glass the following Saturday. She'd become accustomed to seeing herself in gowns, but the light cambrics and muslins she'd worn hitherto hadn't prepared her for this image. The gown left her shoulders and arms bare, and was cut low across her bosom, revealing both the upper swell of her breasts and the deep valley between them..
She rarely gave her body more than a passing thought and was as comfortable in her skin as she was clothed, but drawing attention to parts of her anatomy in this way struck her as almost indecent. She remembered Cecile describing some of the gowns she'd worn as a debutante, cut so low that her nipples were barely covered. And she remembered how Cecile had laughed, her violet eyes mischievous as she'd demonstrated with her fan how she used to draw attention to her bosom while seeming modesty to hide it.
Tamsyn swallowed the lump in her throat and turned to Josefa. “So what do you think, Josefa? Do I look at all like Cecile?”
Josefa's bright black eyes darted up and down the slender figure. “To the life, querida,” she pronounced, and her own eyes misted; then she smiled and bustled over, bending to smooth down the skirt and adjust the train.
There was a tap at the door. “May I come in?” Lucy popped her head around. “Oh, Tamsyn,” she said, coming fully into the room. “How beautiful you are.”
“Nonsense,” Tamsyn said, blushing slightly. ''I'm thin and brown-skinned, and my hair's unfashionably short.”
“No,” Lucy said, shaking her head. “You're quite wrong. You look wonderful. Different… but lovely.” She turned to examine herself critically in the mirror. “I quite liked this gown a minute ago, but now it seems dull and boring compared with yours.”
“Nonsense,” Tamsyn said, laughing. “You're fishing for compliments. Shame on you, Lucy.”
Lucy laughed self-consciously and patted a ringlet into place. She knew she looked both pretty and elegant. However, she thought, examining Tamsyn's image in the mirror, Tamsyn's appearance took one's breath away… perhaps because she was so unusual.
“Well, if you're ready, let us go down. I'm sure Julian and Gareth are already downstairs.”
“You go on,” Tamsyn said, suddenly needing to gather her thoughts. “I'll follow in a few minutes.”
Lucy hesitated, then went off with an equable shrug of her creamy round shoulders.
Tamsyn went to the window, drawing aside the curtain, gazing out across the lawn to the sea. It was a delightful summer evening, a crescent moon swinging low on the horizon, the first pale glimmer of starlight against the darkening sky.
Cecile had once described her favorite gown. It had been of silver lace and cream silk. Tonight her daughter would appear to Cedric Penhallan in the same colors. A vastly different style of dress, of course. Where Cecile had worn swaying side panniers and a tightly corseted bodice, her daughter wore a slip of a gown that glided like gossamer over her figure. But her violet eyes were as deep and luminous as her mother's, and they glowed against the pale shimmer of her gown. Her hair was the same burnished silver, and her frame was as slight and slender.
Would Cedric Penhallan see his sister?
She touched the locket at her throat, drawing strength and determination from the images of Cecile and the baron smiling beneath the delicate filigree silver. Then she went to the door, her step vigorous, the energy of purpose coursing through her veins.
Julian was in the hall, waiting for her at the bottom of the staircase with a degree of impatience. The first guests could arrive at any minute, and he wanted to be certain Tamsyn hadn't committed any serious solecisms, like smothering herself in rubies and diamonds.
He saw her in the shadows at the top of the stairs and called up to her. “Hurry, Tamsyn, people will be arriving at any minute.”
She came running down the stairs toward him with her usual impetuous vitality, one hand carelessly holding up her skirt, her half train swishing behind her. ''I'm sorry. I didn't mean to keep you waiting.” She jumped the last step and flashed him a smile, tilting her head to one side in her robin imitation. “So what do you think, milord colonel? Will I pass muster?”
“Good God,” he said softly.
“Is something wrong?” Her smile faltered.
“Yes,” he said. “Ladies don't hurtle down the stairs as if all the devils in hell were on their heels. Go back and come down properly.”
“Oh, very well.” With an exaggerated sigh Tamsyn gathered up her skirts again and scampered back up the stairs. At the top she stopped, turned, laid one hand on the banister, and floated gracefully down the curving sweep to the hall.
Julian stood, one hand on the newel, one foot on the bottom step, watching, his critical expression masking his whirling senses. The exquisite gown did nothing to disguise the deep currents of sensuality that flowed through her, glowing in her eyes and in the translucent depths of her skin. The pale colors and delicate material merely accentuated her thrumming vibrancy. And he wanted to catch her up in his arms, bury his lips in the delicate curve where her neck met her shoulder, inhale the mingled honeyed scents of her skin, run his fingers through the shining cap that clung to the small, well shaped head.