he added, “We will make but one circle of the ballroom, and I will release you.”
She raised her weapon slightly. “I am carrying a spear. Of course you will release me.”
“Point taken.”
“No, not yet you haven’t,” she said. “But I won’t hesitate to see that you do.”
Ferrin gave a shout of laughter, unwittingly making him the envy of every one of his guests within hearing of it. He saw she did not startle. Rather she held her ground and gripped her spear more tightly as if she might have use of it sooner than she’d thought. He held out his arm and waited patiently for her to accept it. “As pirates go, I am not considered a particularly ruthless one.”
“Like Blackbeard.”
“Far and away more ruthless than I.”
“And Bluebeard?”
“I have yet to take a wife, let alone murder one.” She took his arm and allowed him to lead her back into the ballroom. “Do you think I would be afraid if you had?”
He did not have to pause to think on his answer. “No. There is the spear, after all.”
“Just so.”
As soon as they stepped beyond the threshold they were swallowed in the crush inside the ballroom. Ferrin had the advantage of height and he immediately spied two crooks with pink streamers near the stringed orchestra. He steered Boudicca in the opposite direction, weaving her in and out of the conversational clutches that formed near the refreshment table and beside the fountain of cider punch. They skirted the drooping fronds of the potted plants that made a veritable jungle of one corner of the ballroom and drifted among the dancers as though they were taking a set themselves. Ferrin was quick to notice that their passage around the room was made easier because the guests parted for her, not him. The novelty of it amused him.
She was not the amazon that Queen Boudicca was alleged to have been, but she was taller than many women present, taller certainly than all of the shepherdesses he had seen thus far. Her bearing was in every way regal. She moved with a certain fluid grace among the guests but somehow remained apart from them. He wished he might know the shape of her nose better, but the mask defined it, not flesh and bone. The arch of her cheeks was also hidden and he could not quite make out the color of her eyes. Candlelight from the chandeliers and wall sconces glanced off the hammered gold and defied his best efforts to determine whether they were gray or green or even blue. Her mouth was the feature most openly revealed to him, and when she was engaged in looking over the crowd, he took the opportunity to mark the shape of it, noting the full bottom curve and the way her upper lip curled slightly each time she caught him out.
“You are staring,” she said, not bothering to look at him this time. “We have not met before, my lord, so you should not apply yourself to divining my identity.”
“But you know mine?”
“I would be a very shabby guest if I did not know the name of my host.”
“Perhaps, but are you certain I am he?”
“You were pointed out to me earlier.”
Ferrin wondered that he had not seen her before. He had obviously been too eager to quit the ballroom, though he was reminded now of all his reasons for wanting to be gone from it.
The room, in spite of being quite large, was too warm. The energy of the dancers, the milling of the onlookers, the occasional heated discussion, bursts of laughter, smoldering glances, and all of the incessant gossip combined to raise the temperature five degrees above what was comfortable. Guests spilled into the adjoining rooms so that revelers now occupied a drawing room, the gallery, and Ferrin’s library. All of this was in addition to room he’d gladly given over to card play at the outset of the evening.
As they passed the refreshment table, Ferrin managed to lift two glasses of lemonade, though it meant releasing Boudicca’s arm. She thanked him for the refreshment, but of necessity both hands were now occupied, one with her drink, the other with the spear. She hadn’t an arm for him as they proceeded, a turn of events Ferrin regretted.
“Perhaps the library,” he said. “Your shepherdess might have slipped inside in want of a good book.”
“Unlikely.”
He made to turn her away from the entrance to that room, but she shook her head and indicated they should look anyway. “You are thinking that there might be some other reason the shepherdess would be interested in the library? A tryst, perhaps?”
“Perhaps.”
Ferrin wondered if he would know this shepherdess. Boudicca was not forthcoming, and he suspected it was because she did not want him to be able to identify her through her friend. He decided not to press. In truth, he was disappointed that she knew him. He would have liked to have remained a pirate to her this evening, not her host, certainly not the Earl of Ferrin.
He stepped to one side of the pocket doors and gestured to Boudicca to proceed. When she passed him his senses were teased by the light fragrance of lavender. A favorite scent of hers? he wondered. Or something she wore for this evening only, like the rest of her costume?
Ferrin followed her into the library and saw quickly that she would not find what she sought there. The musketeer on the chaise longue gave up trying to kiss his lady-in-waiting and eased his arms from around her shoulders. Ferrin’s lips twitched. It seemed she would be a lady-in-waiting a bit longer.
“Something amuses?” Boudicca asked.
“Always.” When she did not ask him to explain himself, he had the impression she was drawing her own conclusion. “Your friend does not appear to be here, either.”
“No, she doesn’t.”
“Shall we try the gallery?”
“You do not mind?”
“Not at all.”
Ferrin pointed in the direction of the door that would lead them through to the gallery. Not many guests had stumbled upon this room, though the evening was hours yet from being at an end. Several couples were touring the room, some unattached females were exchanging the latest on-dit. There was not a single shepherdess.
He thought Boudicca would want to leave immediately, but she turned her attention to the paintings. “Would you like to view them?” he asked.
“I would.”
He took her empty glass and set it on the entry table with his own, then he offered his arm again. She accepted his escort without pause this time, and he drew her toward the full length portrait of his great-grandfather. “This is George Howard Hollings,” he told her. “The third Hollings to hold the title. Intimidating, is he not?”
“Impressive, I was thinking. You have his eyes.”
“One of them.”
She smiled again, this time more easily than before, then pointed to the painting to the right. “His father?” she asked.
“His grandfather. The first earl.”
“He looks
