She isn’t coming back.’
Christian picked up the baggage waiting by the door and carried it out to the hantoor. Mrs Marsden followed him, asking him to help Alice. This he did, placing her on the seat. He looked at the child and quickly looked away, trying to defend himself against the rising and violent tide of anger directed against this small being, whose entry into the world had destroyed so much that had been precious to him.
Angry, relentlessly so and unable to understand why he should feel like this for an innocent child who had not asked to be born, his face resolute and without expression, Christian ordered the driver to head for the ship which was to carry them to England.
London—1814
Lord Blakely, the Earl of Ridgemont, idly looked into the hall below. He was the stuff ladies’ dreams were made of, fatally handsome and with the devil’s own charm. Here was manner, bearing and elegance that could not be bought or cut into shape by a tailor. He was one of those enviable individuals whose breeding would show through even if he were dressed in rags. Christian was a fiercely private man, guarded and solitary, accountable to no one. To those who knew him he was clever, with an almost mystical ability to see what motivated others. To his business partners it was a gift beyond value, because it provided insight into the guarded ambitions of his adversaries.
The Christian Blakely who had recently returned from Egypt was very different from the one who had left a year ago. The changes were startling. In contrast to the man who had lounged about the gentlemen’s clubs and ballrooms with bored languor, it was a more serious Christian Blakely who had returned. Deeply tanned by the Egyptian sun, he was muscular and extremely fit, sharp and authoritative, and although he charmed his way back into society, there was an aura about him of a man who had done and seen all there was to see and do, a man who had confronted danger. It was a reserved aura that women couldn’t resist and which added to his attraction.
Christian was as quick as any other man to look at a beautiful woman. Raising a lazy brow, with mild interest he watched one now passing slowly among the throng. With a good deal of pleasure he allowed his gaze to dwell on her. She was petite, like a girl, with a hand-span waist. There was elegance and grace in every step she took and she had a perfect, unselfconscious way of walking. In the company of an older woman wearing a striking black and red mask and a young gentleman who bore a similarity to the object of his gaze, she was surrounded by other beautiful ladies. She held her head confidently high as she appeared to mingle with the other guests, a slight smile playing on her pretty lips.
A white wig, short and softly curled, covered her hair. Long white gloves encased her arms and the mask covering the upper part of her face matched the pale gold of her high-waisted dress and the series of ribbons and bows that decorated the bodice and puffed sleeves. Her only adornment was a scintillating teardrop pearl on a thread of gold nestling comfortably in the shadow of her pert young breasts. For a brief moment their eyes met and then he looked away when she passed from view.
A solid block of elegant equipages, stretching all along the street, deposited the cream of London society and foreign dignitaries before the portico of Corinthian columns of the very grand and awe-inspiring Stourbridge House on the Strand. Lord and Lady Stourbridge were giving a masquerade ball at their magnificent residence to celebrate the return of the Duke of Wellington to England following his success in the war against Napoleon Bonaparte in the Peninsula. All England was rejoicing and no one could talk of anything else.
Light streamed from large windows and the moon reflected its silver sheen on surrounding rooftops. The black and white marble hall was filled to capacity with guests greeting each other and being received by their perfect hosts. Lady Stourbridge, one of London’s most popular socialites, was tall and statuesque and attired in blue satin, her light brown hair fussily plumed and bandeauxed. Lord Stourbridge, a man who believed his worth was measured by the cut of his cloth, was pink cheeked beneath his elaborately curled wig and corpulent—a result of too many excesses at the dinner table. He was a pompous, grandiose character, his appearance impressive, from his high collar and bright yellow waistcoat, to his buckled shoes. He was smiling broadly, looking genial and avuncular as he and his wife gave their complete attention to their guests, making each one feel like the most important person in the house.
Lord Blakely watched as the guests strolled along corridors and spilled out on to the wide terrace, descending the shallow flight of stone steps into the torch-lit gardens below. The buzz of chatter and laughter drifted in through the open doors. Pausing at the entrance to the ballroom, he glanced inside without much interest. Two huge chandeliers with crystal drops hung from the stuccoed ceiling, flowers were bursting out of urns and music filled the air. This whole affair was like attending a magnificent theatre and no expense had been spared.
The ladies were attired in their finest, their heads adorned with elaborate swaying plumes and ribbons, their throats and fingers dripping with exquisite jewels. Christian’s gaze lingered on those expensive gems, calmly assessing their worth, before moving on to admire and evaluate the fine paintings adorning the walls. A lady brushed against him. He turned to look at her. She was an attractive woman, but it was not her pretty face that caught his eyes. It was what she was wearing about her throat. He stared into the verdant depths of an emerald necklace. Gleaming with regal fire, it motivated him into action, but he was not interested in rubies or diamonds but something else—something much more valuable to him.
* * *
The masked ball was filled with beauty and elegance. Footmen in scarlet and gold livery stood to attention. Finding it all magically impressive, Linnet Osborne absorbed every detail. Above her head chandeliers, dripping with hundreds of thousands of crystals, were ablaze with blinding light. She could not have imagined such a spectacle. It was the most lavish affair she had ever attended. There was such gaiety and so much colour, the people behind the masks inspired with a sense of boldness, of daring as the carnival atmosphere of the ball invaded each and every one of them. But she became increasingly apprehensive as she mingled with so much elegance and wealth and felt a strong impulse to run from it all and leave. She was conscious of the simplicity of her attire among so much flamboyance. Unfortunately she was wearing the one and only gown she owned that was suitable for such an occasion and she could not afford another. For her the evening could not be over soon enough.
Suddenly her feminine senses tingled. Sensing she was being watched, Linnet looked up at the gallery that circled the upper storey of the house. She looked straight into the eyes of a stranger. He was leaning against a marble pillar, an expression of utter boredom on his handsome face. He was extremely tall with powerful shoulders. Through the balustrade she saw that white-silk stockings encased his muscular calves. Unlike the other gentlemen, who were dressed like peacocks in a multitude of bright colours, he was clad in a blue-velvet coat and breeches, the curve of the cut of the coat allowing full display of the gold embroidered waistcoat. Her attention was focused entirely on him. Had she wanted to look away she could not have done so. She had never seen such a figure of masculine elegance. He looked so poised, so debonair. His habitual air of languid indolence hung about him like a cloak. His thick hair, drawn back and secured at the nape, was as black as the mask which covered the upper part of his face, his taut skin, a dark bronze.
The cold eyes behind the mask made her shiver. As he met her gaze, the expression in his eyes was half-startled, half-amused, and something else—something slightly carnal that stirred unfamiliar things inside her and brought heat to her cheeks. It was impossible not to respond to this man as his masculine magnetism dominated the scene. She was struck by the arrogance in his stance, an arrogance that told her he knew everything about her, which made
