"Yes-thank you Folwell." Alathea nodded. "Keep stopping by every day, but try to avoid Mr. Rupert's notice."
"I'll do that, m'lady." Folwell ducked his head. "You can count on me."
After he'd gone, Alathea considered the picture that was emerging of Gabriel's life. Celia had always given the definite impression that there was a constant stream of ladies going through the Brook Street house. Admittedly, there were two of them, Lucifer as well as Gabriel, but it certainly seemed that at present, Gabriel was not pulling his weight. Not, at least, in that arena.
Pencil tapping absentmindedly, she pondered that fact.
Augusta, Marchioness of Huntly, held a grande balle two nights later. What distinguished it from other balls, Alathea could not have said; it was just as crowded, just as boring. She'd never had much time for balls; the Hunt Ball and one or two others through the year were quite enough for her. To be forced to endure a major ball every night was fast becoming her personal definition of torture. However, the Marchioness was the Dowager's sister-in-law, a Cynster by birth; there'd been no question of declining her invitation.
At least the ball gave her an opportunity to keep an eye on her nemesis; it was possible his plans included meetings at balls. From the side of the ballroom, to which she doggedly clung, she watched him prowl. She was tall enough to see him easily, but she was careful not to fix her gaze. In her mind, she repeated her latest resolution: She would avoid him if possible, but if they were to meet, she would behave as she always had, as if she'd never stood locked in his arms in Bond Street-or anywhere else.
Thankfully, he was heading away from her, broad shoulders shifting under a coat of walnut-black. The brown tint in the material turned his hair to burnished brown; the stark simplicity of the cut only emphasized his stature and intensified the predatory aura he exuded.
After a moment, she unfocused her gaze and shifted it to the crowd between them. Then she glanced at the walls. Their crepe decorations caught her eye. She fell to considering how to reduce the cost of decorating the huge ballroom at Morwellan House while still achieving a satisfactory result. The ball at which Mary and Alice would make their formal curtsies to the ton was all too rapidly nearing.
"Why the devil can't you leave those wretched things at home? Or better yet, fling them in the fire."
Alathea whirled; her heart leaped to her throat. She'd been so absorbed, he'd been able to walk right up to her. Her eyes searched his-he was watching her, waiting… her resolution rang in her ears. "I'm twenty-nine, for heaven's sake!"
"I know precisely how old you are."
She lifted her chin. "People expect me to wear a cap."
"There's no more than ten people in this room who can even see the horrendous thing."
"It is not horrendous-it's the very latest style!"
"There's a style in horror? Amazing. Nevertheless, it doesn't suit you."
"Indeed? And why is that?" Heat flooded her cheeks. "Its color, perhaps?"
The cap was the exact same shade as her gown of pomona green silk, an exceedingly fashionable hue that suited her to perfection. Eyes narrowed, she dared him to suggest otherwise; they were right back to normal, no doubt about that.
His gaze swept her face, then returned to his aversion. "It could be solid gold, and it would still be tawdry."
"Tawdry?"
Up to then, their conversation had been conducted in muted tones; Alathea nearly choked trying to preserve her outward calm. Her gaze on his face, she drew in another breath and in tones of unswerving defiance stated, "As I so choose, I will wear a cap for the rest of my life, and there's not one thing you can do about it. I therefore suggest you either grow accustomed to the fact or, if that's too much to ask, keep your opinions to yourself."
His jaw clenched; his gaze swung down to lock with hers. Eyes hard, lips compressed-all but toe to toe-they stood by the side of the Huntlys' ballroom, each waiting for the other to back down first.
"Oh, Allie!"
The anguished tone had them both turning. Alice materialized from the crowd. "Look." Woebegone, she lifted her skirt to show the trailing flounce. "That stupid Lord Melton trod on it during the last dance, and now my lovely new gown is ruined!"
"No, no." Alathea put her arm around Alice and hugged her. "It's no great problem. I've pins in my reticule. We'll just go to the withdrawing room and I'll pin it up so you won't miss the rest of the dances, and then Nellie can mend it as good as new when we get home."
"Oh." Alice looked at Gabriel, blinked and gave him a watery smile. Then she looked at Alathea. "Can we go now?"
"Yes." Alathea threw a haughtily dismissive glance at Gabriel. "We've concluded our conversation."
There was heat in his eyes when they met hers, but by the time his gaze reached Alice, his expression was mild. "Flounces rip all the time-just ask the twins. They rip one every second ball."
Alice smiled sweetly and glanced expectantly at Alathea.
"Come along. The withdrawing room will be just along the corridor." As she led the way, Alathea could feel Gabriel's gaze on her back. He'd been carping about her caps for the last three years, ever since she'd first started wearing them. The cause of his vehement dislike was a mystery, to him, she suspected, as much as to her-and nothing had changed, thank God.
They were back to what passed for normal for them.
As Alathea walked out of the ballroom, Gabriel heaved an inward sigh of relief and turned away. Good! Everything was back as it used to be-the concern that had nagged at him for the past few days literally evaporated. After his blunder in Bruton Street, the need to set matters straight with Alathea and reestablish their habitual interaction had distracted him, even impinging on his concentration on his plans for the countess.
But all was now settled. Alathea had clearly harbored a similar wish-she'd been ready to revert to their customary behavior as soon as he'd offered the opportunity; he'd seen that consideration flash through her eyes before she'd first snapped at him.
The sense of release he felt was very real-now he could turn his attention fully to the matter that, increasingly, called to his warrior's soul. The countess and her seduction-now all his energies could be focused on that.
The torn flounce took five minutes to fix. In no rush to return, Alathea called for a glass of water and sipped; the exchange with Gabriel had shaken her more than she cared to admit. She was finding it increasingly hard to rip up at him, to keep her voice sharp and shrewish, and not let it soften to the countess's tone-the tone she used privately to those she loved.
Yet another difficulty when she had difficulties enough.
Ten minutes later, she reentered the ballroom in Alice's wake. Gabriel was nowhere in sight.
Alice returned to her circle of very young ladies and equally youthful gentlemen. Alathea strolled; scanning the crowd, she located Gabriel. Unobtrusively, she took up a position beside the wall opposite him, this time near a protective pillar. Not, it seemed, that anything could protect her from the attentions of Cynsters-Lucifer strolled up almost immediately.
"Torn flounce?"
Alathea blinked. "Yes. How did you know?"
"The twins try that all the time."
"Try it?
"Try to use the excuse to slip away. Mind you, the flounce or ruffle or whatever usually is torn, but if one was to accept that the plethora of injuries their wardrobes sustain was due to the clumsiness of their partners, you'd expect the entire male half of the ton to be clod-footed."
Alathea didn't smile. "But why do the twins try to slip away?"