“Of course, my lord.”
The two gentlemen moved a short distance away, and Amelia’s gaze drifted over the ballroom, seeking out familiar faces. She spotted a small grouping of acquaintances nearby and set off in that direction.
After several steps she stopped, frowning.
She wanted to know who was behind the white mask. The curiosity was eating at her, niggling at the back of her mind and making her restless. There was such intensity in the way he had looked at her, and the moment when their eyes had met lingered in her thoughts.
Turning abruptly on her heel, she again walked outside and down the steps into the rear garden. There were many other guests about, all seeking relief from the crush. Rather than going straight along the path she had taken with Ware or to the right where the second terrace waited in the dark, she turned to the left. A few feet off to the side, a marble reproduction of Venus graced a semicircular space filled with a half-moon bench. It was bordered by the same low, perfectly shaped yew hedges that surrounded the lawn and fountain, and it was presently unoccupied.
Amelia paused near the statue and whistled a distinctive warble that would bring her brother-in-law’s men out of hiding. She was guarded still, and suspected she would always be. It was an inevitable consequence of being the sister-in-law of a known pirate and smuggler such as Christopher St. John.
At times she resented the inherent lack of privacy that came with having one’s every movement watched. She could not help but wish that her life was simple enough to make such precautions unnecessary. But at other times, such as tonight, she found relief in the unseen protection. She was never left exposed, which enabled her to view her phantom in a different light. Having St. John’s men nearby also afforded her the opportunity to elicit help in relieving her curiosity.
Her foot tapped impatiently atop the gravel as she waited. That was why she did not hear the man’s approach. She did, however, feel him. The hairs on her nape tingled with awareness, and she turned swiftly with a soft gasp of surprise.
He stood just barely within the entrance of the circle, a tall, dark form that vibrated with a potent energy that seemed barely restrained. Beneath the pale light of the moon, the man’s inky locks gleamed like a raven’s wing, and his eyes glittered with the very intensity that had goaded her to seek him out. He wore a full cape, the gray satin lining providing a striking backdrop to his black garments, enabling her to fully appreciate the size and power of his frame.
“I was looking for you,” she said softly, her chin lifting.
“I know.”
Chapter 2
Her phantom’s voice was deep, low, and distinctly accented. Foreign, which complemented his swarthy complexion.
“Do not fear me,” he said. “I wish only to apologize for my lack of manners.”
“I am not frightened,” she replied, her gaze darting past his shoulder to where other guests were clearly visible.
He stepped aside and bowed, gesturing her out with a grand sweep of his arm.
“That is all you have to say to me?” she asked, as she realized that he intended for them to part.
His beautiful mouth pursed slightly. “Should there be more?”
“I . . .” Amelia frowned and glanced away a moment, trying to gather her thoughts into coherent words. It was difficult to think clearly when he stood in such close proximity. What had been compelling at a distance was nearly overwhelming now. He was so somber. . . . She had not expected that.
“I do not mean to detain you,” he murmured, his tone soothing.
“Lack of manners,” she repeated.
“Yes. I was staring.”
“I noticed,” she said dryly.
“Forgive me.”
“No need. I am not upset.”
She waited for him to take some action. When he stepped out of the small circle and again gestured toward the main part of the rear garden, she shook her head in denial. Her mouth curved at his apparent haste to be rid of her.
“My name is Miss Amelia Benbridge.”
The man stilled visibly, his only movement the lift and fall of his chest. After a moment’s hesitation, he showed a leg in a courtly bow and said, “A pleasure, Miss Benbridge. I am Count Reynaldo Montoya.”
“Montoya,” she breathed, testing the name on her tongue. “Spanish, yet your accent is French.”
His head lifted, and he studied her closely, his gaze caressing the length of her body from the top of her elaborate coiffure down to her kid slippers. “Your surname is English, yet your features are enhanced by a foreign touch,” he pointed out in rebuttal.