Dismissed, Skye swept the Queen another curtsey, and moved away swiftly on the arms of her two gallants, her black skirts billowing.
“By God,” said de Grenville admiringly, “the Queen likes you. She likes damn few women, Skye. What’s this about a charter?”
“Robbie and I have formed our own trading company, m’lord, and Lord Southwood is aiding us in obtaining a royal charter.”
Damn the man! thought de Grenville. So that’s how he got to her. I must think hard on this or I may yet lose my barge. He was about to ask her to dance when Lord Southwood, having opened the ball with the Queen, approached them and claimed her. Eyes sparkling, Skye gave him her hand, and they moved off into the figure leaving Robert and de Grenville by the door.
“He seems quite taken with her, Robbie,” de Grenville murmured pensively.
“Aye,” replied the captain, “and I’m afraid she with him.”
“Lord and Lady Burke,” intoned the majordomo.
“Who are they, Dickon?” asked Robbie.
“Southwood’s neighbors on the other side. He’s some Irish chieftain’s heir. I suppose Geoffrey felt bound to ask them.”
The Earl slid an arm tightly about her as they danced the intricate figure. “If one more of those fops leers at you,” he muttered between gritted teeth, “I shall resort to my sword.”
Her laughter bubbled up soft, warm, and rich. “La, Geoffrey,” she teased, “surely you’re not jealous.”
“Yes, I’m jealous, and we’ll discuss it later, sweetheart, rest assured.” Skye laughed, delighted.
She was having the most wonderful time of her life. The handsome Earl was outrageously attentive, and there wasn’t a man here who hadn’t complimented her. She danced every dance, ate supper surrounded by half a dozen gentlemen besides de Grenville and Robbie, and drank just enough sweet wine to add to her gaiety. At midnight everyone unmasked to delighted shouts, though most had long ago identified their friends beneath the ornate masks.
Across the ballroom, Niall Burke stared in rigid shock at the beautiful woman in the magnificent diamonds and black velvet who stood directly across the room from him, laughing up at the Earl of Lynmouth. It couldn’t be! It simply could not be! Skye was dead! They had all explained that she was dead, told him and told him until he’d had no choice but to accept it.
“By God,” he heard the man next to him saying. “Southwood was always a lucky devil. If Señora Goya del Fuentes isn’t already his mistress then she soon will be, judging by the looks passing between them.”
“She’s lived in the East,” another man chimed in, “and I imagineshe knows some of the things those harem girls know. God, I wonder …”
“Don’t be a young fool, Hugh! Southwood has marked her for himself as plainly as if he’d put a brand on her forehead. If he catches you sniffing around her he’ll skewer you without a second thought.”
The two men moved away, leaving Niall Burke to his whirling thoughts. How could two women look so alike? Somehow he must meet this Señora Goya del Fuentes, but who did he know who could introduce them?
“Will you dance with me, Niall?”
“What? Constanzita, love—what is it?”
Constanza laughed, shaking her dark gold curls. “How can anyone daydream in the midst of all this revelry?” she asked.
“I’m sorry, my dear. I was admiring the lady across the room in the black velvet costume. She looks quite familiar.”
“Señora Goya del Fuentes? Perhaps you do know her. Though her husband was a Spaniard, she is Irish.”
He thought he might be sick, but he gripped his emotions. “How do you know that, Constanza?”
“She owns Greenwood, the house on the other side of this one, the last one in the row. Our bargeman and hers are brothers. The maids and the bargemen gossip, and I hear things from my tiring woman. They say the Earl is mad for her.”
“A lady does not listen to servants’ gossip,” he cut her off curtly. “I wish to go home now.”
She was hurt, and protested, “But it’s just after midnight. Even the Queen is still here. It would be rude to leave before the Queen herself leaves.”
“I am not well, Constanza,” he said sharply, “and I wish to leave.”
Instantly contrite, she reached up to feel his forehead. “You do feel warm, my love. We will make our apologies to Lord Southwood, but say that I am ill. He will understand that better.”
They moved across the room and approached the Earl of Lynmouth, who was gazing down at Skye, his white velvet-clad arm around her midnight velvet shoulders. They made an extraordinarily handsome couple. Southwood smiled as they approached.
