“And if you had not?” The words swirled softly in the warm night air.
“Then they would have killed me.” Detecting the anguish behind his words, she felt her chest tighten around her heart, squeezing it until it ached. “To this day, their faces haunt me—the terror in their eyes a constant reminder of the blood I have shed for England.”
“For freedom.”
He scoffed at that. “Whatever the reason, the price was too high.”
She couldn’t argue with that. “But surely you must have saved some lives as well.” When he nodded, she reached for his hand and said, “Tell me about the people you rescued.”
Dipping his head, he closed his eyes, his bearing so still that she imagined he must be looking into the past. When he eventually looked at her again, his eyes shone like drops of ink. “Perhaps some other time.”
Mary knew better than to press him for more information. She could tell by the tone of his voice that it was a subject she shouldn’t pursue. Still, she could not help but wonder about his experiences. Had he fought in the Peninsula War, the War of 1812, or the Battle of Waterloo? She’d forgotten to ask. Perhaps he’d even been wounded. If so, then how?
A gradual murmur of strings rising through the silence drew her attention away from these contemplations and toward theEndurancewhere guests were presently beginning to gather. “I believe it is time for supper,” she found herself saying. “Will you escort me?”
He hesitated briefly before offering her his arm. “With pleasure.”
A gentle tremor swept through Mary’s body as she linked her arm with his, the firmness of him beneath the wool of his jacket making her exceedingly aware of the strength that he possessed. She tried to think of something to say—some inane topic with which to lighten the mood and, perhaps more importantly, to distract her from the way he made her feel. “Signor Antonio, I—”
He drew her closer, his hold on her tightening as he started leading her toward the ship. Mary inhaled sharply, her entire world tumbling toward the unknown as his scent assaulted her senses: the masculine smell of sandalwood mingling with brandy and a faint hint of tobacco. Her heart rate accelerated—more so as she felt her upper arm pressed against his.
“Perhaps after supper, you will grant me a dance?” His voice was low, a gravelly whisper that brushed the side of her neck.
Focusing on her breaths, Mary struggled to regain control. Her reaction was purely physical, she reminded herself—the thrill of winning a gentleman’s favor for the very first time. And yet she knew that there was more to it than that. She’d genuinely enjoyed their conversation and sensed that he had as well. “I have promised to dance the reel with Viscount Bertram, and after that is the country dance with the Earl of Rotridge.”
“I see.” They walked a few more paces before he asked, “Are you free for the waltz?”
“I...” She felt herself grow inexplicably warmer. “I must admit that I have never danced it before. I am not familiar with the steps.”
His hold on her tightened even further. “The waltz is simpler than the other dances. I trust we can manage.” The words rumbled around her as he spoke. “Besides, I do believe it is the only dance worthy of a woman like you.”
“A woman like me?”
Turning his head, his eyes met hers from behind his mask. The intensity of his gaze sent a rush of heat spiraling along her limbs. “I saw you when you were listening to the music. Your eyes were closed and your expression was filled not only with pleasure, but with deep focus.” Nearing the gangway leading onto theEndurance,they found themselves gradually surrounded by other guests who were making their way to supper. He lowered his voice and dipped his head toward hers. “It appeared as though you were listening to a story.”
“Of course I was,” she said as he guided her onto the gangplank and escorted her aboard. “A piece of music is not merely a collection of notes strung together with the sole purpose of pleasing the senses. There is always a story.”
“One that most people are incapable of hearing unless someone tells them what it is,” he said. “And even then they often lack the patience required. But you clearly heard it. This knowledge, coupled with your fondness for MissAusten’s books, suggests that you are a romantic, possessing a creative mind and a passionate nature. It therefore goes without saying that the waltz is the only dance that will move you, and consequently the only one worth dancing.”
His analysis made her feel slightly dizzy. It was true that she’d never had a particular fondness for dancing, perhaps because she’d always felt that most dances were a poor expression of the music, completely lacking in any emotion. But the waltz... she had to admit that the waltz had always tempted because it seemed to allow for a deeper expression.
Stepping down from the gangplank and onto the deck of the ship, she held on to Signor Antonio’s arm as they drifted between the round tables dotting the deck. Each had been dressed in pristine white with bouquets of bright red roses adorning the centers. Spotting Sarah, Mary tapped her companion on the arm. “I see my friend, Viscountess Spencer,” she said. “Perhaps we can join her and her husband?”
Signor Antonio stiffened as he looked in the direction she indicated. “It seems rather crowded over there, does it not?”
“Not especially,” Mary said, a little surprised by his obvious reluctance. “But if you would rather stay here, then—”
“No. I will not keep you from your friend, my lady.” Releasing her arm, he took a step back, leaving Mary bereft. “Enjoy your supper with the Spencers, and your dances with Bertram and Rotridge. I will find you when it is time for the waltz.” Reaching for her hand, he bowed over it with reverence. Then, straightening himself once more, he hesitated only a moment before turning away and striding back toward the gangplank. In an instant, it was almost as if he’d never been there at all.
Mary’s chest tightened, and she deliberately took a breath to force back the feeling of loss that assailed her. She was being ridiculously silly. After all, she’d barely known him for more than one hour. And yet within that hour, she’d felt a connection blossoming between them. For the first time in her life, she’d felt both beautiful and understood.
“Who was that?” Sarah asked when Mary joined her.
“Someone with whom I seem to have a great deal in common.”
Sarah smiled. “Commonality is a wonderful foundation for a lasting relationship.”
“We have only just met,” Mary confessed. She frowned in response to her own words. “Or at least I believe we have. I did not recognize his voice.”
