Page 10 of By Any Other Name

Gregory scarcely noticed one of the ladies, for his eyes were focused solely on the tall girl beside her. The high waist of her white gown emphasized pert breasts, their rounded tops enticingly skimmed by a wide neckline. A blue patterned shawl was draped around her arms, bared by short puffed sleeves. A cameo necklace was her only adornment. Her hair, shorter than the style worn by most ladies present, was not the dark blond it had appeared the night before, but a riot of fluffy golden curls, wound through with blue ribbon.

Gregory stiffened. “There she is.”

Andrew followed his gaze. “The devil! That is Eleanor McIntyre.”

His cousin continued to talk, but Gregory did not hear him. He was already making his way toward the doorway, all his attention focused on Miss McIntyre. As if she had felt his gaze, she glanced in his direction. Her eyes widened in shock, and she bolted from the room.

Gregory started after her.

Chapter Five

“Amaryllis, that is the third time you’ve yawned since we left the carriage,” Rylla’s mother said to her as they walked into the crowded ballroom. “Did you stay up late reading again last night?”

“No, Mama.” It was more boredom that afflicted her than lack of sleep. The Stewarts’ Christmas ball seemed flat in comparison to her adventure last night.

Eleanor cast a quick, sharp glance at Rylla. “I heard you up and about very early this morning. Were you all right?”

“Mm. I had a bit of trouble sleeping.”

It made Rylla uncomfortable to lie to Eleanor. More than that, she would have liked very much to tell her friend about the evening before. Not just about the freedom of walking about town or the strangeness of the gambling club or even the frightening robbery. Rylla ached to spill out everything that had happened afterward in Gregory Rose’s rooms. The only thing that kept her silent was the strong suspicion that such confidences would fill Eleanor with a horrified concern for Rylla’s soul.

She followed her parents into the ballroom, pausing on the threshold to survey the room. And there, across the crowded ballroom, stood Gregory Rose. His eyes locked on her. Rylla froze, panic shooting through her.

“Pardon me. I left something in my cloak,” she murmured to Eleanor, then whirled and hurried off.

Rylla wove through the new arrivals behind her with no thought to where she was going, driven only by the need to get away. She hurried down a nearly empty hall that led toward the back of the house. Glancing back over her shoulder, she saw Gregory shove his way through the crowd at the door. Tall as he was, it took him only a sweeping look to locate her. He sidestepped a clot of people and strode down the hallway after her, his long strides eating up the distance.

She spotted a small door tucked under the staircase. She suspected it opened into an oddly shaped storage closet much like the one they had beneath the staircase in her own home. Her first thought was to slip inside it to hide from Gregory, but she knew he would see her and follow. She had to face him.

She turned, waiting. When Gregory reached her, she grabbed his wrist and pulled him into the closet with her. As she closed the door, darkness swallowed them. The only light was a glow at the bottom of the door.

“Well.” There was something very much like a purr in his low voice. “What a welcome surprise.” His hands went to her waist as he stepped closer. “I wouldn’t have guessed you’d be so eager to be alone with me.”

“I’m not,” Rylla replied crossly, putting her hands on his chest to shove him back. He was rock solid beneath her palms. And warm. His masculine scent filled her nostrils, and she felt curiously light-headed.

“No? Then why, I wonder, did you pull me into this room?” Gregory’s teeth gleamed in the near darkness of the small space.

“It’s not a room. It’s a closet.”

“I know.” He lowered his head. “A very small . . . very dark . . .” She could feel the brush of his breath on her face as he came closer and closer until his lips hovered over her mouth, a mere inch away. “Very intimate closet.”

His lips settled on hers, a gossamer touch that deepened as his arms slid around her. His kiss was warm and soft and damp, both invitation and demand. Rylla felt the same swift spear of heat rush through her as it had last night when Gregory had kissed her. Unconsciously she curled her hands into his lapels, seeking balance now instead of pushing him away. For a moment, she clung, her mouth answering his, before reason finally returned to her.

Rylla jerked away, pulling out of his arms. “Stop. We—we must talk.” She was appalled by the shakiness in her voice.

“Must we?” He moved forward, his hands going to her waist again. “This is much more entertaining. You know, until last night I’d never kissed a lass who tasted of cigars.”

Rylla frowned. “If it was so terrible, one can only wonder why you kept at it so long.”

He chuckled. “I didn’t say it was terrible. Just . . . exotic.”

“Perhaps you should find a cigar smoker to kiss.”

“Ah, but that would not be nearly as enjoyable as kissing you.” His lips curved seductively.

She took another step back, coming up against a stack of boxes. “Stop. We have to talk. No one can know of—of what I did last night. My reputation is in your hands.”

“It is safe there, I assure you. No one will hear any of it from me . . . Eleanor.”