To Taste Temptation (Legend of the Four Soldiers #1)(26)
Author: Elizabeth Hoyt

She looked confused. “Are you all right?”

“Yes.” He held out his arm to Mademoiselle Molyneux, who took it with a thoughtful look at him. He braced himself and turned to Lady Emeline, his voice deepening. “Shall we?”

His words were the same as moments before, but their meaning had changed fundamentally. Her eyes widened, and he saw her sweet breasts expand as she inhaled.

Then she met his eyes and her chin lifted. “Of course.”

Which left him to ponder, as he escorted the ladies up the steps, what exactly Lady Emeline had meant by those two innocuous words.

Inside the great double doors, Westerton House was ablaze with hundreds, perhaps thousands, of candles. Even the entry hall was warm, giving an unpleasant taste of the heat that would lurk in the ballroom itself. Why anyone would voluntarily attend an event such as this was truly a puzzle to him. He felt sweat start at the base of his spine. He hated crowds. He’d always had, but since Spinner’s Falls…He pushed the thought from his mind, concentrating on his reason for being here.

The ladies surrendered their wraps to a footman, and the articles of clothing were whisked away. Then they were at the entrance to the ballroom itself, and a footman with a magnificent wig was announcing them. The room was cavernous, but that didn’t help the heat, for it was overflowing with people. They literally stood shoulder to shoulder so that one had to wait for an opening to move forward.

Sam caught his arms twitching and had to consciously still the movement. This was his idea of hell. The heat, the shuffle of bodies against bodies, the noise of scores of voices laughing, talking, complaining. He felt a bead of sweat slide down his back. Mademoiselle Molyneux had already found a crony and slipped away into the mass of bodies. Someone bumped against Lady Emeline, still on his right arm, and he found himself baring his teeth at the man. He saw a startled look on a reddened face and then that man, too, was lost. Sam closed his eyes for a moment to try to control the panic that rose in his chest, but with his eyes shut, the worst part nearly overwhelmed his senses.

The smell.

Oh, God, the smell of burning wax, foul breath, and sweating bodies. Male sweat. That strong acid stink, that rank musk, that rotten armpit odor. They shoved around him, trying to get past, trying to run away. Some old enough to be grandfathers, some too young to shave, all fearing for their lives, all wanting just to live another day. That was what he smelled: the terror of death. He gasped, but all the air had been sucked into babbling lungs, and he inhaled only the fear of battle and the smell of sweat and blood.

“Mr. Hartley. Samuel.”

Her voice was near, and he felt a cool hand on his cheek. With an effort, he opened his eyes.

Her black eyes were staring into his, and he latched on to the sight, trying to focus on only her.

“Are you all right?” she asked.

He opened his mouth and formed the word carefully, speaking the truth because that was all he could do. “No.”

Her eyes left his for a moment, and he grasped her shoulders to keep his balance. “What is wrong with him, do you know?” she asked.

“I don’t know. I’ve never seen him like this,” Rebecca said.

Her black eyes returned to his, and he felt relief. “Come with me.”

He nodded, his throat working convulsively, and stumbled after her like a drunken man. Their progress was slow, and he knew that sweat was running down his cheeks. He kept her constantly in his vision, a guideline to sanity. Then, suddenly, there were doors, and he tumbled out into cool, fresh air. It was a veranda with a low rail. He made it to one end before spewing over the rail and into the bushes.

“He’s ill,” Sam heard Rebecca say as he gulped great breaths of air. “Maybe he ate something spoiled. We should send for a doctor.”

“No.” His voice emerged a strangled rasp. He cleared his throat, fighting to sound normal. “No doctor.”

Behind him, Rebecca made a sound of distress. He wished he could face her, reassure her that nothing was wrong.

“Mr. Hartley,” Lady Emeline murmured very close to him. She laid her hand on his shoulder. He hunched it. Shameful for any woman to see him like this, let alone her. “You’re ill. Please satisfy your sister’s worry and let us send for a physician.”

Sam closed his eyes, willing his body to stop shaking, to stop betraying him with phantom fears. “No.”

Her hand fell away. “Rebecca, can you wait with your brother whilst I fetch some wine? Perhaps that will revive him.”

“Yes, certainly,” Rebecca replied.

And then Lady Emeline started to leave him. He heard a low groaning and realized dimly that it was himself, but he couldn’t stop the sound, nor the urge to make her stay by his side. He turned, meaning to keep her there, but instead he was brought up short by what he saw.

Lord Vale stood in the doorway to the ballroom.

JASPER SHUT THE French doors behind him, smiled his careless, charming smile, and said, “Emmie! Godsblood, hadn’t expected to see you here.”

All Emeline could think was, How am I to get him out of the way? Hardly a kind sentiment for a man she’d known all her life, but there it was. It was imperative to get Samuel away before Jasper saw how bad his condition was. Somehow she knew that Samuel would hate to have another man see him like this.

It had happened so suddenly in the ballroom. She’d felt him stiffen as they’d entered the house but thought nothing of it. Many would be nervous at such a gathering of the ton. But he’d slowed as they’d advanced into the ballroom. Even allowing for the awkwardness of moving through the crowd, Samuel had walked oddly. Until she had at last looked up into his face and had seen he was in agony. What kind of agony—whether mental or physical—she did not know, but everything about him, from the closed eyes to the pale and sweating face to the way he suddenly clutched her hand bespoke great pain. The idea that this strong man was in pain made her almost paralyzed. It was as if she’d felt a corresponding pain deep within her own being. She’d led him out of the ballroom as quickly as possible, the whole time aware of his silent agony.

And now she must deal with Jasper.

Emeline squared her shoulders and assumed her most haughty expression—the one she’d learned in the nursery growing up the daughter of an earl. But as it turned out, there was no need. Jasper wasn’t even looking at her. His eyes were fixed behind her, presumably on Samuel.

“Hartley? I say, it is Corporal Hartley, isn’t it?” Jasper asked.