Free On a Long Ago Night by Susan Sizemore Page A

in the
    stuffy warmth of the hall as they had that horrible moment in
    Algiers when she'd been informed of her fate by the faithless, lying
    Spanish renegade.
    "What are you thinking, my dear?" her father's genial voice
    asked, close to her ear, but sounding very far away.
    "Just that I really must have these gloves burned, sir," she
    replied, in a voice that sounded surprisingly normal.
    "They don't look soiled to me."
    Of course not—nor would he ever see how soiled his only
    child was. He often told her how much she was like her mother,
    and a part of him had died with that virtuous, spotless woman. She
    feared his learning the truth about the wicked things she'd done
    would kill him in fact as well as in spirit. He told her once that he
    endured the loss of her mother because she was as much his angel
    on earth as her mother was now in heaven. Her father was prone to
    ardent sentimentality on this subject. He spoiled and protected her,
    and she made it her life's work to do the same for him. She always
    did whatever was necessary to protect the ones she loved.
    This finally brought the thought that should have been in her
    mind from the moment she first saw Derrick Russell's letter. What
    the devil was the man doing here? She knew what his letter said,
    but why had he written her, really? Had she not learned the hard
    way that no man's word was to be taken at face value?
    Frantic worry crawled suddenly along her nerves as she
    recalled the duke's welcome to Captain Russell when Derrick had
    turned from greeting her. It had sounded far too pleasant, as though
    he was welcoming back an old friend. She knew her father was
    being affable for her sake, because he'd taken it into his head that
    languishing over Derrick was the reason for her retirement from the
    world. Those who recalled that she had once been courted by
    Captain Russell no doubt took note of both her and the Duke's
    acknowledgment of him. Well, nothing had passed between them
    that would cause any adverse gossip. That was one hurdle over
    with; she would deal with Derrick soon enough, and in private.
    Now all she had to do was correct the faux pas with Marbury.
    Surely he had arrived by now. Though she did not let herself seek
    him out among the blurred mass of people, she was somehow
    aware that he had entered the room. She concentrated on protocol
    and the performance of her life as she made out the approaching
    figures of Viscount Brislay and his broad-shouldered, half-Spanish
    son.
    She'd told herself that she was preparing to kill two birds
    with one stone by facing both men at once when she prepared
    herself methodically, wholeheartedly, and with a vengeance for the
    evening. She'd chosen the armor of sophistication, wearing a rich
    blue satin evening gown that showed a bit of shoulder and had
    short sleeves and not a speck of lace. The hairdresser had been
    forbidden from doing Honoria's hair in any a la mode style, but had
    wrestled her thick natural curls into an upswept hairdo. She had not
    dressed for fashion, but with style. As she looked in the mirror
    when the maids and dressers were done with her, she found herself
    wondering what James Marbury would think of this version of the
    duke's daughter.
    What Derrick Russell thought of her mattered not at all,
    which was curious, considering what they'd once been to each
    other. Marbury must be more on her mind because she truly did
    owe him reparation for insulting him. She owed Derrick nothing.
    Well, perhaps a bullet or sword thrust in the heart. What a pity
    women weren't allowed to duel.
    She'd been thinking about the Spaniard—no, she would not
    call him that—for days. Probably to keep her mind off Derrick,
    because what other reason could there be? Well, there were nerves,
    and guilt. Blast, how she wanted to get this evening over with!
    Why didn't the man get over here, make a leg, and let her do a bit
    of groveling?
    As the frustrated thought sprang to mind, the Honorable
    James Marbury