"Thomas, I'm afraid you are mistaken. The marriage is, unfortunately, both legal and binding."
"Dash it!" he exclaimed. "I'm giving you the facts. You must believe me. It's the truth!"
Torn between laughter and tears at the awful irony of it, Noelle reached out her free hand and put it on his upper arm. "I knowed yer was speakin' the truth, ducks. I was there when it all 'appened."
Thomas's jaw went slack. He stared up at her, not even blinking, so dumbfounded was he by her revelation. Finally he closed his mouth, then opened it to speak, forgot what he was going to say, and closed it again.
"My God, Sully, you look like a salmon about to propose!"
Furiously Thomas dropped Noelle's hand and jumped up off his knee. "Devil take you! I've half a mind to call you out! Why didn't you tell me the truth instead of letting me make a bloody jackass of myself. You knew I would keep it quiet."
Quinn rambled into the room, smiling crookedly. "Sorry, Tom, but I couldn't resist. My little pickpocket's changed quite a bit, hasn't she?"
This was too much for Noelle. "I'm not your little pickpocket, and I think you've treated Mr. Sully abominably!"
As she swept from the room the topaz swung back and forth on her bare skin like an indignant pendulum. Little pickpocket, indeed! When she reached the ballroom, she rounded the corner too sharply and bumped up against the back of a pale pink dress.
"I'm sorry. How clumsy of me."
"Why, Dorian, what a surprise!" As she turned Catherine Welby's smile was sweet, but her saucer-blue eyes were cold. "You're in such demand this evening, I hadn't thought to have the opportunity to offer you my best wishes."
"Thank you, Miss Welby," Noelle responded politely while she glanced surreptitiously around her for a means of escape.
"I've already congratulated your husband, but perhaps it's really you who should be congratulated. Fancy stealing your own cousin right out from under our noses."
"In point of fact, we are not actually cousins." Determined to avoid an encounter that could only be unpleasant, Noelle began to move away, but Catherine had no intention of letting her go so easily.
"I must say, I admire your strength of character. I vow, I don't know another woman who would be able to endure public censure so calmly."
"The opinion of others means little to me."
"Come now, Dorian, you needn't pretend with me. We're friends, and as a friend, I must tell you that there has been some wicked talk."
"Oh?"
"The worst kind, I'm afraid." She lifted a plump white hand to shield her vindictive whisper. "It's rumored that you married so quickly because you are-enceinte!" Her eyes traveled to Noelle's slim waist. "Dreadful, isn't it? Naturally I have assured everyone it is untrue."
"How kind of you," Noelle said dangerously.
"Well, you know how cruel gossips are."
"Yes, Miss Welby, and I know who they are, too."
There was no mistaking Noelle's meaning, and the fixed smile faded from Catherine's face. Quinn Copeland was the most fascinating man she had ever met. It was infuriating enough that he hadn't returned her interest, but now, to see him wed to a nobody was more than she could bear.
"Just remember, Mrs. Copeland, it's one thing to catch a husband, but it's quite another to hold him." With a smirk, she pointedly nodded toward the ballroom floor.
Following her gaze, Noelle saw Quinn take a woman in his arms and lead her out for a waltz. It was the raven-haired Anna von Furst-drawn, haunted, and eerily beautiful. Unsmiling, the couple's eyes joined, and then Quinn and the baroness began wordlessly moving in the perfect rhythm of a man and a woman who know the responses of each other's bodies intimately.
Gradually Noelle realized others were watching her, waiting to see how she would react to the slight. Fixing a bright smile on her lips, she excused herself from Catherine and accepted an invitation to dance with a handsome young viscount of somewhat tarnished reputation. If Quinn did not care with whom he was seen, neither did she.
Not long after that the Baroness von Furst left the ball. Even so, Noelle did not see her husband again until midnight, when he appeared at her side to escort her into the dining room and then promptly turned his attentions to a ruddy-faced woolens manufacturer from Leeds. The tables were ladened with every possible delicacy, but Noelle ate sparingly, taking only a small portion of lobster salad and another glass of champagne.
"Will you save a dance for me?"
It was Simon, somewhat abashed, but still determined.
As Noelle looked up at him she realized her bitterness had been replaced by an emotion that was considerably more painful-an aching sense of betrayal. "I'm sorry, but I'm promised for the rest of the evening."
Simon seemed to have anticipated her refusal. He spoke so softly that no one standing nearby could overhear. "It's funny, isn't it, how people delude themselves. I thought I would be able to give you to my son without losing you myself."
Inexplicably Noelle's eyes filled with tears. "I wasn't yours to give, Simon."
He nodded, and then, before he left her side, he reached down and softly squeezed her hand.
The gesture made her infinitely sad. It was as if he were saying "You are my child, and I will always care for you no matter what has happened between us."
For the rest of the ball Noelle was never still. She rushed from one set of arms to another, drank glass after glass of champagne, and flirted outrageously. It made no difference who her partners were as long as she could keep dancing.
Quinn shunned the ballroom for the faro tables that had been set up in the library. It was not until he had won nearly three hundred pounds that he went to claim his wife.
She looked as though someone had just made love to her. Her laughing face was flushed from dancing, a lock of hair had escaped from her chignon and hung down behind her ear, and there was a sheen of moisture between her breasts. As Quinn watched, the mustachioed officer who was holding her let his hand slip from her waist to the top of her hip and leaned forward to whisper something in her ear.
Quinn made his way across the floor. "I'll dance with my wife now."
"See here, Copeland…" The officer thrust out his chin belligerently, but his words trailed off at the dangerous glitter in Quinn's eyes, and he hastily backed away.
Quinn scooped his wife into his arms, pulling her so close to him that he could feel the hammering of her heart through his shirtfront. In response to the handsome couple commanding the center of the floor, the bored musicians nodded conspiratorially at each other and deliberately began picking up the tempo of the music. At first it was so gradual that no one noticed, but then one couple after another began to feel the effects of the quickening pace and fell back. Finally the tempo was frenzied, and Noelle and Quinn danced alone.
They spun about the floor, their clothing flashing bronze and black. Her champagne laughter bubbled up at him. Eyes blazing with self-confidence, she dared him to keep up with her in this accomplishment at which she had now become the master. He tightened his grip in answer to her challenge.
She tossed her head, and her hair shook free from its confines, cascading about her shoulders. As they flew faster it spun wildly about her, slapping at Quinn's cheeks and stinging them like tiny whips. His body quickened with desire. The music came to a final crescendo, and he crushed a handful of untamed mane in his fist, pulling her head toward him and lowering his hard mouth to hers.
To Noelle, the kiss seemed part of the dance. Indeed, it was as violent as the music had been and as ragingly exciting. It was barbaric and so blatantly erotic that the onlookers were stunned.
Only Quinn heard the soft moan when he reluctantly unfastened his mouth from hers. She shuddered as some vestige of self- control returned to her. With a courtly bow, he picked up her hand and brought it respectfully to his lips, then led her from the floor.