Beyond the Sunrise Page 4

  Such a man was the one who stood in a shadowed corner of the ballroom, a glass of wine in his hand, a look on his face that might have seemed morose to an uninformed observer but was in fact merely uncomfortable. He hated such entertainments and had been dragged protesting to this one by laughing comrades who had refused to take no for an answer. He felt utterly out of his depth, out of his milieu. Though the ballroom was crowded beyond comfort and though his corner was relatively secluded, he felt conspicuous. He looked determinedly and defiantly about him from time to time as if to confront those who were staring at him, only to find that no one was.

  It was the men at whom he glared. Had he looked at the ladies, he might have found that several were in fact giving him covert glances even if good breeding forbade them from staring. He was the sort of man at whom women often looked twice, though it would be difficult perhaps to explain why it was so.

  His uniform was without a doubt the least gorgeous at the ball. It had none of the bright facings and gold and silver lace that abounded on the uniforms about him. It did not even have the advantage of being scarlet. It was dark green and unadorned. Although clean and carefully brushed, it had seen better days. Most men would not deign to be buried in it, Major John Campion had told him earlier with a hearty laugh and a friendly slap on the back.

  “But we all know that wild horses would not separate you from it, Bob,” he had added. “You riflemen are all the same, so bloody proud of your regiment that you would even prefer to look veritable dowds rather than transfer to another.”

  It was the man inside the green coat, it seemed, then, who was the attraction. He was tall, broad-shouldered, muscular, not an ounce of spare fat on his body. And yet he was not an obviously handsome man. His blond wavy hair, perhaps his best feature, was close-cropped. His face was hard and looked as if it rarely smiled, the jaw-line pronounced and stubborn. His aquiline nose had been broken at some time in his life and was no longer quite straight. An old battle scar began in the middle of one cheek, climbed over the bridge of the nose, and ended just where the other cheek started. His face was weathered brown, his blue eyes looking startingly pale in contrast.

  He was not a handsome man, perhaps. He was something better than that, the woman with whom he was whiling away the tedious months in Lisbon had told him several weeks before, propped on one elbow on the bed beside him while she traced the line of his jaw with one long-nailed finger. He was quite irresistibly attractive.

  Captain Robert Blake had laughed shortly and reached up with one powerful arm to draw her head down to his.

  “If it is more of this you want, Beatriz,” he had said to her in her own language, “you have only to ask. The flattery is unnecessary.”

  The dancing had ended and the captain stepped back farther into the shadows. But he was not left to his own thoughts. Three of the officers from the hospital who had insisted that he attend this and several other entertainments over the past few weeks, when he was no longer bedridden with his wounds, were bearing down upon him, Lieutenant João Freire of the Portuguese skirmishers—the cacadores—with a curly-haired young lady on his arm.

  “Bob,” he said, “why are you not dancing? Never tell me that you cannot.”

  Captain Blake shrugged.

  “Sophia wishes to dance with you,” the lieutenant said. “Don’t you, my love?”

  He grinned down at the girl, who looked blankly at him and at Captain Blake.

  “It would help if you talked Portuguese to the poor girl,” Major Campion said. “I suppose she speaks not a word of English, João?”

  The lieutenant continued to grin at her. “She is hot for me,” he said, still in heavily accented English. “Now, if I could just separate her from her chaperone and her mother and father, perhaps . . .” He raised the girl’s hand to his lips. “You want to dance with her, Bob? I daresay I will not be permitted the next.”

  “No,” the captain said shortly.

  “Bob, Bob,” Captain Lord Ravenhill said with a sigh, reaching up with a finger and thumb to smooth the outer edges of his mustache, “what are we to do with you? You have none of the social graces.”

  “And have never craved any of them,” Captain Blake said, nettled despite the fact that he knew his friends’ teasing to be good-natured.

  “If you could dance as well as you fight,” the major said, “the rest of us might take ourselves back to our beds while the ladies flocked to you, Bob. From private to captain in how many years?”

  “A little over ten,” the captain said, shifting uncomfortably on his feet. He did not particularly enjoy being reminded that he had taken the almost insurmountable step up from the ranks to a commission without the aid of either influence or purchase. It was easier, he had found since being promoted from sergeant to ensign in India, to do the deed of exceptional bravery that had made possible the promotion than to live with the fact that his place was now with officers rather than the enlisted men. Socially he did not belong. “I was fortunate. I happened to be in the right place at the right time.”

  Lord Ravenhill slapped him on the back and bellowed with laughter. “You have been in more right places at more right times than anyone else in the army, if I have heard the facts correctly,” he said. “Come out of the corner, Bob. There are doubtless people here who would be fascinated to converse with a genuine hero. Let me introduce you to some of them.”

  “I am going home,” Captain Blake said.

  “Home being the hospital or the arms of the delectable Beatriz?” Lord Ravenhill asked. “No, really, Bob, it won’t do, old chap. The marquesa is supposed to be coming tonight. She has been in Lisbon for a few days already. If you think your Beatriz lovely, you must stay and gaze upon true beauty.”

  “The marquesa?” Captain Blake frowned. “Who in hell is she?”

  “In heaven, my boy, in heaven,” Lord Ravenhill said, kissing two fingers. “The Marquesa das Minas, the toast of Lisbon. The streets are strewn with her slain admirers—slain by one glance from her dark eyes, that is. And you ask ‘Who in hell is she?’ Stay and you will see for yourself.”

  “I am leaving,” the captain said firmly. “I agreed to an hour and have been here an hour and ten minutes.” He downed the wine that remained in his glass.

  “Too late, Bob,” the major said with a laugh. “That extra buzz and excitement at the door is the signal that she has arrived. One glance will root you to the spot for another hour and ten minutes at the very least, take my word on it.”

  “And how,” Lieutenant Freire said in English, smiling pleasantly down at the girl on his arm, “am I to divest myself of this encumbrance so that I may fall at the feet of the marquesa and pay my homage?”

  “You return her to her chaperone and sigh over the fact that propriety does not permit you to dance the next set with her,” the major said.

  “Ah,” the lieutenant said, “of course. Come, my dear,” he said to the girl in Portuguese, “I shall return you to your chaperone. It would not do, alas, for me to sully the reputation of so delicate a flower by keeping you with me one moment longer. But the memory of this half-hour will sustain me through a lonely night.”

  Lord Ravenhill snorted. “It would serve him right if the girl were a secret student of languages,” he said. “I suppose he was taking his leave with protestations of undying love for the girl. Was he, Bob?”

  “Something like that,” the captain said.

  But his attention had been distracted. Ravenhill had not exaggerated—not much, anyway. It was as if the crowds had parted and the Queen of Portugal—or of England—had entered the room. Not that all the noise or activity had ceased. Conversations continued and gentlemen were choosing their partners for the next set of dances. But somehow the focus of general attention had suddenly centered on the new arrival.

  She was dressed rather simply in a white gown. And her hair, dark and glossy, and yet a shade
lighter than that of most Portuguese women, was not elaborately dressed. It was combed back smoothly from her face and her ears and dressed in curls at the back of her head. Her gloves and fan and slippers were all white. It was difficult at first glance to understand why her presence commanded such attention. But there were several reasons, he realized as he continued to gaze at her across almost the entire length of the large ballroom.

  She was dressed all in white. Amid the rich and glorious colors of the gentlemen’s uniforms and the lesser brightness of the ladies’ gowns, she was as startlingly noticeable as the first snowdrop of winter. And the contrast of her dark hair and the creaminess of her skin—there was plenty of it visible about her shoulders and bosom—made the whiteness of her clothing all the more dazzling.

  He could not tell if her face was beautiful. She was too far away. But she had an exquisite figure, slim but curved lavishly in all the right places. It was the sort of figure that could make a man’s loins ache without even a glance at the face above it.

  But it was not just her appearance or her figure that accounted for the disproportionate amount of male attention she was attracting. There were other women in the room who were perhaps almost as beautiful—almost if not quite. Captain Blake watched her through narrowed eyes. There was a presence about her, a sense of pride in the lifted chin and the curve of her spine, an expectation of homage.

  And homage was what she was getting. There were copious amounts of scarlet regimentals and gold lace about her, their owners dancing attendance on her, taking her shawl, fetching her a glass of wine or champagne, taking her hand, kissing it, being tapped on the arm with her white fan.

  “One would willingly spend eternity in hell in exchange for one night—just one night, eh?” Lord Ravenhill said, reminding Captain Blake that he had been staring at the woman and that he had not taken himself off home after all.

  “I daresay the body between the sheets and in the darkness would give no more pleasure than that of a willing whore,” he said, watching the woman smile as both she and the small court who had gathered about her ignored the fact that the dancing was beginning again.

  Both the major and Lord Ravenhill laughed. “I don’t think you believe that any more than we do, Bob,” Major Campion said. “Just the thought of my hand in the small of that little back is enough to send me in search of a pail of cold water. Has anyone seen one anywhere?”

  The marquesa was looking about her while her court danced attendance on her. Captain Blake felt an unreasonable resentment growing in him. She was everything that was exquisite and expensive—and beyond his reach. Not that he ever hankered a great deal after what he could not have. He could have had more had he wanted. He could have started his military career in the ranks of the officers instead of having to claw his way upward the hard and almost impossible way. He might have been a major or a lieutenant colonel by now. And he might have been known as the son of the Marquess of Quesnay. The illegitimate son, it was true, but still the son. The only son.

  He had never regretted what he had done. And having tasted the life of a soldier and found that after all it suited him admirably, he had no wish for the soft life of an aristocrat. He did not crave money, which was just as well, since the English government was notoriously slow in sending the wherewithal to pay its soldiers. It did not bother him that he could not afford the fancy dress uniforms that he saw about him in the ballroom. It did not even bother him that he could not renew the rather shabby plain one that he was wearing.

  He was satisfied with his station in life and with the incidentals of that life. Except sometimes. Oh, just sometimes when he saw something beyond his grasp—something like the Marquesa das Minas—then he felt the stirrings of envy and jealousy and even hatred. He hated the woman as her glance swept over him from across the room and back again as if she had noticed for the merest moment the strange abnormality of his shabby appearance.

  He hated her because she was beautiful and privileged and expensive. Because she was the Marquesa das Minas, a grand title for such a small lady. And because he wanted her.

  He turned abruptly to the major, who unlike Lord Ravenhill had not gone wandering off to choose himself another dancing partner.

  “I am leaving, sir,” he said. “I have put in my hour and more.”

  The major chuckled. “And will be at the surgeon again tomorrow, doubtless,” he said, “threatening him with torture and death and worse if he will not send you back to your regiment. When will you ever learn to relax, Bob, and enjoy the moment?”

  “I will enjoy the moment when I see my sergeant’s ugly face and listen to the profane greetings of the men of my company,” Captain Blake said. “I miss them. Good night.”

  The major shook his head and laughed again. “Just be sure to thank him before you leave,” he said. “The surgeon, I mean. You were within a whisker of death for a long time.”

  “So I was told,” the captain said. “I seem to remember the old sawbones telling me it was a shame a chest and shoulder could not be amputated. If only the ball had lodged in my arm instead of above my heart, he said, he could have had it off in a twinkling and all the inflammation and the rest of it would have been avoided. I believe I was still too weak at the time to spit in his eye.” He turned to skirt the edge of the ballroom with purposeful strides. He did not glance at the marquesa or the officers surrounding her as he drew closer.

  But one of the latter—Major Hanbridge, an engineering officer with whom the captain had had some dealings, stepped away from the group as he would have passed behind it and set a lace-covered hand on his arm.

  “Not sneaking out, are you, Bob?” he asked. “A foolish question, of course. Certainly you are sneaking out. The only wonder is that you came at all. Were you dragged by the heels?” He grinned.

  “I was invited, sir,” Captain Blake said. “But I have another commitment.”

  Major Hanbridge raised his eyebrows. “A pretty one, I have no doubt,” he said. “The marquesa wishes to be presented to you.”

  “To me?” the captain said foolishly. “I think there must be some mistake.”

  But the officers around the marquesa had stepped to one side and she had turned to look at him.

  “She is tired of meeting only gentlemen pretending to be soldiers,” Major Hanbridge said with another grin. “She wishes to meet the real thing. Captain Robert Blake, Joana. A bona fide hero, I do assure you. The scar is real, as are the others you cannot see—all of them courtesy of various French soldiers. Bob, may I present Joana da Fonte, the Marquesa das Minas?”

  He felt like a gauche boy and wished more than anything that he had stayed in his safe corner. He inclined his head curtly and then realized that he should have made a more courtly bow, though with so many interested spectators he would doubtless have made an utter idiot of himself. He took the gloved hand she offered and shook it once and then was thankful that he was past the age of blushing. Obviously he should have raised the hand to his lips.

  “Ma’am?” he said, looking into her face for the first time. It was as lovely and as flawless as the rest of her person. Her eyes were large and dark—but gray, not brown, as he had expected—and thick-lashed.

  “Captain Blake.” Her voice was low and sweet. “You were wounded at Talavera?” Her English was flawless and only slightly accented.

  “No, ma’am,” he said. “My regiment arrived there one day too late, after a forced march. I am afraid I was no hero of that battle. I was wounded in a rearguard action during the retreat that followed it.”

  “Ah,” she said.

  “He makes it sound quite ignoble, does he not?” Major Hanbridge said. “Shot in the back as he was running away? He just happened at the time to be holding back a surprise attack across a bridge almost single-handedly until his bellowings—and mighty profane ones at that, from all accounts—brought the whole of his company and others running. Seve
ral battalions might have been cut to pieces if he had run in fright as any normal mortal would have done.”

  “Ah,” she said, “you are a genuine hero after all, then, Captain.”

  How could one reply to such a comment? He shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

  “You were leaving,” she said. “Do not let me detain you. I have invited some friends to a reception at my home two evenings from now. You will attend?”

  “Thank you, ma’am,” he said, “but I am hoping to be allowed to return to the front within the week. I am well-recovered from my wounds.”

  “I am happy to hear it,” she said. “But you will not be leaving within two days, surely? I shall expect you.”

  He bowed a little more deeply than he had done initially, and she turned away to make some comment to a colonel of dragoons who had hovered at her elbow since her arrival. He was dismissed, Captain Blake assumed. He left the ballroom and the house without further delay.

  He had watched her from across the room for surely fifteen minutes, he thought. Of course, the distance had been great and the crowds milling. But even when he had been close to her he had looked into her face and not immediately recognized her. She was so very changed—a mature and assured woman. He had recognized her only gradually—something in her gestures and facial expressions, perhaps.

  She had not recognized him. She had talked to him as to a stranger—a stranger who she assumed had come to pay homage to her beauty. A stranger whom she had invited to an entertainment he had no intention of attending, under the assumption that he would be only too eager to join her court of devoted admirers.

  Joana da Fonte, Major Hanbridge had called her. Jeanne Morisette when he had known her.

  Jesus, he thought as he strode uphill to a less-aristocratic part of Lisbon, where Beatriz awaited him. Sweet Jesus, she was French!